Silence
The pain hadn't started until he had been informed of the mission. And as the scheduled departure day drew closer and closer, it only began to multiply twofold everyday.
It had to be something about that village. Nibelheim, was it? Making the effort to scour his brain for the moment, he remembered it to be just east of Rocket Town, at the base of the Nibel mountain range. Up until three weeks ago, the village held little to no significance to the General; now, after the accident at the reactor, it held great importance to Shin-Ra and its most important employee.
He was sure things had been fine before then, though; he had remained relatively sane in a sea of idiocy and work. Life was fine, life was good.
Life had begun to go downhill after that night.
That day had been fine. Everything had appeared relatively normal. And he was normally not one to dream, though he remembered with fighteningly distinct clarity every aspect he had seen, heard, and smelled in a seemingly innocent dream.
Most of all, it was what he heard, what had sent him to wake up with a startled yelp, what had him drenched in a cold swear, panting to free the ache in his chest. It was an ache he hadn't felt since he was young, but it was familiar; a longing he had worked so hard to destroy, but what was obviously easily brought back with a few simple words.
It was why he sat slumped in his chair, curled pathetically against his desk, with his forehead resting not-so-gently against its paperwork covered surface. It was why his gloved fingers clawed at his scalp, digging with such force to stop the pain that he was sure it could cause a headache on its own, had his mind not been throbbing with one already. It was why he panted softly, trying to at least maintain control over his breathing, to free that unknown constriction that ran rampant through his chest. It was why his eyes were clamped tight; why his teeth were clenched to the point where he could taste blood in his mouth; why his whole body remained in an entire lock, muscles and joints tense to the point where it hurt.
It was hell, or maybe it was punishment for him not understanding the source of that voice and the pain that it brought. He could hear her talk to him late at night after work, gently promising him things, though all he could ever make out was a comforting presence. And when he became frightened, that was when the pain started. When he began to assume he was going crazy again, when he tried to shut out whoever was trying to rape and invade his mind. It always started as a vague throb, and then the presence in his mind became harsh and unwelcome (though it had always been unwelcome). Then it grew, and grew, until in a matter of minutes he could be on his knees, begging for it to stop, and it was why he was thankful to whatever gods existed that he was sitting in a chair.
God, it hurt, so much more than any wound he had received in battle (on the rare occasion he did), or than the mako treatments he was given bi-monthly. It was harsh, unforgiveable, unrelenting to the point where he never knew what it was like to come down from it like that of the mako treatments. If he was lucky (and most of the time, he was) he would just pass out, fade into a darkness that let his body become numb, let him fall in a sweet oblivion where the pain would finally stop.
He didn't get that relief until his mind and body nearly felt seperated, until he could feel himself slip from his office chair, though he was so positively sure he was watching himself hit the floor. It was a strange feeling, like some fucked-up out of body experience, though he could feel the carpet beneath his body and the floor, and yet he could see himself curled so pathetically and helpless, whimpering (whimpering?) in pain and mumbling incoherently for it to just end.
Shortly after, his mind was left to float harmlessly in the oblivion of darkness, to reconstruct itself and fortify its defenses for another attack, though it wouldn't prove useful; he was sure the next attack would be worse. It always was.
Though he was so positive - even in the haze of unconsciousness - that he was still watching himself, and all he could hear was his voice, strained and begging for mercy, and she wasn't giving it.
The silence after was hard evidence.