A/N: Had this sitting on my computer for forever, it seems. But here it finally is!
This is basically a very early prequel to FFVII: Dirge of Cerberus, which involves a few members of the Deepground group before Weiss initiated the coup.
And, without further ado...
In the beginning, she begged for mercy.
The moment the needles pierced her veins, she had screamed out names - names of loved ones now forgotten. She told Them answers to questions They never asked, wailed for answers of her own: why are you doing this to me?
Then the Mako, cold and half-frozen from being stored in below-zero temperatures, would slowly ooze into her skin. The liquid energy burned upon entry, and her words dissolved into screams of agony. Through her tears, she watched Them study the way the Mako glowed briefly, illuminating the lacy webbing of her veins below her skin, before it disappeared into her bloodstream. Then They would make little notes on their clipboards, the expressions on their faces vaguely clinical.
There were two types of Them - the grim Restrictors with cold emotions and the Scientists, researchers with avaricious, cerebral natures. Shelke preferred to think of them as They, Other; They could not be human, after what They were doing to her. They were not.
The tests continued.
She kept hoping the Mako would kill her, that enough of it would poison her from the inside-out, like the others before her. She wondered each day if, the next morning, she would be lucky enough not to wake up at all.
But her body was different, They told her. Her body continued to function, despite the heightened doses of Mako injections. That made her a curious case, a perfect specimen for further research.
For what, They didn't say. But Shelke suspected They were testing her to see how much her body could take before the Mako was rejected and her heart failed.
Now she no longer cried for mercy.
They came for her every two days, with one day set aside between tests so her body could rest and heal itself. She no longer thought that They were simply trying to evaluate her body's immunity to the Mako; They were making her body stronger.
And she wasn't alone. There were more people here who were being experimented on, the same as her. How many, though, she didn't know. Sometimes she could hear shrieks and screams as she lay, panting and listening to the feeble beat of her heart inside her cell after being subjected to the needles and her expressionless captors.
Once she was jolted from uneasy sleep by a full-throated, crazed laughter, which slid into a high keening cackle. Shelke had curled up on her cot, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, alarmed that the sound seemed distinctly feminine.
And then there was him.
He was the only one she had seen, out of all the others she suspected must be here below ground. His door had a narrow window of glass at the level of Their chests, but it was precisely the height of Shelke's eyes. They escorted her down his corridor on her way to the Mako injections and each time, Shelke looked inside as she passed.
He was inside, looking out.
She wondered at the placement of the window sometimes, when all was quiet and dark and she knew she was expected to sleep. He must be chained in place, forced to look out at the endless white coats of Them as they passed by. Shelke did not have a window on her own door; why did he get one?
Perhaps it was simply to taunt him.
Why do They do anything? She already knew the answer. To spite us. To hurt us. To show their power over us.
But Shelke was glad of the window into his room; she had only known Them, with Their strong scent of disinfectant, Their frigid, gloved hands and callous words.
He was different. He was one of their subjects.
He was like her.
Although he faced the window, he never looked at her. But Shelke couldn't help turning her head slightly to glance at him. A part of her missed the human interaction, only vaguely remembered from years ago. A part of her longed for the connection, the recognition of existence from one human being to another.
And then, one day she got it.
As she passed his cell, his eyes flickered up to meet hers.
His eyes are... crimson. Her steps slowed momentarily and the barrel of a rifle pressed into her back, forcing her to keep walking.
She never wanted to give Them the pleasure of hearing her scream when the Mako burned its way into her wrists, her elbows, her neck. She didn't want to show them weakness and reveal her frailty, especially when she wondered why she wasn't used to the excruciating pain by now. But They pushed her, wanting results. They waited until her voice grew raw and her teeth sank through her lip, the blood dripping from her chin. Then They scribbled more notes and nodded to each other, and the needles jerked from her swollen skin, leaving her to collapse against her restraints.
Afterwards, They always politely gave her a thin handkerchief to mop her sweaty forehead.
That day, the first day he had met her gaze, she glanced over at him as she was guided back to her room. His eyes watched her. His expression - whether judgmental, sympathetic or otherwise - was hidden by shadows and darkness.
It wasn't long after that Shelke heard more screams, long and painful and defiant. She knew those shrieks belonged to him.
They passed days, weeks, perhaps months this way. Their eyes met as Shelke walked to and from her torture chamber: a recognition of one another, of another individual in similar circumstances. He no doubt heard her cries, and she listened to his screams in the quiet.
One night, she deciphered words amid his wails. "No!" He howled. And, later, "I can feel -!" Then the discernible sounds crumbled away and her skin crawled to hear the savage, haunted yells that took their place.
Shelke was not given to daydreaming - or dreaming much at all, for that matter - but she began to wonder about him as she lay, too hurt to move, on those evenings after the injections. Who was he, the man in the room? What were they doing to him? By his eyes, she knew he wasn't receiving shots of Mako...
What is his name?
She didn't know how to obtain that information. Briefly, very briefly, she entertained the thought of asking Them who he was, but discarded it immediately; They would probably respond in the same way that they did to her early pleas of mercy.
No, she'd have to think of something else.
They never discussed the other people here, the ones who were being used as puppets for Their tests and enjoyment, so she knew that wasn't a viable option. Her tired mind tried to think of another way to find about him...
...and then one day, she had an idea.
Several days - perhaps even a week - passed before Shelke attempted her plan. She had to wait until Their heads were turned away, until none of Them were paying attention. It tested her patience, for her moment to see him was brief - a few seconds, little more. Just long enough for her to take another step, and then he was out of her sight.
She didn't want to attract Their attention, even though it was so small a thing. It could be considered rebellious, after all.
Then her opportunity came.
They were all looking away, speaking to the guard at the end of the corridor. Shelke turned to look at him, as she was accustomed to doing, and his eyes looked up into hers. she bobbed her head slightly and, staring as meaningfully as she could, mouthed her name.
Shelke.
His eyes flickered, darkening slightly.
Then Shelke took another step; he was gone.
After her time with the needles and the Mako - They had experimented with her legs this time, the glowing energy still burning in her muscle where it had been forced beneath the skin - she glanced at him through the window. He only blinked, his eyes narrowed, and something inside her wilted a little. Perhaps he hadn't understood. Or maybe he didn't want to communicate. Shelke considered her plan in her room and tried to think of an alternative strategy.
Two days later when she passed his door, she looked over at him, ready to try again, but he moved first. He tilted his chin up, baring pale white skin to the light. He moved his lips and she barely caught the word before he passed out of sight.
Nero.
From that point on, they greeted each other through mouthed names.
Nero.
Shelke.
At night, Shelke wondered about him more and more. Was he kidnapped, as her fading memories unreliably whispered, the same as her? How old was he? It was hard to tell from the sliver-like view she got of him twice a day. She supposed it wasn't that important; she could no longer remember how long she'd been here, so she no longer knew her own age.
What was he like, up close?
Her mind was too exhausted to dredge up a realistic answer, and the majority of her imagination had been destroyed long ago.
Nero.
Shelke.
She lived for these brief moments, the momentary glances at another person, at him. At some level, she recognized how very bitter and sad it was that such fragmentary enjoyment could propel her through misery and pain; for all her excitement of seeing Nero, he couldn't diminish the edge from the scalding agony of the Mako.
But she didn't care.
Then the night came where Nero's screams were sharper, the duration longer. Shelke stared hard at her ceiling, trying to detach herself from his emotions and ignore the pain making itself audible in his voice.
She failed.
The next morning she looked into his cell. He wasn't there. Shelke paused, looking harder into the darkness. She ignored the predictable prod to her back, realizing: he isn't here.
She pressed herself against the door. Calling out to him would be a mistake, but she wanted to. Are you there? Are you... alive?
One of Them grabbed her arm but she jerked away, the momentum of her movement throwing her fist against his door. Nero, are you there?
They came for her again but she wrestled Them away - two this time - and she was distantly surprised at how slow they seemed. Where is he? Did they move him? She wondered. Is he gone?
A pale face shimmered in the darkness through the glass. Shelke snapped her head away as They lunged for her neck, her hand flinging out to swat Them away. She felt her hand connect with a soft white coat and knew, vaguely, that she would suffer repercussions later.
Then Nero's face came close enough to make out and Shelke relaxed. There were dark smudges of exhaustion and weariness under his scarlet eyes, making the pallor of his skin look grey. There was a muzzle stretched across his face, covering his mouth and the bridge of his nose. He looked up at her, and tilted his head to the side slightly.
Shelke's hand curled against the cold metal door. Something - relief? gladness? hope? - rose in her and her lips curved upwards in an impulsive little smile.
Then one of Them cracked her over the head with the butt of his gun and she slumped to the ground.
The injections were especially bad that day; Shelke knew they had to punish her somehow for her insubordination. Then she was dragged, half unconscious from the pain, back to her room.
After that day, Shelke was moved to a different cell - one that did not come close to Nero or any of the other voices that she sometimes heard raised in hysterical agony. Her Mako injections were increased and training drills were introduced, filling her days until she collapsed onto her cot each night, too tired to move or dream. They spoke highly of her - that she was focused, like a machine. And slowly she stopped thinking of things that weren't important, weren't relevant. In time she stopped thinking of Nero, of any of her fellow prisoners there, in the place called Deepground.
She nearly forgot about him altogether.
But not quite.
A/N: If you liked it, let me know! The review button is just right down there...