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Warning: Rating subjected to change. This chapter contains a rather disturbing scene. It certainly gave me the shudders.
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Chapter 1 – Mako
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They had came, just as fate had dictated them to. Or the Professor. Whichever.
There was, first and foremost, light. Immaterial beings birthed of the highest empyrean, ever joyous and frolicsome in their luminescence's wake. They bounded along the corridors, unleashing their gaiety in a storm of colours that made even the solemn grey of the walls seem less gloomy.
The same light aglow on their cuirasses, two figures marched lazily down the entranceway, undoubtedly to the cell where he was currently housed. Already from afar, he had recognized them as Soldiers. Sharp was the metallic rattle that accompanied their armour's movements; even where distance obfuscated their profiles to a hazy silhouette, imperious pride was visibly writ into their stance – a signature of their knighthood.
A moment later had them fumbling with the padlocks to his chamber; their actions punctuated with the shrill applause of keys clapping in unison. He had no time to register the door swinging open, before the ferric tang of steel, in combination with the pungent musk of human sweat, pervaded his nostrils in a truly potent concoction that left him overwhelmed. Mechanically, the Soldiers slipped in, emotionlessness, their mask, silent, their lips.
Unconcernedly, yet without malice, they kneed him to the ground, cuffing his hands behind his back. The fetters around his ankles were removed subsequently, causing him to breathe a soft sigh in relief. Even if it be at the expense of his wrists, the feel of his freed feet was wondrous – a year's quarter was past time enough that irons had impressed their agonizing brand into his bones.
He was yanked to his feet next, and forced forward into an unsteady shuffle by the butt of a sword hilt. Although he had made no move to resist insofar, their handling was punishingly ungentle. Roughened, most likely, by days too many, with rebellious escapees and their own hardening hearts.
As to be expected, they were not surprised the least by his placid compliance. Defiant, nonchalant, and spiritless prisoners, they would have seen alike – what was he but a mere statistic to be categorized into the last? Yet without a mirror, he was already certain that his countenance spelt apparent defeat.
It had mattered not to them. They were merely doing their duty.
And correctly so, as discovered he in the eventide's morrow:
He had been hauled from the dungeons that was his cage for three months –
Only to be placed into another.
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"Reenacting phase one."
It was that stringy, curiously high-pitched voice again. Hojo, he had heard them call him.
The fact that the Professor was indeed a – scientist – had accorded him no surprise. Although he, as was due of his being raised in the comparatively primitive, unsophisticated outback, barely understood the term at all, he did understand that it suited the man perfectly.
Yes, the Professor was a scientist. And a deranged, inhumanly cruel one, at that.
For what, if history of animosity were non-existent, could possibly prompt someone to subject a fellow human being to the torture that inevitably came with rigorous testing? Would not even tautened strings of empathy relent at their victims' pitiable suffering, to emblazon upon their hearts the immorality of their deeds?
Well, he supposed not. In life's malicious twist of reality, he had been reduced from a proud, renowned warrior to a hapless captive of 'those insurgent trash'. Fallen Doomsday would have first, before the poorest scraps of humanity's rights would be dredged up, mixed into swine fodder, then fed at last to his kind.
Because he was less than human, now. He was –According to them, the way of his people was woefully uncivilized. Barbaric, even. Technological advancement marked the value of their society's worth, and for retaining the ancestral, eon-old methods of doing things, he was thereby branded a member of a sub-intelligent, inferior species. Why expend resources and effort to dignify one, who had not the intellectual capacity required, as a proper human being, when it was better suited to take the brunt of research?
– a laboratory specimen.
Upon his arrival, he had been undressed, powdered, shaven, measured – stripped of all bodily dignity he had ever possessed. They had shamelessly scissored through his tattered jail uniform, and showed equal contempt for his undergarments. A bucketful of white powder had been dumped upon him next, triggering a paroxysm of convulsive sneezing. His golden braids – oh, his prized golden braids! – had cascaded snippet-by-snippet to his feet in vast, withering piles, sheared off as carelessly as one would shear a sheep. Then, as if that wasn't enough, they had produced a marked tape from nowhere, taking measurements at every nook and cranny of his body – from the girth of his waist and hips, to the length of his limbs, to some detail hitherto unknown between his legs…
So immense was the shame that he could have died from it.
He was certain they would have attempted to wash him as well, had he not snarled and threatened death with his eyes. Cold, indifferent stares had hung on him for a moment longer than was usual, before he was directed, still naked beyond nakedness, to the showers. Even sheltered behind the cubicle as he was, he could not escape their scrutiny. Their incessant observation seeped through the tiled walls, instilling the more into his gut the nausea of dread the harder he tried to scrub off the feel of their eyes upon his skin.
Then he had been dried and ushered into some ominous-looking room, all with rapid efficiency.
So here he was, blindfolded and bound facedown onto an operating table by solid metal gyves around his joints. Awaiting his doom.
Left without the all-important sense of sight, he could only rely on his nose and ears for perception. The air was thick with an acrid scent – this, he recognized to be the intoxicant present in rosewine, his homeland's brew. Apart from a few indistinct clinks and clanks that hardly indicated what the other occupant of the room was up to, there was only silence.
It was not fit for a warrior like he to succumb to the failings of the inner instincts, but fear had already enclosed his heart in a vicegrip. He was, in short, terrified.
"Date?" droned Hojo's voice monotonously, as though citing the words he was currently inscribing onto a sheet of paper. The latter was evidenced by the scratchy hiss characteristic of a quill. "September thirteenth, eighteen fifty-seven. Time? First hour of twilight, sixteenth minute past. Hypothesis? That the organic, biologically indegradable fluoro-compound PAV-212, otherwise known as mako, incites rapid restoration of any damaged body tissue – " he cut himself off suddenly…
And continued, inexplicably lowering his voice to a muttered whisper, "– and thus, should be prohibited no longer for standard laboratory use. Such asinine fools they are, unable to realize its worth! Enhancements for SOLDIER, medical procedures…"
Footfalls of booted soles grew louder and louder, indicating the Professor's approach.
He cleared his throat, resuming his previous volume. "Test subject: Homo sapiens, Number XLIV." There was unmistakable glee in his tone, glee that foretold of evil, twisted things to come. An involuntary shudder made its way down Cloud's spine. "Age: estimated to be of nineteen or twenty years, sex: male, ancestry: Nibel purebred of Strife lineage. Identical genetic background to Number XXVIII – possibility of inbreeding for maximal genotype expression."
"Particular traits of note? Venous sample yielded haemoglobin oxygen saturation of approximately four percent – twice that of control. Hence, increased capability of meeting metabolic demands of accelerated regeneration. Most veritable cause? Physiological adaptation to low atmospheric pressures typical of mountainous habitat. Excellent, excellent."
Footfalls again, only they were becoming fainter this time. Hojo had drifted away to examine something (else).
"Quantity of anaesthetic to be administered? None. Reason? To ascertain magnitude of prostagladin secretion at damage site."
"Allocation of injury?" At those words – the few that he actually understood – Cloud felt his muscles tense up almost painfully. Blind panic overtook him then, causing him to strain against his bonds for but the umpteenth time, only to no avail. "Two three-inch slits, sterilized, to be situated alongside the thoraic vertebrae, below scapulae. Extends to the depth of the longissimus thoracis. No visceral damage is to be done."
"Dosage of mako? Isotonic saline with solute concentration of point-o-one molarity."
He stilled. The other man's breath was warm on his back. He clenched down on his jaw, hard, to prevent a whimper from escaping his teeth.
"Beginning experiment. Proceeding with incision."
Coldly, bit steel into flesh.
His body jerked in response, but he deliberately forced himself to motionlessness, lest the cut extend deeper than originally intended. There was no certainty that could be derived from a lunatic's words – what was to say that Hojo would not turn spastic at the sight of blood, and gouge out the rest of his intestines? Well, his previous action would be useless, if that was so. He was mercifully disproved, however, when the flare of pain repeated itself on his left side with the same precision, immediately after.
The initial aftershocks of this injury were endurable, at least. Many a time had he been cut similarly during battle, whether it be from a careless abandonment of defense on his part, or a cleverly landed strike by his opponent.
But the pain would intensify nonetheless, when left to its own devices. Or by another…
The queasy lump that was his stomach tightened still more as he heard a faint clinking of glass, followed by the pop sound of a flask being uncorked.
Then he was burning, burning in the throes of pain unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Not only did his back feel like it was roasting over Hell's furnace, but his entire body also; his flesh ripped from the bone as it dissolved into ash. There was only pain, pain, searing pain – he could not think, he could not breathe, it was stabbing into him like a million jagged knives –
He screamed.
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TBC…
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A/N: A short chapter, I know. But I've done my homework. Sciencespeak isn't the easiest of dialogue.
I must have discovered a new vein of sadism. Poor Cloud. Heheheh…
And before you ask, the explanation for Cloud's braids (shock horror!) will be in the upcoming chapter. No, it has nothing to do with him being a transvestite, or anything vaguely of that kind.
On a miscellaneous note, Cloud hasn't spoken a single word since the story began. Well, that's to be expected, isn't it?
Now, where are my reviews?
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