IX. It is the scent of burnt flesh, sweet and bountiful. I would breathe it—
Bathed in the sickly green glow of the computer screen, Sephiroth read each precious little bit of information with undeniable hunger. Here, at last, was someone like him, tortured in the chambers deep inside the Shinra building, torn into pieces for being something special. And she had succeeded where he had failed: she escaped. The girl that had bewitched him was no Wutain spy. She was not—like he, he suspected, had suspected for a long time—even human. She was Cetra, Ancient, the last of a dead, alien breed. A race of beautiful, otherwordly beings who maintained a special connection to the Planet, and wielded magical powers that others could only dream about, and returned to the Lifestream not to be reborn but to ascend to a Promised Land only for them.
Sephiroth's mind raced, outpacing his normal cynicism and common sense. Could it be only chance, the sameness of their eyes? Perhaps they were the same, the Adam and Eve of a race mercilessly exterminated by brutish humans. That distant echo, that scratching at his mind sometimes late at night could be the Planet; his occasional nightmares visions sent from long-dead ancestors. He had never cared for companionship much, but with another of his kind by his side, things would be different. She already knew the torture of life in the laboratories; that alone made her more similar to him than most people.
It may be too good to be true, he reminded himself, though his mind was already awash in possibilities. Who knows what Hojo creates here?
AN-002AG—no, Aeris, that was her name, he would never use specimen names, having had one himself—would have answers, answers to questions he'd never even thought to ask. She had said she would, with a soft hopeful voice and eyes that couldn't be hidden even with a mask.
The reasons behind her strange behavior now were clear, as were the strange images she had shared with him. She recognized him, just as he recognized her. She wanted him to find these files, read about her and the horrors she had suffered here. She wanted him to find her. But for what purpose? Would sheer loneliness send her straight into the lion's den that Shinra assuredly was for her?
Perhaps she wanted to twist him to suit some hidden purpose. His lip curled. He didn't like being used, part of his dissatisfaction with Shinra of late stemming from that very feeling. He wanted to doubt that a Cetra, a higher being, would be capable of the human trait of manipulation.
Sephiroth ran his eyes over the photos again, stared with interest at the final photo of the girl selling flowers. Flowers in Midgar—only a Cetra would be able to charm plants out of that polluted ground. He printed the photo, ostensibly to use when he descended into the slums to search for her but truly because it was a piece of her, a little shred of her soul captured on glossy paper and it made him feel good to have it in his hand.
He logged off the computer and made his way out of the labs, suppressing a shudder as he passed the empty glass specimen cages. He was silent for the entire elevator ride up to his room, careful to keep the photo hidden in his pocket. The Cetra's face was in his mind now, and even as some of his thoughts laid out his search plan for the next day, others simply thought about her.
The crux of it all: he couldn't explain the push and pull he felt when thinking about her. One part, hungry, was attracted to her and the knowledge she surely possessed with an almost violent intensity; the other, repulsed by her, her abundance of emotion, her human stain. Sick. With an undercurrent of…concern? If she had the power to force visions into his mind from mere skin contact, then yes, she was a source of concern as well. Physically she would be no threat to him, but as the report said, her spiritual energy at least rivaled his.
Nonetheless, she had answers. And he, Sephiroth, would get them. What happened afterwards would be up to the both of them.
