I can honestly say I don't rightly know where all this came from. I was in a bad mood and decided I wanted to cause a pretty boy some pain. Next thing I know, I'm looking at the role pain has played in Sephiroth's life and the different ways he has experienced it. I hope you enjoy this little look inside my head.
When he was very young, Sephiroth learned that there was one thing he could trust: pain. There was nothing hiding in, under, or behind pain. It was what it was, and while it wasn't a pleasant thing, it was something he could understand and welcome, because he knew what it would do. Pain wasn't like Hojo, who was unpredictable and cruel. Pain wasn't like the other scientists, distant and sterile. Pain was intimate and alive and he knew how it worked.
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When Sephiroth was eleven years old, Hojo decided to test out a new idea on him. Without knowing why, Sephiroth was strapped to a table and the next thing he knew, his left arm was hanging limp against the restraints and he could feel the chemicals slipping through him, leaving him completely incapable of moving.
Then Hojo stepped into view with a scalpel in one hand and forceps in the other. With the help of the latest lab flunky, he cut a long, thin line in Sephiroth's forearm, put perpendicular cuts at top and bottom, and delicately began peeling his skin back. Sephiroth screamed wordlessly, wanting desperately to thrash but knowing he couldn't. There had been no anesthetic.
"Hush," Hojo snapped.
He didn't hush. While Hojo calmly stripped his arm of skin from elbow to wrist, Sephiroth kept up an animal keening. It hurt so bad. He'd never felt anything like it. He didn't understand. He wasn't hurt. He'd passed all the tests they'd made him take lately. He was smart and fast and strong and healthy, so why were they hurting him like this?
Because Hojo wasn't satisfied. They couldn't make Sephiroth's skin much stronger than the average human's skin. It wouldn't repel anything much more threatening than a safety pin without breaking and bleeding. He sunburned, though not as badly as someone with skin as pale as his, which was another weakness. Hojo wanted to at least prove that his prize's regenerative capabilities were top-notch.
Sephiroth spent a week with his arm bare, raw, and burning while he was monitored. Eventually, the open wound became infected- no one knew what by, as he lived in a very sterile environment- and he was handed over to medical personnel, who were quiet, gentle, and menacing blurs to his feverish mind. As he lay in a lonely room, empty except for the steady sound of the heart monitor, he wondered why the pain had been different this time. It hadn't been for a reason. It hadn't been for an injury. And it had hurt long after it should have gone away. Confused, he slept.
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He was sixteen years old and in charge of more men than he knew what to do with. He stood before them, wearing a tailored version of the standard uniform, heavy belt snug around him, and he worried. What was he supposed to do with all these men, mostly older than him and all more experienced?
There had been a schedule posted in the office, one that he'd glanced at while waiting for the list of names that he'd have to put to faces, assuming he stayed with these men long enough for it to matter. What had it said?
0945- Sparring- one on one- no weaponry
He checked his watch. 9:43. Perfect.
"You'll be sparring with one another," he said. "Hand to hand only. No magic, no weapons."
He got a mass salute and a chorused "Yes, sir!" The men paired off. Sephiroth watched them for a minute, then began to wander among them, watching, correcting, and making comments.
They were vying with a couple of other groups for space- the edge of his group butted against a cluster of SOLDIER trainees and Third Class who were being schooled in the uses of one's feet in a fight. A couple of instructors were demonstrating kicks and blocks that had the gathered men staring. Sephiroth ignored them and skirted one of his pairs, stopping to watch an interesting hold.
"Sir!"
He whirled, searching for the source of the shout. He had the time to register a heavy boot swinging at his face.
Crunch.
Then he was on the ground, his face in his hands and blood dribbling over his lip. It hurt like hell, a throbbing pain in most of his head and much worse in his nose. He couldn't breathe properly through it.
"Martin! You idiot!" someone yelled. Someone else knelt in front of him.
"Sir?"
"Whad habbend?"
"Some trainee's kick went wild and you turned into it. Can I see, sir?"
Reluctantly, Sephiroth took his hands away from his face. There was an unhappy mumble from the knot of men gathered around him. Whoever was right in front of him –Munroe? Malone?- gently felt his nose. Something crackled.
"Broken," the man announced.
"Oh, fuck. I'm so sorry, I had no idea-"
"Back in formation, Jones," someone with a commanding voice said. "Sir, I'll keep them in line until you get back."
"Ged bagk?" he said muzzily, getting slowly to his feet. "Where am I goink?"
The men he was supposed to be commanding snickered.
"To the Clinic, sir. You can't drill us with your nose like that."
He realized that they looked down on him. He was just a child to them. He got in their way. They wanted him to hurry away so they could be men again. You couldn't be a man and be commanded by a child .
"No," he growled angrily. He snorted to clear his throat and swallowed the resultant mess of blood and mucous. It made his stomach clench, but he forced it calm and wiped blood from his face. "Get back into your pairs. You have five minutes, then we'll do an evaluation. Anyone who doesn't pass will be running the course until I say stop."
The soldier before him stiffened. He didn't want to take the order. Sephiroth pushed his nose back into a position that allowed minimal breathing and fixed the man with his best glare.
"I said get back in your pairs. Now."
Three hours later, he was sitting in the Clinic. His face had begun to swell, and one eye was showing bruising. Blood was crusted on his face and his entire head hurt, but he'd made those men listen and obey. No one underestimated him, damn it. A carefully applied Materia and some painkillers fixed his problem and he was sent on his way.
That night, the men of his squad walked in his dreams. They refused to listen. More and more accidental kicks hit him, even though his men hadn't been practicing them. Snickers became jeering laughter. The touch that had first checked his face for damage went from gentle to harsh, jerking his chin to the side, jabbing the broken bone. He woke up with his face aching from the remaining swelling and his chest tight with screams, so tight that he could hardly breathe. It hurt and he couldn't stop it. It was a long time before he slept again.
It was longer still before the tight, silent pain went away.
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When Sephiroth met Zack Fair, he was almost 22 and Zack had just turned 16. He'd come a long way from his days as a green commander, fighting to get his men to listen and doing his best to not draw on his influence in the company to get his way. These days, all he had to do was say something, point, or nod and it was done. They didn't dress him in that uniform anymore; no, it was more dramatic to kit him out in leather and metal, make him a walking wet dream and show that he could have his chest bare even in battle because he was that good. He still had the SOLDIER belt, though, the heavy leather tight around his waist. It wasn't the same one as before. He'd grown too much, and the belt specially made to fit the slender frame of a sixteen year-old no longer fit around the hard, muscled body he had now. It was the same sense of security, though.
They were camped in the mountains just northeast of Junon, settled into a grassy little valley in ever rotating shifts. There was a constant monster problem in the area, and it was a good place to send men who needed a little time killing things. In Sephiroth's case, ShinRa wasn't sure what to do with its newly returned war hero. There were only so many ceremonies and awards and parties they could rope him into before it became redundant. So, until they figured out what to do with him, it was off on a circuit of the bases and camps for you, m'boy.
As had been sort of expected of him, Sephiroth swept into the camp and began tidying it up in the way he had. Should the need arise while he was there, all of the men of the camp would be battle ready in an instant. It wasn't really necessary, but it gave him something to do when he wasn't out exterminating things.
One warm morning, he was out scouting in a narrow valley they hadn't touched yet. He and the handful of men with him ran into a pack of fuzzy, feathery things that had far too many teeth in their wide mouths. A bloodbath ensued. When it was over, Sephiroth paced among the bodies, looking for one that was relatively intact that could be iced and sent back to the labs- these things were new, not the usual type of monster.
Something beeped down by his foot. Curious, he bent and scooped up a grapefruit-sized thing that looked like a mango with a bad case of bread mold spreading over its surface. It raised its head and beeped again, staring at Sephiroth with small gray eyes.
"What is it, sir?"
"A baby," he murmured, examining it. "Send someone back to camp to get a transport or a team up here with a crate and Ice Materia."
"It looks like a football with fur," someone muttered. "Gross."
"It's no wonder we were attacked," another voice commented. "We must've walked right into a nest."
Almost all of them lifted their boots at once, checking around them for more babies. There were a few, some trampled, others hunkered down and silent. Men spread out and crouched to look at the things, not as willing to touch them as Sephiroth was in his heavy leather gloves.
In the midst of the thick, blood-scented quiet, Sephiroth swore loudly and dropped the baby. As the men around him watched, he drew back and kicked the thing across the clearing. It went in a smooth arc, beeping angrily all the way, and hit a tree some distance away with a final thump. Had he been playing football or soccer, it would have landed him a goal and instant fame.
"Sir?"
"There are spines on the feet," Sephiroth hissed, cradling his right hand to his chest. "Very sharp ones."
The few men who had been considering picking up one of the babies pulled their hands back at once.
"Johnson. Take four men and scout ahead, see if there are any more of these. Has someone gone back to camp yet?"
"No, sir."
"Taggert. You and Beatty go. The rest of you, spread out and put down any survivors."
The remaining four men nodded and fanned out, leaving Sephiroth to pull his glove off and look at the damage. There were two small puncture wounds in his palm, one in the thick muscle under his thumb and one near the bottom of his hand, under his pinky. They had been quick and clean, leaving two dots of blood welling up from holes the size of the ones left in official documents by the average hole-punch. What did those spines look like on an adult? No matter, it wasn't a problem. He sucked the wounds clean- some scientist who had been spliced with something nasty since then had altered his chemical makeup to encourage the production of an antibacterial coagulant in his saliva- waited a moment, then pulled the glove back on. There. Problem solved.
Late that afternoon, after the mess in the valley had been cleaned up and they had boxed two mostly intact adults and most of the babies to be shipped out, Sephiroth and his squad returned to camp. Most of the men, free for the day, stripped down and headed for the river to swim and clean up. Others returned to their tents to nap before the jangling bell at mess was rung. Sephiroth cleaned blood from his leathers, polished Masamune, and napped.
Night fell and darkness dropped onto camp suddenly, in the rude, unexpected, completely overpowering way it does in mountainous areas. Soldiers retreated to their tents, playing cards and reading by the light of little lamps or sleeping. Sephiroth prowled around camp, doing his rounds to make sure all was well before he went to bed. By his third circuit of the sprawling camp, it was nearly silent.
On the fourth and final circuit of camp, something happened. He was most of the way up a heap of rocks that had started as an outcropping and had been added to when the camp had been set up and the rocky ground cleared, perched on a boulder the size of a Jeep and pulling his glove off to get at the hair tie around his wrist. He was uncomfortably hot, and he wanted to get his hair off the back of his neck. His glove slid off his knee and dropped onto his boot. He bent to get it, straightened, stood, and swayed. The world spun around him. Unsteady, he reached for something to hold onto. There was nothing. He took a step, still reaching, and fell.
He bounced twice and landed hard at the feet of a tall, well-built young SOLDIER who shouldn't have been out of his tent, let alone out of the camp, at this hour. Instinct brought him to his feet, weaving drunkenly as he tried to keep his feet under himself.
"Uh…General?"
"I'm fine, soldier."
"Are you drunk, sir?"
"No."
Everything tilted sharply to the left, forcing him to grab the SOLDIER's arm and cling to keep from hitting the ground again.
"Back to camp, then?"
"No."
"Er…"
"I refuse to be seen like this."
"I guess, but…you look kinda sick."
And he felt a little sick, too, but he was more concerned with staying upright than with the uneasy feeling in his stomach or the faint pinpricks of sweat dotting his skin.
"I'm fine."
"I'm going to back up and sit on one of these rocks, okay? You should sit down before you fall."
The SOLDIER backed up carefully, taking Sephiroth with him until cool stone bumped the back of his legs. Sephiroth sat down quickly, dropping his head into his hands. The SOLDIER pulled him back up.
"If you're as dizzy as you look, looking down isn't going to help much."
His head felt too heavy to support on his own, so he let it fall against the SOLDIER's shoulder.
"Which one are you?" he asked.
"Zack, sir. Zack Fair, SOLDIER Third Class."
They waited awhile. The spinning didn't stop. The little dots of sweat became a slick sheen on Sephiroth's skin.
"I think you should go to the med-tent, sir," Zack murmured. "You look really sick."
"No. No medics."
"But-"
"No."
"Can we go back to camp at least? You should probably lie down."
"No."
"My tent's on the edge, pretty close to here, and I'm not bunking with anyone right now, so there's an empty bed. Nobody'll see you. Please, sir, you really need it."
"Alright."
They staggered back to camp, mostly under Zack's steam. True to Zack's word, the tent was a small two-man with only one side showing any signs of habitation. Zack set him down on the neatly made bed on the right side of the tent and rummaged in the trunk at the foot of the bed.
"Okay, lemme see. Ha! Here it is!"
Zack pushed a water bottle into Sephiroth's hands. Sephiroth looked at it, trying to remember what he was supposed to do with it.
"Drink that."
Oh, right. That's what he's supposed to do with it. He popped the lid and swallowed a mouthful. It felt good going down, but as soon as it hit his stomach, he regretted it. It hurt. Hurt like there was something clawing at the inside of his stomach, running around inside him and getting everything stirred up. Hurt like the vindictive thing inside him had salt that it was pouring into the cuts it was leaving. Sephiroth doubled over, dropping the bottle.
"General?"
Zack was at his side at once, trying to force him to look up.
"What is it?"
He managed a low whine and dug his fingers into his knees. Zack forced him down onto his side, pushing and pressing to get him to uncurl himself and lie flat.
"It'll be okay," he murmured gently. "You sure I shouldn't go get a medic?"
Sephiroth nodded desperately. He didn't want a medic poking and prodding him, just to have them call Midgar and tell Hojo. Hojo wouldn't be happy at all. He'd call Sephiroth down into the labs and there would be a battery of tests performed on him. He didn't want that.
"Okay. What hurts?"
"Stomach."
Zack's hand pushed under his arms, gently kneading his stomach.
"There's gotta be something," he murmured, pushing at one point. "Does that hurt?"
A particularly well-aimed poke made Sephiroth gasp with the pain of it.
"That's a yes. I'm willing to bet you ate something nasty. Can't imagine what, though, we all eat the same in mess."
It occurred to Sephiroth that maybe sucking what had apparently been poison out of his hand and swallowing it hadn't been the best thing to do, but by that time he was too miserable to comment on it.
Shortly after dawn, Zack disobeyed Sephiroth's orders and ran to the med-tent. When he dragged a sleepy medic back to the tent, Sephiroth was balled up on the extra cot, soaked with sweat and shaking uncontrollably. Between them, Zack and the medic couldn't get him to uncurl. After checking the actual temperature of the raging fever Sephiroth was running, the medic sprinted to Communications to call for immediate emergency pickup. Back at the tent, Zack managed to pry Sephiroth's right hand away from his body and showed it to the rather winded medic when he returned. It was grossly swollen and an angry shade of red, the two punctures oozing a thick, dark discharge.
Four days later, Zack was allowed to slink down sterile, silent halls to a small private room in the hospital. Sephiroth was laid out there, strapped down because of feverish hallucinations that had had him screaming and clawing at anything that got near him. His right hand was pulled away from his body, hanging in a sling from the bed frame.
"General?" Zack ventured.
Cold green eyes opened. When they fell on him, Sephiroth shifted as much as he could under the restraints to look at him.
"Fair," he murmured. "What are you doing here?"
"I…I thought I should come and check on you, sir, since….since no one else has. I was worried. A lot of the guys were…this kind of stuff doesn't happen to you."
"Apparently it does."
"Well, yeah, but…um…how are you feeling?"
"That's hardly any of your concern."
Zack scowled.
"That's not how I see it," he snapped, too caught up in being irritated to remember who he was snapping at.
"Oh? How do you see it?"
"You fell down a rock heap, landed at my feet, and used me for a brace. Then I had to drag you to my tent and put you to bed, and run for a medic when and only when I honestly thought you were gonna die. I'm allowed to be a little worried! I'm allowed to come in here and ask how you're feeling after three days of scaring the hell out of pretty much everyone who knows you've been hospitalized!"
Utterly stunned, Sephiroth stared up at him for a few minutes, attempting to gather his wits so he could say something. When this failed, he allowed the corner of his mouth to quirk upward in an almost playful smirk.
"I see," he murmured.
"So?" Zack demanded. "How are you feeling?"
"Hot. Stiff. Restless. And it feels like my hand is made of lead. What happened?"
"You don't know?"
Sephiroth snorted derisively.
"All anyone has told me is that I'm to stay in bed until I'm given permission to get up and that I nearly died. The details and specifics of my condition have been left a mystery."
Zack dragged the chair by the door over to the bed and sat down.
"I only get half of it, but I'll tell you what I know. Those baby things you and your squad ran into up the valley have a hemotoxin in those spurs on their feet. You got a double dose because you were holding it and both feet were on your hand. The doctors aren't sure how, but you swallowed some of it. It's mostly an acid, but something in it raised the pH in your stomach, so when I gave you that water bottle, the water set off the usual reaction you get when you pour water into a strong acid. According to the reports, there're burns in your stomach, but nothing serious. Your hand is a mess…it'll heal, but it's going to be awhile. Like, months. If we'd swapped places, I'd have lost it. And….um…lessee…oh, yeah. The only reason you're still alive is because the Mako you've got actually started mutating the hemotoxin and dulled the effect."
"How do you know all that?"
"Begging, bothering, snooping, and by being the guy who alerted the medic."
Sephiroth chuckled. It took balls to dog the paper-pushers who looked after his files. They were their own breed and guarded the papers they worked with like they were priceless.
Zack stared. He'd never heard of the General laughing, and there he was, tied to a bed and snickering at what Zack suspected was an inside joke.
"Well, then," he said awkwardly, getting to his feet. "Good to see you're awake and not, y'know, trying to kill the imaginary things in the corner, so….er….I'll be going. Feel better."
"Not so fast."
Zack sat down quickly.
"You expect me to settle for a simple 'feel better' when you pranced in here after four days of making a nuisance of yourself to every department head between you and my information? You are staying here, Fair, until I say you can go."
"Sir?"
"You can start with explaining exactly what you were doing out of your tent and outside camp after hours."
Zack stayed in the room until Sephiroth fell into the first real sleep he'd had since his arrival at the hospital, snuck out to eat, and was back as fast as he could manage. When Sephiroth woke up, he found the burning pain in his hand easier to bear, though he didn't understand why.
It was the beginning of a strange friendship, punctuated by Sephiroth- and, by association, Zack- learning to be a left-handed swordsman while his right hand healed, Sephiroth's apparently inborn need to organize things, and Zack's insistence that fun could be found when and wherever you chose to make it.
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The day Zack walked into the office with a pint-sized blonde….thing following him was the day Sephiroth inhaled hot coffee. The little blonde creature stood by the door while Zack slapped Sephiroth's back and the General himself coughed and hacked on the homemade brew that was suddenly proving that it could not only degrease engines but could burn through lung tissue as well.
"What….is that?" Sephiroth wheezed, pointing at the cowering shape by the door.
"Oh, him? That's Cloud, my little buddy. C'mere and meet Seph, Cloud."
Cloud shuffled forward, staring at Sephiroth over the collar of his uniform. He was part of the regular army- that much was obvious- and appeared far too young to be here.
"Hello," Sephiroth said simply, more for Zack than for Cloud.
Cloud managed a squeak that might have been hello and crumpled. Zack caught him before his head could hit the floor and put him down on the couch.
"Where did you find him? A discount sale at some backwater elementary school?"
"Be nice, Seph, Cloud's a good kid."
"He's a child, Zack. He has no place here."
"He's already here, and he's mine. I'm keeping him."
"Children are not like puppies, and you aren't allowed pets in your apartment anyway. You can't just pick him up and take him home with you."
"Actually, I can. He….kinda ran away from home to get here, so he's at our mercy."
Sephiroth groaned and let his head drop into his coffee-damp hands. He inhaled slowly, focusing on the coffee smell. He wasn't going to lose his temper. He wasn't.
"I'm moving him into my apartment. He's got problems with the guys in his barracks, and it's more than the norm, so I submitted the right papers and he's all mine."
Coffee smell wasn't working. The only other thing he could think of was to grab his coffee mug and gulp the scalding brew. Feeling it sear its way down his throat helped take his mind off everything else until he could take a deep, slow breath and let it out evenly. Okay. He could do this. He couldn't talk clearly, but he could handle the unofficial adoption of one Cloud Strife.
Or not. Seeing the little blonde limpet following wherever Zack went ignited a slow, painful burning in his chest. That was his Zack. Cloud could never understand what Zack was to him- all he was ever going to be was another bruiser with a sword, how could he possibly grasp a concept like emotional dependency? For some time after their initial meeting, Sephiroth sat up late at night, throat tight and insides twisted up in knots, wishing desperately that Cloud and the pain would go away.
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He was 26, attending a celebration of some kind in a village down the coast from Costa del Sol. There was a heap of some kind of spiked fruit on a table at the center of the dais he was seated on, which he ignored, a row of chairs which he and a handful of other officer were seated on, and a raised area at the back where President Shinra, several ShinRa officials, and every official the little village had sat.
Sephiroth was not in a good mood that morning. He had many reasons not to be: For starters, it was far too hot for his liking, too hot for him in civilian clothes and even worse dressed from head to foot in leather. The tropical sun made him wish he hadn't eaten quite as much for breakfast as he had. Zack was somewhere in the crowd of seated men on the ground off to one side, kept company by Cloud- who was only along because his squad was assigned to Zack's, not because he was Zack's precious cadet. This meant Sephiroth was hot, alone, and irritable, up on display for anyone and everyone to see. Miserable, he waited for the whole thing to be over.
There was the usual speech, something about honor and bravery and all that twaddle that these things generally involved. Then the mayor crossed from the podium to the table, picked up a machete that had been lying on the table where Sephiroth couldn't see it, and chopped into the first of the spiked things.
The faint, hot breeze shifted. Sephiroth balked. Something smelled terrible.
It only took him a few minutes to realize that the smell was coming from the fruits the mayor was chopping.
"It's called durian, sir," the lieutenant colonel next to him whispered. "A delicacy around here. And it's not rotten, despite the smell."
Sephiroth cringed.
"We're supposed to eat it, sir."
Oh, God. No. Certainly not.
The mayor handed a piece to President Shinra, who accepted it with a smile and ate it. Then two other officials from ShinRa took it. Then it was Sephiroth's turn. He was ushered forward and handed a piece of the fruit. Thanks to the Lt. Colonel, Sephiroth knew to leave his gloves on the seat. He eyed the creamy paste that he was supposed to eat, braced himself, and scooped a portion up with two fingers. It was thick and warm on his skin, entirely unappetizing. Unfortunately, the Lt. Colonel had also given him a brief history of the use of durian in the area and had revealed an unsettling fact: When durian was presented to you already cut, you had to eat it right then. Not doing so was a tremendous insult to the giver. Not eating it would get him in trouble with the higher-ups. Fighting the urge to close his eyes, Sephiroth popped the pulp into his mouth.
It tasted horrible. If someone took the smell of the chocobo stables in mid-summer, the dumpsters behind the mess hall when the sun hit them, and the locker rooms during evaluations and made them all solid, tangible things, the durian might have tasted like them blended together and topped with garlic. Sephiroth's taste buds screamed in agony. He ignored them and finished the fruit, smiling thinly at the mayor and heading back to his seat. His stomach hurt more now, more like pre-throwing-up hurt and less like full-stomach-on-a-hot-day hurt.
Three more men went up and received their portion. Sephiroth shifted uncomfortably, hands on his stomach. He was really starting to feel sick. The taste lingered on his tongue, quietly devolving into something appropriate for a rotting corpse to taste of.
The Lt. Colonel went up, ate, and came back. The smell of durian followed him, and Sephiroth's stomach decided that it had had quite enough. It lurched warningly, polite enough to give Sephiroth enough time to get out of his chair and most of the way across the stage. Then he leaned over the edge of the stage- the edge fronted by nothing but bushes, thankfully- and threw up.
Vaguely, he heard the murmurs of disapproval from the civilian part of the audience. Oh, right. You had to eat it and keep it down in order to keep from insulting them. At this point, he didn't truly care, but his ears burned from shame anyway.
"Fuck!"
Zack vaulted onto the stage and ran to him.
"What's wrong?" he demanded. Sephiroth didn't answer, unable to with the violent heaving. Zack sighed and looped an arm around his waist, holding him up. Cloud trotted up, looking from Sephiroth to Zack and back again, plainly worried. Then he knelt, looking curiously at the skin bared by Sephiroth's open jacket.
"Zack, he's got a rash," he murmured.
"What?"
"Here, see?" He pointed at the red blotches marring Sephiroth's fair skin. "Those weren't there when the ceremony started."
"What's the problem, yo?" Reno hissed from his post at the corner of the stage. "Everyone's staring!"
"I think he's having an allergic reaction," Zack answered.
Reno swore and keyed his radio.
"I need a replacement, ASAP. Dove, Raven, and the Chick need to be escorted out of here now."
Sephiroth jerked in Zack's hold and choked. Zack pulled him upright just in time to get vomit all over his boots and shirt. Swearing colorfully, he balanced Sephiroth against his shoulder and shook the worst of it off his feet. Sephiroth continued to cough desperately, swatting at Zack's back to tell him that something was very wrong.
"Yes, all of them! They're a set!" Reno gritted his teeth. "Can you not see Dove puking, flailing, and fighting to breathe up here? Get me a replacement now!" He dropped his hand and hopped up onto the stage, taking Sephiroth's other arm. "Let's get him out of here."
The angry murmurs from the crowd had died down as soon as it was clear that the great General wasn't simply being rude. When a big SOLDIER and a smaller but no less agile regular joined him on stage, they began whispering. Then a skinny redheaded Turk joined them, and the whispers turned to concerned muttering.
On his way off stage, Sephiroth's knees buckled. Unable to balance his weight and his long legs at the same time, Zack and Reno enlisted Cloud's help to carry Sephiroth off stage and hand him over to the emergency team waiting for them. Zack was allowed to go with him; Cloud and Reno were left in the dusty lot.
Hours later, Reno sat in a waiting room with Cloud leaning heavily against him. Sephiroth had been taken into the nearest hospital. Somewhere between the ceremony and there, he had attached himself to Zack and refused to let go, even during the panic and subsequent transfer to a larger hospital. Zack had not yet emerged from the hallway blocked off by swinging double doors and a big HOSPITAL STAFF ONLY sign.
"D'you think he'll be okay?" Cloud whispered. His relationship with Reno had gone from tentative to cuddly as soon as he temporarily lost both his best friend and his idol in a series of unexpected and unexplained events. Worried and confused, he stuck close to the only safety he still had.
"He'll be fine," Reno promised. "'s just allergies. He'd rather die by kitten than get taken out by something so normal."
Zack strode through the doors a few minutes later, looking ruffled and wearing clothes that certainly weren't his.
"Seph's fine," he sighed, dropping into a chair. Cloud moved from Reno's side to Zack's, burying his face in Zack's shoulder. "He's just really allergic to durian. He's sedated right now, and so drugged up he'll be loopy for hours."
When Sephiroth came to, it was in a typical hospital room with Cloud asleep in the chair at his side and Zack asleep on the floor by the door. His throat and stomach hurt. So did his arm, where an IV had been attached. He shifted, uncomfortable because he didn't know where he was.
"Main hospital in Costa del Sol," Reno said, swinging in through the window, the ground-out stub of a cigarette in his hand telling what he'd been up to. "You got transferred here because the one in that little village didn't have the equipment to handle you."
Sephiroth didn't say anything, knowing that his voice was going to be all but gone, but gave Reno a questioning look.
"You're allergic to durian. You went into shock in the ambulance and got transferred. We followed. That whole village is worried about you- they thought they'd gone and killed their hero."
Sephiroth pointed at Zack and Cloud. Reno shrugged.
"Won't leave your room. Zack was watching the door while I stepped out, and it was Spike's turn to sit with you. Been a long day for them."
Sephiroth nodded and withdrew his hand, wallowing in the pain in his throat and the angry sounds of a people who believed they had been slighted.
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There was a moment of pain so exquisite that he didn't register it until it was too late. When he did, he screamed but made no sound.
There now, child, a cloyingly sweet voice whispered. I'll take care of this. You just rest and watch.
A part of him wanted to say okay, to let whoever she was do whatever she wanted. But the rest of him hurt, felt like he was being crushed, and he wanted to know why.
You've been treated so very badly, my son, she whispered. I'll make them regret it. Everything will be better when it is only you and I.
He couldn't move his legs. He couldn't move anything. He started to fight, yelling with all the force he had and clawing at the soft nothing surrounding him.
He surfaced to find that he was standing in hell. Buildings burned all around him, flames licking at his coat but not burning, reflected off the gleaming, blood-soaked blade of Masamune. The smell of smoke and burning flesh scorched his nostrils. He gagged. Where was he? Dark mountains loomed overhead. Nibleheim. Zack.
"Zack?" he called.
No, my child. Go back inside and let me do it.
Something grabbed him and drew him back into the quiet nothing. He fought it, thrashing until he became stuck somewhere between the two places, unable to move a muscle but able to see and hear and smell everything. He corrected his earlier conclusion; this was hell.
He watched as his body stalked through the burning ruins, killing the few survivors. He sobbed and screamed, fighting the iron hold that kept him where he was.
I am the only truth in your life, my son. I am your mother. I am your everything. You need nothing else. You will want for nothing. Be my vessel, child. You will be a god.
He fought fruitlessly up the mountain, into the reactor. Then Zack was there, and Cloud. Cloud like Sephiroth had never seen him, blue eyes cold and angry. Why? Of course, this was his home town. He had just seen his hero, his idol, his friend raze the town to the ground. And Zack, looking caught between shock and fear.
They fought. The voice in his mind was not as good a fighter as he was, but she was good enough to leave Zack on the stone floor, gasping in a pool of his own blood. Sephiroth shrieked and fought harder. Not Cloud as well. Not both of them. Not the only men he'd ever been close to.
They are nothing. They hate you. Look how the little one stares at you. He would kill you, if he wasn't so weak. He must be gotten rid of, so our new world will be strong.
The change came when Cloud was skewered on Masamune. Sephiroth tore himself out of the soft darkness, feeling parts of his self ripping away as he moved. He didn't care. He forced his way into his hands, his feet, his head, and prayed Cloud had enough life left in him to do something.
He was rewarded; Cloud stabbed him with what looked like Zack's blade. Sephiroth smiled, feeling the sharp metal coming to rest deep inside him, ripping and tearing. Then he took a step back, another step, and felt the railing against the back of his legs.
"Thank you," he whispered, so soft and garbled by the blood welling in his throat that he doubted Cloud heard him. Then he fell.
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Bluish green light swallowed him. He felt the cold line of the blade slide into his chest again, the horrible tearing sensation of pulling free of that voice again, the tired ache of exhaustion after his encounter with durian, the burn of coffee in his lungs and betrayal in his heart when he met Cloud, the sharp burning in his bones from the hemotoxin, the sudden explosion of pain from a broken nose and the creeping tightness in his chest from the disdain of his men, the unexplained searing pain and terror of an arm stripped bare of skin. A lifetime of needles and Mako. Everything that had hurt him in his life. It came back to him in reverse, hurt until he thought he would be consumed by it, and faded away.
The light fell away, leaving him in a blank, warm place. Alone. He took stock of what he had- two arms, two legs, the rest of his body, and nothing else- then curled up in the weightless, directionless place and waited.
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Zack arrived in an explosion of gunfire and men's voices. Interested, Sephiroth watched dark, oily tendrils pull away from Zack as he writhed. The light fell away from him, and then there were two.
"What….was that?" Zack panted, mostly out of reflex. It's hard to need to pant when there is no air and no need to breathe.
"I don't really know," Sephiroth murmured, moving carefully across the blankness to embrace him. "But….I think it's pain. Being taken from us. Healing."
"You'd know better than me- I just got here. What do we do now?"
"We wait."
"For what?"
"I don't know."
"So we just sit here and…..what?"
"Now that you're here? We can start with you telling me everything I missed."
Zack settled down cross-legged on nothing and smiled. Sephiroth sat next to him, and something in his chest hurt, just briefly, then faded, leaving no scar and no mark. All it left was a faint feeling that something had finally been returned to him. Good pain. That was new.