©Blood of Sephiroth
The Beginnings….
Sephiroth paced in his room. The room was dark, but that didn't pose a problem for the young teenager's eyes; Hojo's damned experiments had seen to that.
The room was small, containing a campbed, a dress dummy and a chest of draws. There were very few things in the drawers, and the only thing that broke the monotomy of the pale, grainy surface of the chest was a faded, slightly crumpled picture of a young woman.
Lucrecia.
His mother.
Sephiroth sighed and sat on his bed, drawing his knees up to his chin. He was wearing a pair of black jeans and a tight black tee-shirt, plainly showing his muscled torso underneath.
He pushed a strand of white-silver hair out of his glowing green eyes and stared unseeingly at the dress dummy holding his birthday present from his father. From Hojo. Sephiroth sneered at that. A birthday present from his tormentor. Ironic.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years Sephiroth had been in this hell. He couldn't remember the last time he felt joy, or any other emotion apart from pain and anger. He couldn't remember a day without pain included in it somewhere.
Injections, tests, suspended in tanks of tainted and pure Mako, more tests, more injections, physical and mental tests designed to push him over the edge. Then maybe a few hours of blessed sleep or rest, and it would start all over again.
Sephiroth had lived with that all fifteen years of his life. He could endure the pain of the injections as liquid fire was pumped through his veins. He was used to the agony as the Mako sifted into his broken body in the tanks, as he floated, blind and hurting, until they saw fit to release him. It was the after-affects when he had been sent back to his room that was driving him slowly but inexorably mad. The hallucinations. The voices. He survived in a half-somulent state for most of the days when he was having the twice-weekly dose of Mako. The rest of the time was spent in trying not to rip out people's throats.
Sephiroth had tried escaping once; he had gotten as far as the front door before Hojo's escort guards had caught him and beaten him to the floor. Sephiroth would have been able to beat them if it hadn't have been for the Mako tests the day before.
Sephiroth sighed, shifted off the bed, a shadow among many. He stood up and walked the two steps to the dress dummy in front of the wall-high mirror behind it.
He turned slightly to the smiling photograph of his mother, the woman he never knew, and picked it up, his face softening slightly. He placed the photo back on the chest, face down, then proceeded to get changed.
He slipped into the soft, new leather of his uniform, the uniform he would probably be wearing for the rest of his tormented life. But then, that would be very short if Hojo caught him this time, because he was not walking back into that lab once he had stepped outside it. Dead or otherwise.
Finished, Sephiroth admired himself in the mirror. Although only fifteen, the young man was already very tall, and he struck an imposing figure in the black leather trousers, black boots, black top, and a black leather trench coat, the Jenova symbol glinting under the straps for his shoulder guards. The top had a low neck, the straps crossing his bare chest.
Sephiroth nodded grimly to himself and turned to the chest of draws, removing a panel from the back to reveal a small hole, in which a small black knife rested, the scabbard beside it. Sephiroth took them out and slipped the knife into the scabbard, the scabbard into a boot. Then he replaced the panel and stood up, sighing. He picked up the picture and took it out of the frame, tucking it into his pocket.
Then Sephiroth moved over to the bed, lifting the mattress and tearing the loose stitches out from the bottom. A six foot long black box fell out, and Sephiroth looked warily at the door before placing it onto the bed. Opening it, he lifted the thin tissue paper out so that he could see the item that he had had specially made for him.
A long, cruelly beautiful samurai blade glinted at him. Almost reverently, Sephiroth lifted the sword up, his black-gloved hands touching the handle as if it were a holy icon. He could have stayed that way for the rest of the night, but a distant noise brought the teen to the present. He turned slightly and walked to the door, trying the handle although he knew that it was locked. Smiling slightly, Sephiroth stood back and kicked the door almost off its hinges. The guard posted outside didn't have time to cry for help; not with Sephiroth's sword in his gut. The guard mouthed at him for a couple of seconds as Sephiroth tore the sword out, then he toppled forward into a puddle of blood. Sephiroth was gone in a flick of leather coat, his sword stained red with first blood.