A/N: I'm basically overjoyed that people like something that I write...it's insane. All of you really help. I'm glad that you still like it :D
Thanks to: NicotineGum, whatevergirl, kiralover44, Kiri Jyuu, Gismo1, Tiny Koala, Anonymous, CornCob, minoki, Rose on a casket, VampiricRooster, Risikaa, Kyuubi-ismy-homie, Nalie, OvenBased, and KT! It's all of you who have me updating daily.... By the way, if you ever want to know how to drive me insane, it's Hojo's laugh...or giggle. Seriously. Drives me up the wall. It could be used against me as a form of torture. Now you've got some dirt. ;)
"You look like hell," Craven muttered, glancing up from the report he was reading for a brief moment. "Wait over there." He pointed offhandedly to a chair in the corner, his eyes moving back to the document dismissively.
He had little interest in Johns. Quite a dull subject; purely Hojo's territory. The man liked mindless bodyguards as they were much easier to control and manipulate. Craven was disinterested in anything that didn't provide new insight or was not enigmatic. Johns was too easy to read, too predictable. Mind numbingly boring and unstimulating.
Johns grunted irritably, blood caked and dried down the side of his face. His muscled arms were covered in scratches and bruises, his thin shirt was ripped in several spots and just barely hanging off of his overly-broad shoulders.
"Where's Hojo?" Johns asked, his glowing yellow eyes roving the room.
"Busy. Sit. Shut up," Craven answered curtly, his eyes narrowing.
He didn't have the time to listen to the moron go through his list of personal problems. If Hojo thought Johns was worth playing shrink to, that was his choice. Johns was virtually useless as far as Craven could see, and he could just stand there and bleed to death unless Hojo appeared in time.
Johns moved closer, the intensity of his eyes increasing. He squeezed one of his giant fists together. "I'll see him now," Johns demanded, his face twisting quickly with anger.
The man was completely unstable, which Craven found annoying. He had already destroyed a good section of the lab with one of his screaming fits over how much of an asshole the General was and how he, Johns, would be the one to end his life. Hojo had gotten him riled over that one, much to Craven's surprise. Hojo did love to play all sides.
Craven rolled his eyes. "Not now nutcase. He's just the tiniest bit busy. Now, you don't sit down, I'm going to make sure the next time you get an injection you keel the fuck over." Craven smirked from his own words, not even showing Johns enough respect to look him in the eyes. He continued reading his report, not caring if Johns was two seconds away from choking him or not.
"Play nicely, Craven," Hojo said, emerging through the doorway. His eyes went to Johns, flashing with withheld irritation, though he made no other sign of it.
Johns look of fury changed to one of reverence instantaneously. "Doctor Hojo."
It was as though someone had flipped a switch. Johns was suddenly a Godfearing man, though he looked over and openly scowled at Craven once before completely focusing on Hojo.
"Go see to the specimen while Johns gets a treatment," Hojo ordered, handing over a new sheet of documents to his assistant. He gave Johns a short, forced smile, though the man didn't seem to notice that it was more cruel than kind.
Vincent's arm was opened up again, muscles and bone exposed.
Craven snatched a pair of gloves from off of a lab table, pulling them on quickly. He walked slowly toward the unconscious boy, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of the chest, which had bruised considerably since the last time he had seen it. Purples had begun to blot certain areas, blueish and even green in some spots.
The boy was small, weak looking. It was hard for Craven to discern why the General had been so intent on saving him when physically he was not a good candidate for SOLDIER. In fact, the boy looked more like a Turk than anything, being so narrow and lanky.
That meant that there were other reasons. Skill, intelligence, something of the sort. Or he just wants to fuck him, Craven thought wryly. That conclusion was more entertaining than the rest.
He forced the muscles apart more so that he could get a look at the work Hojo had started on the bone structure.
The experiment was entirely new to human testing. It was one of Hojo's ideas for creating super soldiers. Small corporations who were struggling in vain to keep up with Shinra demanded guards with similar attributes to those in SOLDIER. Mako enhancements, gene splicing for psychological and physiological advantages...they were trying it all.
Titanium. Strong, durable. Much better alternative to bone, which was so fragile. Original tests on animal specimens had been conducted much differently than the one that would be performed on the boy. Hojo didn't seem to much mind whether or not this one lived or not, so risks were not something to be concerned over. As for Sephiroth's reaction later...that was something neither scientist gave much thought to.
The point was to discover how well a human body would adapt to the change, and how much improvement would come from the alteration. It would be messy, difficult, and it might not even be all that effective, but given that the arm was already severely damaged anyway, it wouldn't much matter what was done to it.
Hojo had made thicker replicas of the boy's tiny bones, even the smallest pieces in the fingers. The replicas were...special. Besides being chunks of a titanium alloy, they had been enhanced to the point of nearly being biomechanic. The metal would expand upon the presence of growth hormones, meaning that they would continue to mature as the boy did. Ideally, the rate of expansion would be relatively the same to typical bone growth, however, that part was...sketchy at best.
Although the enhanced metal (Hojo referred to it as biotitanium) had been proven to grow, it often was either slower or faster that other parts of the body. Given that they were only using it on the boy's arm, there was a substantial chance that his left arm and right arm would not develop at the same rate or reach the same terminal length.
So far they had only been able to adjust the growth rate to an average that related to the amounts of hormones released. So much growth for so much hormones. Unfortunately because human bodies were wired vastly different from person to person, it caused unforseen problems. Again, it was no matter. What happed, happened. The boy was only the first test subject, after all.
The metal gleamed from under the pink and red of the musculature. Hojo was working on the fingers, having split the skin up each fingertip. He had already begun attaching tendons to the new biotitanium bones, Craven noted.
Biotitanium was by far not all that was in store for the boy.... Craven wasn't entirely sure what it was Hojo was planning to do, but it involved something he called "metamorphosis"....
With Hojo it was difficult to tell.
Hours later, Hojo made his way down the long, desolate hall, carrying a small case in one of his hands. It was filled with various drugs, some so toxic they could kill outright.
He passed room after room, before stopping in front of a small metal door that was electronically locked. There was no window on the door, or any indication as to what was inside; it looked similar to every other along the row.
It opened with a click, the somewhat hunched Hojo hurriedly moving inside through the small opening.
It was white. Beyond white even. It was like staring at the blank canvas of a newborn mind; it was unmarred, untainted. Even with the dim lights the room seemed to be bright and alive. It was the sort of room that could drive a man mad from being so utterly void of anything but blank nothingness.
But the room was not empty.
Sephiroth was strapped heavily onto the mattress, his silver hair trapped beneath him, bangs framing his almost angelic face. He was still in his typical attire, though the buckles of his coat were undone, and there were wires coming from everywhere, leaving his skin and snaking like tentacles over to the machinery that he was connected to.
His head was restrained the most. One strap was directly across his throat, then another across his forehead. If he opened his eyes he would have nothing to see but that stark white ceiling.
"Enjoying the time to think?" Hojo said with a cruel grin.
He had set the kit onto a short white end table, opening the small case which released swirling opaque wisps that had formed due to the cold of its contents. He plucked a vial from one of many, checking the color in the light.
Sephiroth's eyes were thankfully closed. Had they been open, Hojo would never have bothered to close them.
The position was unfortunately not something new. He knew the drug; it had only taken seconds after he awoke---over an hour ago---for him to realize what was occurring.
He couldn't move. He couldn't blink had his eyes been open. He could only lay motionless, awake, alive, but paralyzed. His breathing continued, his heart beat, but otherwise he could do nothing. He was a prisoner of the infamous white room of his childhood, a mind caught inside a body with no escape but in thought.
Trapped.
It wasn't the same room; it had been in an entirely different lab. But Hojo was nostalgic when it came to remembering his favorite ways to break people.
Sephiroth could recall times as a child when Hojo had punished him for reading some of the reports for various experiments or when he had gotten into something that he wasn't allowed to touch.
Days spent staring at the ceiling. Nothing but white. At the worst, Hojo had injected him with mental stimulants that made it nearly impossible to sleep. Then there was but thought; no dreams to provide satiation for his deprived senses, only a very strained imagination, the mind of a boy who knew nothing but of human made environments: labs, operation tables, men in white coats that only caused pain.... Once a panicked little boy trapped looking up at the sterile white ceiling....
He had promised himself he would never be in the room ever again. But he was...as close to it as he could get. And they had taken Vincent.
He couldn't get to Vincent, he couldn't do anything. Hojo would destroy the boy for his own amusement, to test his theories, sadistically enjoying that he was taking something from Sephiroth somehow, doing something that angered him.
But why? What was it about Vincent that had caused the man to risk the already tense working relationship he had established with Sephiroth? Hojo was insane and could have simply done it on a whim or out of annoyance, but more often than not the scientist had a motive. Whether or not it was a legitimate motive was highly subjective.
"This will keep you...docile," Hojo stated.
Sephiroth could feel the needle as it pushed into a vein, but he couldn't so much as open his eyes. The feeling was slow, tingling. It started from his left arm, moving through the little tributaries and toward the center of his body. Warmth, but not a pleasant kind.
He knew it would not be long before he was lost again to the sea of blackness, to the dreamless sleep.... He might not wake for days.
He had to get out.
Vincent's eyes blinked open.
Bright, too white light assaulted his sleep ridden vision, making him squint. He let out a groan from the overwhelming pain, wanting to clutch at his arm, only to realize how weak he was. Just moving even slightly felt like the biggest struggle.
He tried to remember where he was, but could come up with nothing, at least at first. He felt foggy....
He forced his head to the side, trying to see what was going on with his body. Just that movement alone was enough to make him want to cry out in pain, but what he saw made him turn away as quickly as his sluggish reflexes would allow. He stifled a whimper, trying to ignore the acuteness of the sensation, and his own shock.
His arm was torn open, everything exposed. Nearby was a small metal container full of bloody tools. The ends were sticking out, the red substance dripping off of them then down the side of the container where it landed and pooled on the chrome table and onto something else.... Something messy, gory, in a pile right next to the container. It appeared to be whitish, but it was dribbled in red and difficult to tell, as it was partially covered by an old blue rag.
What was happening? Where was he? He tried to remember, tried to grab onto the slightest thought, but everything was so clouded, unclear, for reasons he had yet to firmly understand. It took a few moments for remembrance to dawn.
Quickly and suddenly, it came to him.
He clearly recalled Hojo...that face. Cold eyes behind round glasses. Hojo. He was somewhere with Hojo.
Hojo. The insane scientist fired from Shinra for performing heinous experiments on human test subjects.
The thought made Vincent tense. His arm was cut open...Hojo was doing something to him.
Sephiroth! The helicopter. The rubble, trapped beneath the collapsed roof.... Everything was coming together. He was beginning to pick over what had happened.
Sephiroth had brought him to Hojo.... But why? Why would Sephiroth leave him to Hojo?
Vincent could recall rumors he had heard about the General, about what he did when he left the base.... Many had claimed that he didn't just leave because of missions, but to continue getting treatments from Hojo. Sephiroth was never seen in the labs in Midgar, which is what had prompted the rumors. Vincent hadn't believed it, but it might help explain why he was where he was.
But Hojo? Why? It seemed so unlikely.
Vincent knew the General didn't mean him harm. The man had saved his life, twice now...that is if he lived through whatever was happening. Sephiroth would never do something without reason; that was not the way he worked. But Hojo?
He couldn't doubt Sephiroth. He wouldn't. He was alive, that was proof enough that Sephiroth had done what needed to be done. If he had taken him to Hojo...it would have been as a last resort. It had to be.
He just wished Sephiroth wouldn't have left him alone....
Vincent carefully moved his head to the side, though painfully nonetheless, searching the sterile environment. Lots of tables, most on wheels, then cabinets lining the entire room. One of them was open, revealing more surgical equipment. There was no one in the room at least from the perspective of what limited view he had.
He looked back to his body, which was splayed out on the table haphazardly. Both of his legs were in casts; the sight made him frown. He let out a short breath. Both legs? How long would it take to heal? How would he even manage to get around besides a wheelchair? He didn't even want to think about how far he would be behind if he managed to get out of this place without Hojo killing him first....
With some hesitation, he looked back at his arm. He had to lift his head to see it properly, still having trouble because his black hair was hanging limply over his eyes. He made out a glint though, which made him pause, his breath catching. Was there a tool in his arm still?
He winced and gasped as he lifted his upper body just enough for him to look down at the arm, since lifting it was completely out of the question.
Vincent swallowed. His eyes closed for a moment. The muscle and skin were pried back with some sort of surgical tool to reveal the innermost parts. And what he saw...it wasn't normal.
Why was there metal in his arm? Huge bone-like pieces?
His eyes darted back to the pile by the container he had looked at a minute earlier. He stared at them, his mouth opening slightly. Bones. They were bones. Hojo was replacing the bones?
Vincent could feel the weaker part of himself panic, but he tried to remain calm. Sephiroth would never hurt him. Sephiroth was trying to help him. He would never let Hojo do something that wasn't in his best interest....
There had to be an explanation. It had to have been done for a reason....
He didn't have much time to think on it, as one of the doors to the room he was in slid open with a beep. Vincent instinctively laid back onto the table, trying to quell his agitated nerves and ignore the constant biting pain.
Sephiroth wouldn't allow me to be hurt. He wouldn't.
Hojo approached the table, his look turning to displeasure as he realized the boy had awoken. He roughly grabbed a prepped needle laying on the same tabletop as all of the refuse.
Vincent could tell it was Hojo just by seeing the man in his peripheral vision. He tried not to think about it.
"Awake? How wonderful..." Hojo giggled, the sound depraved, frightening.
Vincent couldn't stop himself from flinching from the malevolence of the noise, the movement inadvertently filling his body with instantaneous pain. He tried not to let out a yelp, instead releasing a very shaky breath.
"I'm afraid now is not the time though. You need to sleep." Hojo smiled wickedly, shoving the needle into Vincent's arm, his grip above the boy's elbow far tighter than necessary.
Vincent hadn't expected the needle and lightly yanked his arm in protest, though Hojo's grip did not falter in the least.
"Where's Sephiroth?" Vincent managed, knowing he didn't have much time to ask questions. He didn't even know if Hojo would answer him.
Hojo withdrew the needle, then tossed it offhandedly into a wastebasket. "No need to worry about him," Hojo said, still grinning in that unsettling way that made Vincent not only suspicious, but extremely uncomfortable. It was the smile of someone who had long ago lost their grip on reality....
The door beeped again. A man walked in much more slowly than Hojo had, leaning against a table lazily. Vincent could feel the man's eyes on him after a few seconds, staring intently.
He had strange white hair (it was too white to be called blonde, and even lighter than 'platinum') that stuck up in places, and partially concealed his extremely light blue eyes. Even though his hair was so pure in shade, like untouched snow, it seemed to be unwashed, greasy even.
The first thing that came to Vincent's mind oddly enough, was 'tainted innocence'.
He could feel the sedative taking effect, his eyelids becoming even heavier, his muscles starting to slacken from the tenseness Hojo had brought to them. He allowed his eyes to close almost all the way, but kept them open just enough to see what was going on. He couldn't sleep yet...they were up to something.
"Did you get it?" Hojo asked shortly, his eyes on Vincent, though he was speaking to his assistant.
Craven lifted three hermetically sealed tubes that were propped on a small wire rack. He dangled the rack from his fingertips for a good measure, just to be an ass, then placed them on the table none too gently.
Vincent moved his head enough to look at what the man had put on the table. Whatever was in the tubes...if it was something that belonged to Hojo, it couldn't be good.
He could feel his awareness completely slipping away, and was barely able to hear Hojo's last words...
"Get everything prepped. We start now."