HUK...
RRRRAAGH-HAGH!
Tnn, tnn, tnn... tnn, tnn, tnn. In the midst of a dark, dank laboratory several floors below ground level, a Doctor Foster Edgars taps the sharp blade of his scalpel against the rim of a cold, stainless steel pan. "Sorry about that." he says with a flashing smile, "I need you awake, and I needed a sample." Blood drips and trickles off the pointed edge and into the puddle of water-like contents within. The man, coveted in a pristine white coat tosses the scalpel aside and takes a stir to the silver pan, mixing the blood. The Doctor smiles, his thin lips stretching from ear to ear, shaking his head with amusement. "I just don't get it at all." His charismatic demeanor loosens, unhinges, Edgars flings the pan in anger, it bangs, clangs and dings along stray cement walls. The pan hides somewhere in the dark shadows of Edgars' lab. The man in the lab coat approaches the metal slab wherein his leather strapped patient lays restrained, for his own safety, or at least... that's what Edgars likes to say. He places his right over his patient's bare right shoulder.
"Cloud, Cloud, Cloud. You have the teal glowing eyes of a SOLDIER. The infrangible, unbreakable body of the modern tank. The butchering instincts of a killer. Where did it start? When? When did you know? Where did it all go wrong... Cloud?"
"..."
"Hm? Oh, come now. I'm here to help."
"...I'm not about to tell you."
"Well that's too bad." the Doctor expresses, his index finger trailing the scarring upon his blonde patient's chest. "You heal remarkably fast. Nothing like the mutated forms of the Makonoids, but to be so exposed and come out so..." his hand glides under the fabric, his right generously prods the chest muscles, examines "Huh, Perfection. You should, by all means, have died or been mutated into one of those grotesque Makonoids yourself, but... nevertheless, your body's impressive healing ability means we'll have a lot of time to become intimately acquainted. Same time tomorrow then?" Edgars asks with an overenthusiastic grin and a child-like nod. He pulls his gloved hands from Cloud's chest. He wipes his hand free of the red stains nonchalantly over the cheeks of his patient. Cloud does not have the energy to protest. His blood is smeared along his face with no resistance of any kind.
The Doctor flips the switches resting beside the laboratory exit. "Until tomorrow then, Cloud Strife. Until tomorrow." he trails off, his voice becoming distant as Doctor Edgars departs for the night, whistling a methodical tune. Cloud; ex-infantryman and adventurer, now lay as a prisoner, alone, in the dark, with nothing but his own thoughts. Nothing but his own... dementia.
"How are you gonna get out of this one, buddy?"
"Zack..."
Cloud whispers but doesn't look at the breathing effigy of his long deceased friend standing beside his laid and strapped form; arms crossed, an assertive smile along his features. His brow rises, his shoulders shrug, Zack expects an answer from his wounded friend.
"Well?"
"..."
"Well, Cloud, we're waiting."
Another voice echoes in the distance. A voice of familiarity, of sympathetic nostalgia. Out from behind Zack walks a young woman with striking green eyes, long ponytailed brunette hair, a long pink dress that hugs a delicate frame, complimented with a red denim jacket. She was another figure of Cloud's past, a symbol of pain, affection, and failure. She was...
"Aerith."
Cloud called weakly out, his head struggling to lift off the metal table he's laid upon so long now. Her acknowledgment displeased the spiky-haired Zack, who sports a particularly unusual snarl over his usually charismatic expression. He reaches, he grabs her shoulder and with ferocity pulls and whips the unsuspecting girl to face him. She yelps, he smiles.
"Hey. What're you talking to him for?"
"W-what?"
"You're supposed to be my girl, right? What're you talking to him for?"
"I-"
"Shhh, no." he presses the pad of his index against her plush lips. "Don't say anything," he whispers from his lips to her ears. His words are soft, but his glance is devious as he stares into the teal eyes of Cloud Strife beyond her shoulder. Cloud is confused, unable to determine what is about to happen. Zack takes Aerith by the shoulders and presses his lips against her full pout. His tongue slithers between her parting mouth. She struggles, she tries to push him off, but Zack hardly notices as he throws her figure past metal trays and delicate samples. He slams her shoulder-blades against concrete, Aerith whimpers.
"Stop it," Cloud demands. His protest only feed Zack's satisfaction, and he grows bolder, his hands trail down her slender arms, and down her thighs. "STOP," Cloud demands louder, now struggling weakly against his restraints. Zack raises a leg over his hips, the other hand slides beneath her thigh, and hides under her pink dress, tears swell in Aerith's eyes as liberal fingers dig and prod, as she is violated before Cloud's presence.
"SSTOP!"
"Tell me what you cherish most," Zack utters, his voice is... slow... chilling. "Give me the pleasure of taking it away."
"You're not Zack." Though he suffered from exhaustion, broken bones, multiple contusions, burns, fractures, bullet wounds, and blood loss, the indomitable will of Cloud Strife could still tell his friend from the pretender that which stood in his presence. As Zack turned his head, the charismatic features of his former best friend faded into nothingness, instead replaced by the statuesque, unfaltering face of his greatest and most fearsome foe. He was not Zack Fair, he was the man in the black cape, the one-winged angel, he was the silver-haired SOLDIER... Sephiroth.
"Why are you here?"
"I am here. For you." the body of Aerith is dropped. She falls limp, her head thuds like an inanimate doll. There is a kind of dark smile about Sephiroth as he approaches Cloud's cold table. Sephiroth dances his fingers along the metal slab's edge, the tip of his finger tapping at Cloud's restraints. The leather belts mysteriously unfasten themselves, from his legs to his arms. With a smug expression, he asks "Can you stand?"
Cloud doesn't dignify the man with a... conventional answer. He strikes, a powerful left shoots off the table. Cloud doesn't hit his mark, and as he recovers, the laboratory is swept away into a sea of white. All that surrounded Cloud was now gone. He stood upright, in the white void, Sephiroth ten to twelve feet away. "Where are we?" he asks.
"In your head," he replies. "Where I've always been. Are you ready?"
"Ready for what?"
"The only thing we ever do."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because. I still want this planet. I still want Gaia. I still want to sail her through the cosmos and spread Jenova, my mother throughout the universe. Even if I have to use your body as my vessel... Cloud."
"So that's the way it's gonna be." eyes leer. "I don't have my swords."
"Sounds like you have a problem." a massive katana forms into existence, from Sephiroth's grip growing out to three, to five, to eight massive feet in length; the Masamune. With a sudden blur of speed, he bursts forth. The lips of Cloud Strife; subtly they curl, "Okay." he whispers. Cloud knocks away the tempered point, runs down its blade, and throws a powerful right. His fist meets silver hair and nothing more but air, a powerful boot to the abdominal forces Cloud off his feet, his cheek slides against the white of the void's surface with an exasperated huff. The silver-haired devil tries to strike an instant victory, bringing down his massive sword; easily capable of cutting a foe in two with but a single stroke. As quickly as he fell, Cloud rolls to his feet, the sword hits ground and Cloud begins his charge anew; throwing rights, lefts, arching kicks. Cloud is struck with the cap of Sephiroth's sword handle along the brow, he bleeds. Strife brings a cold stare leering up to his silver-haired foe. Sephiroth responds with a smile, Cloud responds with something else.
"HRAH!"
THE NEXT DAY.
"Wakey, wakey."
Doctor Edgars utters upon his smiling entrance. He quickly examines his patient's body as it lay strapped to the metal table with latex gloves. The Doctor prods, pokes, and feels the flesh. "Yup." he says, "A clean bill of health. Fully healed from yesterdays trauma. Astonishing." he adds, walking towards his case of tools. "So...?" he asks, "Do you want to share your life stor-"
"Yes."
"Well, that's too... What?"
"I'll tell you what you want to know."
"That's... unexpected." Edgars carefully places his tools back in the black case. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
"Change of... mind," Cloud responds. The Doctor is curious, though unsettled. "That's a shame." he says, "I wanted to test your body's ability to regrow entire organs... by castration." he sighed with disappointment. "Oh well, I guess. There's always next time," he mutters. Doctor Edgars removes his latex gloves and pulls from his white lab coat a small book and pencil.
"Well, Cloud? Where did it start?" he asks, taking a nearby seat upon an old creaky stool. "When did you really become... Cloud Strife?"
"I guess... it all started with her."
"With. Whom."
"...Tifa"
"Tifa Lockhart. Tell me about Tifa Lockhart, Mr. Strife. Let's discover the origin of your... psychological disorder, your dementia. We'll start all the way at the beginning. Come on Strife. Tell me about your traumatic childhood."
FINAL FANTASY VII THE NEW FRONTIER
PART I