Chapter Two: Lazarus

Sephiroth watched the young man stalk out of the room, leaving Shinra and the Turk standing there frowning after him. He resisted the urge to start pacing the small perimeter of the cell, and instead pressed his fingers to his temples in an attempt to mitigate his headache. His head was throbbing and he still felt vaguely sick to his stomach, nauseous in a way that hinted at severe dehydration.

The state of Midgar and the ShinRa Tower told Sephiroth that something very bad had happened, and both his amnesia and the reactions of those he'd encountered suggested he was somehow responsible. So he'd voluntarily surrendered himself and his weapon, expecting to be escorted somewhere a bit less...spartan. Given the condition of the city, it was possible there was no alternative. Still, Shinra and his Turk both looked well enough, clean and adequately provisioned.

Even the angry young man in the SOLDIER uniform, whose name Sephiroth still couldn't recall, didn't appear to be suffering from malnourishment. Meaning they should be giving him food and water at the very least, and the fact that they weren't spoke volumes about their intentions and their perception of recent events.

They thought they couldn't trust him, because he was hiding something. Which was why, no matter how many times he asked, they wouldn't tell him the current date or even how much time had passed since he was sent to Nibelheim.

It had to have been more than five years, if Rufus Shinra's appearance was anything to go by. The last time Sephiroth saw him, Shinra had been in his late teens. His features had been softer, less defined. He had also been more of a brat, back then. His attitude seemed to have changed dramatically for the better, which was something of a relief. The man facing him through the glass bore little resemblance to the sullen young man of Sephiroth's memories.

"Are you certain you didn't recognize him?"

Rufus Shinra's voice was also nothing like his father's. The elder Shinra - who must be dead, as Sephiroth didn't think the man was the type to step down gracefully while still breathing- had been fond of raising his voice to command attention. It suddenly occurred to Sephiroth that Rufus reminded him quite strongly of Tseng. Not physically, of course, but there was a certain similarity in mannerisms, in Rufus's relaxed body language; even when he was holding a shotgun to someone's head, he didn't appear ruffled in the slightest. His voice, that quiet and yet commanding tone, was definitely indicative of the Turk's influence.

Ah, Tseng. A very clever strategy, turning Rufus into a Turk before he became a president.

"No, I'm certain that I did recognize him," Sephiroth said, and as calmly as he answered the question he couldn't help the way his mouth tightened. He tipped his head, hiding for a moment behind a veil of silver hair. Being stared at through glass reminded him unpleasantly of his childhood.

Sephiroth shook his head, dismissing the memories. "Am I permitted to know his name, Rufus?" Sephiroth realized his error and added, smoothly, "President Shinra. My apologies, it will take some time to get used to all the...changes."

Rufus snorted. "That was diplomatic of you. And here they said you weren't very good at diplomacy."

He hadn't been trying to be diplomatic. He was simply attempting to observe the proper protocols, though his patience was wearing thin at their lack of respect. "And did they say where I might have been, the last few years?"

Rufus's smile turned sharp. Sephiroth wondered if the man had any idea he wore the Turks' tutelage like a uniform, as visible as that black-and-white suit he was always wearing when he visited Sephiroth's cell. "I know you're very curious, but I have to ask you to refrain from asking questions at the moment. You'll be briefed in due time, I promise you."

Sephiroth nodded, fingers clenched tight at his sides, feeling his nails bite through the leather of his gloves. He did not want to ask for water. He was stronger than that, he had endured far worse, and if Rufus insisted on interrogation tactics, then so be it.

Rufus was talking to the Turk again, a tall man with startlingly red hair whom Sephiroth remembered as Reno. He had clearly risen far in the organization, as he'd accompanied Rufus on every one of his visits. Sephiroth could not hear what they were saying; even with enhanced senses, the glass partition made it damnably hard to eavesdrop. He stood at ease, with his hands behind his back, fighting the wave of dizziness and the persistent clamoring of his body for water.

"We'll be back in a few hours. In the meantime, try to rest." Rufus's entire demeanor was professionalism at its finest; if he was taking any enjoyment from Sephiroth's condition, there wasn't a hint of it to be found. "Is there anything you require, in the meantime?"

"No."

"And you're sure you don't know the name of the man who just left?"

It wasn't surprising that Rufus was questioning him about the angry young man again. It was obvious he expected some sort of answer, and that he was disappointed in Sephiroth's inability to give it to him. Sephiroth wondered what it was, exactly, that Rufus wanted to hear.

Sephiroth raised his chin and made his words very clear and precise. "I will repeat myself once again. No, I do not know the name of the man who was in here. Only that he might have been an infantryman who was friends with SOLDIER First Class Zack Fair, but Zack was well-liked by everyone, so that hardly narrows down the field."

"Are you thirsty?"

Sephiroth actually smiled. "With all due respect, President Shinra, I would remind you that I'm quite well-versed in military torture and interrogation tactics, including sensory deprivation and restriction of food and water."

He did not add that he'd learned those from Hojo before he'd ever started his SOLDIER training.

"And if I was attempting such a thing?"

"It wouldn't change my answer in the slightest."

"Perhaps in a few hours you'll have changed your mind," Rufus said, smoothly. "Come along, Reno."

Sephiroth watched them leave, the lights following a few minutes later. It left him in the dark, unable to make out anything but the standard-issue military cot and the toilet in his room. He laughed. Amateurs.

Sephiroth lay down on his back on the cold stone floor. He closed his eyes, his fingers tangling in the back of his hair and pulling slightly, almost rhythmically, until he relaxed enough to separate his mind from his body, which needed things like water and sustenance and sleep.

It was something else he'd learned from Hojo, though mostly out of necessity. Hojo's treatments would have left him in screaming agony as a child if he hadn't figured out a way to divorce his mental self from his physical one. The key was being able to relax deeply enough. It was one reason why Sephiroth had fought like a wild animal every time Hojo had tried to cut his hair, because nothing had ever managed to relax him as quickly as his habit of twining his hair around his fingers and tugging.

Once, after some particularly painful and invasive procedure, Sephiroth had slowly drifted back to his trembling body and found he was still doing it, winding the strands around his fingers and tugging, over and over. Hojo was there, of course, with the ever-present clipboard in one hand and his pen in another. But he was watching Sephiroth with an odd expression on his face, and it took Sephiroth a moment to finally recognize it as an expression of pain.

Hojo had blinked, scowled, then snapped something or other and walked away, scribbling and muttering to himself as usual. It was the only time Sephiroth ever saw an expression like that on Hojo's face, but he never again said a single word to Sephiroth about his hair. Sephiroth had watched him very carefully after that, wanting to see if perhaps Hojo, who also wore his hair long, indulged in a similar habit. But Hojo's hair remained in its usual ponytail, utterly ignored, so it didn't seem likely that Sephiroth had learned it by observation.

Growing up, Sephiroth had heard plenty of whispers and rumors that Hojo was his father. Hojo was a brilliant scientist, and Sephiroth had some admiration for the man's tenacity and intelligence even if he despised him.

He'd confronted Hojo about it only once, asking is it true you're my father? in the same sort of voice he'd use if he were asking a question about his homework assignment.

Hojo had stared at him with those flat, cold eyes of his and said, "What made you ask me such a thing? Has someone been telling you stories, boy? Gast? Who was it?"

Sephiroth kept his glee at angering Hojo locked safely away, so he could think about it later and not end up in a mako shower. "Everyone," he'd said, and instead of a teenage boy's sullenness it was simply the truth. He could start saying names, but Hojo wouldn't let him finish, he would only get angry and someone would disappear. Or Sephiroth would see them again, floating in a tank filled with mako and staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.

Oddly, the answer seemed to have been the correct one, because Hojo calmed immediately and didn't demand any further information. He'd laughed that shrill laugh of his and said, "That's because I made you, Sephiroth. That's why they say that. Think of me as you will, but I suppose creator is the same as father, hmm?"

It wasn't, but Sephiroth hadn't said that. He'd learned, by then, when to think things and when not to say them.

Sephiroth's fingers pulled a little harder. It's not a good idea to think about Hojo if you want to relax, he told himself firmly. He did know that Hojo was dead, because the guard he'd come across that first night told him as much when Sephiroth inquired after his whereabouts. Sephiroth wasn't sure how he felt about that. It had been a long time since he'd interacted with the man.

He focused again on the twist-pull, twist-pull of his hair until his mind began to drift again, until he didn't feel the chill seeping through his leather coat, the hunger gnawing at him, or the dry, swollen thing his mouth had become.

Instead, he thought about Zack. Hoping that it would stir up memories of what happened, tell him if he'd really killed Zack after all, confirm if he'd really earned the hatred blazing from Cloud's sky-bright eyes -

Cloud.

Sephiroth's eyes opened.