Title: How To Train Your Super Soldier Son (to become an insane destroyer of worlds)
Characters: Gast, Hojo, Sephiroth, President Shinra, Vincent Valentine
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3595
Summary: In which Hojo only wants the best for his son, and Sephiroth is a typical unappreciative kid.
Notes: First time I've written FFVII fic in almost two years. Guess it's true what they say, you never forget your first love.
The Christmas party mentioned is basically the events of The Importance of Being Alive.
Note that I have since revised both Alive and Just Another Number substantially, and the new versions can be found in my brand-new A03 account under the name axilet. I'm leaving the old versions up here since I've altered the stories enough for them to be quite different, in both theme and message.
"Always remember," Hojo confided, the sharing of a secret—"that you are extraordinary."
The boy peered at him through eyes glazed with fever and pain, trying to focus. At his side Gast started imperceptibly, lips compressing in disapproval. His hand brushed restlessly, tenderly, through the prematurely white strands of Sephiroth's hair. How he loathed being reminded of how utterly far from normal their creation was, of the farcical nature of the charade of familial warmth he played with Sephiroth. Hojo responded to Gast's puling nebbishness with the only thing it deserved: a sneer of contempt. He might be the boy's biological father, and yet somehow he was the one who never lost sight of their end goal.
He edged his chair nearer, leaning close while Sephiroth was too weak to flinch away, tracing his fingers over the poisonous green glow of the veins nestled amongst the frail bird bones of his wrist. Sephiroth's skin burned with Mako-induced fire; and yet the sickly infant he had been would have died without the first, desperate infusions that had blazed a permanent brand into the boy's distinctive luminous eyes. There is no such thing as life without pain, Hojo thought, and no victory without sacrifice.
"This will someday pass," Hojo said, "and you will only be all the stronger for it."
Sephiroth's fingers curled weakly against his palm as he threw his head back and gulped rapid lungfuls of cool air in a futile bid to alleviate the heat consuming his agonized body. He had been born into this world fighting for survival, and he would leave it no other way. Not that Hojo would ever allow such a calamity to occur. This was a god in the making; a god born of the essence of an ancient race, the blood of a planet, and the life of a woman he had—if not loved, then been sorry to lose. In the old stories men had traded body parts and happiness for wisdom and kingdoms and treasures beyond imagining; the weakling boy before them would climb out of his deathbed, and grow into greatness.
Unbidden, his hand closed around Sephiroth's, and held tight.
Gast said, "We must wean him off the Mako cocktails. The withdrawal symptoms—"
"We will do no such thing," Hojo said. "Not while he is still in this stage of rapid development."
"You—" Gast shook his head violently, biting back his anger. Hojo was amused to note that his lips had been gnawed until they were chapped and flaking. "He's too young. His body can't take the strain." His next words lashed out, vicious. "I know you don't care if he hurts, but you should damn well care if he lives or dies—"
"His body is adapting to the strain," Hojo corrected. "How else should the marriage of Cetra and human DNA be accomplished? There was every risk that the infant would never have survived past its first breath; I am simply endeavoring to reduce that risk in the only tried and tested method we have on record—"
Gast's voice sank to a hiss. "He is your son."
"Thank you for reminding me," Hojo countered, "that he is not yours."
They rounded the corner to where the boy sat in the middle of the lab in a meditative pose, his expression of tranquility belied by the nerves juddering loosely under his skin and the bright splash of color staining his lips. Hojo glanced to the side to see Gast nearly as white as the boy's complexion, the haunted sleeplessness evident in the shadows under his eyes and he thought, not long now.
Afterwards, Hojo did not say, "Gast has abandoned you."
That would be too easy. Instead he said to Sephiroth, as casual as dictating a lab report: "Gast has resigned from his post."
He watched. Sephiroth's eyes slid over his shoulder, tracing an unerring path to the sliver of Gast's office visible through the glass-fronted door. He knew what the boy would see: the organized mess spilling out from cubbyholes and too-full files; the yellow sticky notes covered with scrawlings in large and urgent font, applied liberally over the bulletin board. All of it conveyed the impression that the owner of this desk had stepped out briefly and intended to return any moment in the near future. More specifically, once he had recovered from the horrible bout of flu mentioned in the sick leave request Hojo had found in his inbox a week ago and approved without hesitation.
Gast was a good scientist but a terrible liar. Those were qualities Hojo appreciated in a man—a man that could have been a friend—but the time for that had passed long ago, one continent and twenty years removed from the present. He had been called everything from socially awkward to outright uncivilized, but the truth was that he preferred solitude to the painful severing of messy entanglements when the time to part inevitably arose, whether by choice or circumstance. And now Gast had seen fit to make that choice; as ever Hojo would suffer no regrets.
"I see," Sephiroth said. His voice was remarkably level, but the drop in his usual direct gaze betrayed an otherwise perfectly neutral expression. "He must have been under a great deal of stress to have departed so abruptly," the boy went on, choosing his words with care—with as little emotion as if Gast had not ruffled his hair that last day, as he had every day before going home, and coming back again in the morning. "I can only wish him a pleasant retirement." Despite himself the boy's words ended on a questioning tone; the line of his shoulders under his lengthening hair was rigid with strain.
Hojo smiled, thinly—approving of the boy's suspicion on general principle, though it had often made things so much more difficult all these years, with Sephiroth putting his trust in the wrong man. That would, however, no longer be a problem. "Alas, he is already too far from the city for your well-wishes to be conveyed. But I'll be sure to tell him that myself," he said, "once he is found."
Sephiroth's teeth clenched. He wavered on the edge of asking, but to Hojo's satisfaction his pride finally won, locking down over the breach in his defenses. "I imagine you will require a replacement," he said, turning away with one last parting shot, "worthy enough to cover the magnitude of the loss."
"I think you overestimate the extent of Gast's recent contributions to the project," Hojo said mildly, with his most indifferent shrug. He could afford to be magnanimous in victory. "Come along now; despite your opinion of me I am perfectly capable of reading candidate resumes and running routine tests at the same time."
Sephiroth followed, in sullen silence. One day he would not. Even Sephiroth would leave, in the end; all parents must count on their children flying from the nest, and no mortal had ever claimed to have a permanent hold over a god. Hojo had only planned when and how, in the best way possible. It was a good thing he wasn't doing this for the praise and adulation or even, dare he imagine it, filial piety.
Later:
Hojo kept his promise.
"Does he forgive me?" Gast pleaded, blood streaming down his face. "Please, tell me—"
"No," Hojo said truthfully, and shot him in the heart.
The final wolf fell screaming, gushing blood and viscera from a dozen slashing cuts. A moment later Sephiroth followed, dragged to earth by its dead weight as he fought to pry its teeth from his arm. The impassivity of his face cracked, only a little, as the vicious fangs slid free and he was able to rise with the help of his sword braced against the ground as a makeshift staff.
"Impressive," the President murmured, gazing through the window with his hands clasped behind his back. "Despite his injuries at the end..."
"Were he an ordinary boy," Hojo said—not defensively, simply stating fact, "He would have been wolf meat five minutes into the fight. I would not have placed bets on any of the new recruits in the SOLDIER program, either."
"I've poured a lot of money into this project of yours," Shinra warned, "and I expect results of corresponding size to my investment." He returned his attention to Sephiroth, who was standing patiently in the middle of the carnage waiting to be dismissed. Grudging admiration lightened the severity of his expression. "So far, it appears I was right to trust my instincts."
It took effort not to laugh outright at Shinra's complacency. Hojo mastered himself and let slip a modest nod. "Since Sephiroth was young," he said, "I have made certain he was always aware of your vital role in his development. You can be assured of his eternal loyalty."
The President raised a brow at Hojo's melodramatic turn of phrase. "Do you ever intend to let him know of his true parentage?" he asked, out of the blue. Shinra's eyes bored into him, searching. If he was looking for the same weaknesses that had felled Gast in the end, he would not find it. If he was looking for any signs of guilt, that in a battle of loyalties Hojo might somehow triumph over Shinra...
Hojo could only chuckle in derision. "Never," he said. "It'd probably kill him to find out."
"Your own son, though," the President noted, leaning back, seemingly satisfied. "You are truly cold." He said this without any hint of the disgust and judgement that Gast had so frequently employed from atop his high horse—but then, Shinra's animosity towards his heir, and Rufus' own rebellions, was well known, if not spoken of for fear of the dark-suited Turks lurking in the shadows. He might even have been a little admiring.
"You will make him a General," Hojo said. "A leader of men." He shrugged. "There are few more things I could ask for, for a child of my blood."
At twenty Sephiroth was hefting a blade nearly as long as himself with little effort. He had raced through his teenage years, skipping 'tall and gangly' entirely to end up at 'tall and graceful, and deadly with a sword.' Awkward adolescence and its many perils had apparently never been an Cetra problem. Even if Sephiroth were to be instantaneously transported from the sterile confines of the lab to the unhallowed halls that was Midgar's public education system, he would never need to fear being ambushed for his lunch money no matter how many books he pushed or how off the charts his IQ was.
"This is for me?" Sephiroth had never been partial to glowing smiles, but he was now wearing a particular expression that was his closest equivalent. He ran a finger along the razor-keen edge with a look of awe. "This material...I have never seen the like."
"It was specially commissioned for you," Hojo said. "A gift from our patron." It was only right and fitting, he thought, that a great soldier should have a great weapon, and a future god receive a tribute in return for his service. The President had truly chosen well. "You look dangerous," he offered—a compliment, even as the rest of the ignorant peons standing around watching were clearly uneasy, agreeing with the words but not the intent behind them. Hojo caught a scrap of conversation: "—he's so young—" and made a mental note to arrange a transfer. It might be disconcerting for some to see a child so adept in the art of war, but for Hojo the dissonance only brought forth a swell of almost fatherly pride, to see Sephiroth outpacing his peers in every conceivable field. He smiled, pleased.
Sephiroth hummed thoughtfully, slashing the sword through the air with an audible whistling sound. His eyes were bright with murderous delight—how it warmed Hojo's cold heart to see him so. "I must test it at the first opportunity," he murmured, and glanced at his creator in barely concealed challenge.
"You are fortunate, then," Hojo said, "that the President has already anticipated your request, and acted upon it." He drew forth a binder from under his arm and proffered it, with both hands—thick as it was all the details of the anticipated war, the men and resources to be allocated to it, the political climate in Wutai, the strength of her defenses—and most importantly, why the war would be declared in the first place, a sign of the great trust that the President was choosing to place in his untried super soldier; a sign that Sephiroth was intelligent enough to interpret accordingly.
Sephiroth's eyes widened in startled understanding—even shut in the lab he had not been deaf to the rumors flying thick and furious throughout the city. But modesty had never been one of his weaknesses, and he stepped forward at once to accept the file, excitement visibly thrumming through him.
"So," Hojo drawled, just to be antagonistic, "You fancy yourself ready for the battlefield, do you, boy?"
"I will be ready," Sephiroth said without hesitation. "Much to your credit."
"You have been fighting monsters," Hojo said dismissively. "Killing a man in cold blood is another matter altogether."
"Believe me," Sephiroth said, arching his brows with a pointed look, "I have had much practice in contemplating just how much I would enjoy carrying out such an act."
Hojo laughed, less displeased than entertained even as the other watchers noticeably increased their distance from Sephiroth. "Very well," he conceded. "You are ready."
"Is there truly a Promised Land?" Sephiroth asked abruptly a week before he was due to leave for Wutai, and in the middle of a routine checkup. Hojo took this in stride.
"Our President is convinced there is," Hojo said. "Personally, I think it's just a bastardized old legend cleaned up by some ambitious aide to sound palatable to the presidential ears, but what do I know? I trust in only what I can see and touch and quantify."
Sephiroth drummed his fingers on the armrest. "The Wutaiese appear to know nothing of it either," he said, almost to himself. "I will not say the war is a complete waste of time, for Wutai boasts rich veins of materia—but those are secondary to fulfilling the main objective, which will render the vast expenditure of lives and resources at least somewhat reasonable."
Hojo leaned on his desk. "You must be desperate, indeed, to bring your concerns to me." Sephiroth shot him a dark look, to which Hojo only smirked. "I gather the President has already dismissed your concerns uncategorically?"
"You know me so well," Sephiroth muttered. "But this angle of attack is in vain, if the President will not listen to the head of the Science Department regarding the existence or nonexistence of something of such importance to him."
"The existence of the Cetra is in no doubt, however," Hojo said. "Even if they are all gone now, their settlements and artefacts remain. While I am no expert on the Ancients, I have been reliably informed that those who are expert have been attempting to replicate their magic, but in vain."
Sephiroth tilted his head to the side, curiosity sparked. "How came about the circumstances of their disappearance?" he asked. "Most books on the subject stop there, or mire themselves in speculation. Did they return to the Promised Land President Shinra is so adamant is real?"
"Possibly," Hojo said. "Other stories say they were lost in a terrible disaster that struck the Planet when it was yet young, the scars of which still survive to the present as the frozen wastes of the Northern Crater. There are scraps that our experts have pieced together to suggest that some sort of sacrifice was involved—possibly some spell wrought by the Ancients in order to protect the Planet." He shrugged. "I don't suppose we will ever know the truth of it."
"No," Sephiroth echoed, wistful at his lack of knowledge. "I suppose we won't."
Upon his triumphant return home from Wutai—not that the outcome of the war had ever been in doubt, at least where Hojo was concerned—Sephiroth threw himself with zeal into his new duties, the old obsolete General having been unceremoniously given the boot to make way for the custom (and expensive) make. He missed three appointments in a row, after which Hojo told his assistant to stop wasting his time bothering the General with politely worded requests to get his arse down to the lab, on the double.
The man was probably still sulking after the exchange they'd had during the Christmas party, which had strained relations never known for their stability. Hojo had his own plans to lay out, and it was best Sephiroth's attention stayed far, far away as long as it took for him to put them into action.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Sephiroth stalked into the lab, fuming. In one hand he held a file, which he thrust at Hojo as viciously as if he were wielding Masamune instead, the imaginary point aimed unerringly through his heart.
Hojo sighed, wounded. "I do, occasionally, file mission requests. You do occasionally take missions. Is it that hard to believe that the two might overlap?"
"When it comes to you," Sephiroth stated, his eyes narrow, "I find it best not to believe in coincidences." He flipped open the cover, pointing accusingly at the mission objective. "Since when is an officer of my rank assigned to routine monster extermination? A small team of Second Classes could have handled it with little issue, dragon or no dragon. What game are you playing at, Professor?"
"I don't see what you're complaining about," Hojo said. "You get to leave the city, enjoy the fresh air in the mountains, engage in good healthful exercise all, I note, in the charming company of SOLDIER First Class Zack Fair, your brother-in-arms and bosom friend." He pronounced the last word with distaste, eliciting an all too predictable scowl from Sephiroth.
"My personal life is none of your business," he said coldly, "and your attempts to meddle in my affairs grow tiresome. Very well, I'll play along for now, Professor—but just in case you've missed the memo the rest of the world has received, I am an adult now, and you can no longer manipulate me the way you did when I was a child."
He took his leave as abruptly as he had arrived, just stopping short of slamming the door. Hojo smiled. "Children," he said to himself, secretly grateful that Sephiroth had chosen to refrain from acquiring a love life of any sort. "They grow up so fast."
He wasn't smiling quite so much later, when he received the news that Sephiroth was dead—murdered, by no one more significant than a puny, unaugmented trooper, to add insult to injury.
His only consolation was that both Cloud Strife and Zack Fair were retrieved, reasonably whole and alive, from the wreckage of Nibelheim, whereupon he set to work with a vengeance.
Hojo watched the security footage, afterward:
"You were dead," Shinra said, white as a sheet. "You should be dead—"
"I am," the Sephiroth clone said, moving close, its movements smooth and graceful, utterly in sync with its master's will. Hojo berated himself once again for ever having lost faith in his son's incredible strength of mind and soul. "I died five years ago, in Nibelheim—after I found out the truth of what I was." It drew the Masamune, sharp and sleek in the fluorescent lights. "My oaths to serve you," it said softly, "extended only until death."
"Guards," Shinra shouted, standing. "Guards!"
"Do not bother," Sephiroth said. "They, too, have been similarly freed from their vows of duty."
Shinra reached into his desk drawer, snatching up a gun. The clone raised Masamune, and brought it down before he even had a chance to fire.
(Hojo might, or might not, have rewound the tape at this point several times for his own amusement.)
"For Lucrecia..." Valentine murmured, soft as he were offering a flower to his beloved—the innocent pristine angel that was Lucrecia Crescent, filtered through the nostalgic rosy shades of the past. Vengeance must taste so sweet.
You fool, Hojo sneered mentally, as he lay there amidst the ruins of the Sister Ray choking on the twisted mess of his own intestines, choking on his hatred and contempt. She played with your heart, Valentine, she chose her own fate. She would have been proud to give up her own life to have brought a being like Sephiroth into this world.
As did I, in the end...
He laughed, shakily, vomiting another gout of blood in the process. Valentine's black boots stopped just out of reach, more's the pity. "All you've done," the relentlessly grim host of demons said, "all the lives you've taken and ruined, for this. Was it worth it? Will you tell me it was all worth it, Hojo?"
His voice was taut with barely constrained rage; but even Valentine was not so cruel as to insult him at death's door with the discourtesy of pity. Hojo laughed again, even as knives of broken bone stabbed into his many hearts.
"My son is a god, and he will kill every one of you slowly and painfully for your transgressions," he breathed. "How could I possibly be sorry, Valentine?"
And then he was dead.
But he did not regret.
-end