Supersoldiers aren't born—they're made. Even Sephiroth was made, not through mere genetic manipulation, but through suffering and sickness and pain.

Cloud, tiny and trapped, is no exception. He is not made. He is being made. And as he lays on the cot, shivering and sweating through the throes of a mako fever, he wishes dearly that he was instead being unmade.

His throat is still raw from the time he spent screaming in the tank. His hands are raw too, nails torn and rapidly healing from where he'd tried to claw his way out in a panic, sent hurtling back into fragmented memories of a past that no longer would be. There was no Zack to save him this time, when he searched desperately for his friend. Instead of a head of black hair trapped next to him, he found...silver hair.

The sight of Sephiroth, as young and slender as a willow shoot, floating in the tank adjacent had only made things worse in his chaotic mind. Sephiroth was following the enhancement trajectory Hojo had established, which meant they both still took periodic dips in the enhancement mako formula. Cloud fought with everything he had to keep out of the tank, always.

Cloud lost. Always.

And now he's shaking through another miserable mako fever. Maybe that would be okay, under other circumstances. He's done it before. Maybe it would be okay if he was alone to endure it. But he's not.

Sephiroth draws his fingers through Cloud's hair in slow, comforting strokes, humming with a vague kind of amusement. He pulls away on occasion to retrieve a damp rag and wipe away the mako-contaminated sweat that accumulates on Cloud's skin. At times he wipes his own skin down as well, but he never seems to feel the aftereffects of the tank the way Cloud does. Maybe he's too much of a monster to feel pain anymore. Or maybe Cloud's memories are as much to blame for his misery as the mako is.

"Shh," Sephiroth soothes, pressing the tips of his fingers into Cloud's temples and making slow circles until the throbbing pain ebbs away. Sweet, cloying darkness seeps into his mind, numbing away the rest. "You think too much, my Cloud. Stop fighting. Let yourself be cared for. Is that really so terrible?"

Yes. Terrible doesn't begin to describe it, this trap Sephiroth has set up. He cannot win. His very emotions have been poisoned, turned against him. The part of him that had been a little child, so trusting and unburdened, wants nothing more than to crawl into the lap of the only comfort he'd ever known. Even now he can feel the pull, deep in his gut, to beg for his enemy's embrace.

Cloud won't beg. For as long as he can manage it, he won't beg.

Sephiroth hums, amused again. "It is hardly begging to simply lay still and be," he says. Then he cheats, picking up Cloud's shivering form and settling down on the cot so that they're curled together.

Cloud's stomach turns violently. In feverish weakness, he squirms closer and breathes out a shaky, relieved exhale. His eyes begin to burn with loathing—for himself, mostly, because that is the safest target.

"Silly boy," his mortal enemy croons into his sweaty hair. "You were always mine, even when you did not know it. And now, I am simply taking care of what belongs to me. You need only accept it."

Never, he swears, knowing full well that Sephiroth can hear it—and thinks it amusing. Cloud will never accept care. Not anymore. Not from anyone. The days and the people that it once would have been safe to accept such things from are long gone. He may be forced to endure it, but he will never accept it.

Sephiroth just chuckles lowly and presses a deceptively tender kiss to the top of his head. We will see how long that resolve holds, now won't we my Cloud?

Supersoldiers are not gods. Whatever Cloud has become now, whatever inhuman thing Sephiroth molded him into, he is not a god. He has weaknesses. He sustains injuries. He can be poisoned. He falls ill.

Even a SOLDIER can fall ill.

The bug hit hard and fast—it will pass in the same way. Sephiroth is out today, which is his only meager blessing. Cloud drags himself into the corner of a distant storage tent, curling up to sweat out his fever in between two crates of vehicle parts. He shivers, keeping his thin blanket around his shoulders despite the fact that he wants nothing more than to throw it off and strip down to his boxers. This disease sits in his blood. His body needs the heat to kill it quickly.

His awareness ebbs and flows. The tent is quiet, except for his shallow, uneven breaths. The sounds of the native Wutai wildlife filter in from one side, and the distant sounds of the men in the camp from the other. He lets himself drift. Enjoys it, even, as the fever and the virus in him summon up hallucinatory impressions of his lost family.

Tifa, and the kids. AVALANCHE in the church. Aerith, with her hands clasped.

Zack, kneeling in front of him, expression frantic with concern. "Cloud? Cloud?"

"Cloud?"

His tongue feels swollen and dry in his mouth. A haze lingers over his eyes. Nothing feels real. "Is there…room for me, yet? I think I'd…like to go now." He laughs a little at his joke.

"Cloud?" The fingers that touch his jaw feel like ice, yanking him back down to reality in an instant. He blinks, sucking in a startled breath as adrenaline floods his body.

The specter of Zack shifts into someone who Cloud has so often thought could have been his brother.

"…'ngeal," he rasps with sudden clarity. He glances up. He's still in the tent where he hid himself. What is Angeal doing there?

"Hey," Angeal says with obvious relief. "Hey, little man. You with me?" He shifts his hand to rest it against Cloud's forehead. Despite himself, Cloud leans into the touch, shivering.

"You're burning up," the SOLDIER whispers. "What are you doing out here? You should be in medical."

No. Cloud forces himself to pull away, shaking his head. It makes him dizzy. "You…need to go," he says thickly. The fever is at its height, or at least he's pretty sure this will be the peak. It's difficult to think.

Angeal makes a little disbelieving sound in the back of his throat, almost like a laugh. "You—" He stops. Cloud gets distracted when he swears he can hear Tifa humming nearby. "Okay. Yeah. Let's go, kid."

Something's wrong with that statement, but Cloud's fevered mind can't work fast enough to figure it out. Not before Angeal has tucked the blanket in around him and plucked him up off the floor. They're even outside the tent entirely before he manages to protest.

"W-wait, no —" he starts, slurring his words a little. The movement of Angeal's steps make his already-heavy head feel impossible to hold up. It falls to the side, against the SOLDIER's neck.

"Shh," Angeal soothes, striding quickly and purposefully.

"Put me...back…" He loses his grasp on reality. Are they on the airship? Headed to...Sephiroth? Something with Sephiroth. Always Sephiroth.

"Shh, Cloud. Just rest."

He doesn't have much of a choice in the matter. When he returns to his senses, he's on a cot and Angeal is stripping his sweat-soaked shirt off. He grumbles in discontent at the movement and the chill and the fever heat. He just wants to be still and let the damn disease work its way through him.

"Shh, you're alright."

Oh. That's Genesis, not Angeal. Why is Genesis there? Hadn't...Angeal...?

Then, from his other side: "It's okay, Cloud, we've got you."

There he is. That's...not good? Something in Cloud's gut says that isn't good. He doesn't know why. He doesn't have enough spare energy to figure it out.

They get him out of his soaked clothes. He shivers in the open air, simultaneously grateful for the coolness and desperately wishing he could burrow under a good, thick blanket. Damp cloths run over his skin, one on each side, as the SOLDIERs wipe the fever sweat from his body. It's so strange. Sephiroth was always the one looking after him, until recently. These two…

Oh. No.

He forces his eyes open. "You've'to...go," he manages, turning his head enough to look at Angeal. "Stop...caring…"

Angeal looks like someone slapped him. Good. Maybe he'll finally get the hell out of the blast radius of Sephiroth's insanity. Cloud isn't going to die from a fever, and certainly not from a little discomfort. But Angeal might die if he falls for Sephiroth's trap too. They're already too close, paying too much attention, caring too much. He needs to make them leave.

But of course, it's not that easy. Angeal takes a deep, bracing breath, shutting his eyes for a minute, before he looks down at Cloud again and smiles. "You're talkin' nonsense, little man," he says, putting his palm on Cloud's forehead for a moment before he brushes the damp, unruly spikes away from his eyes. "Just go to sleep. Everything will be better when you wake up, huh?"

He shakes his head. "Don't," he insists, fading fast. "Don't. Not...safe…"

"We'll be fine," Angeal says, echoed by an agreeing murmur from Genesis. "You just rest." They both go back to their work of cleaning him up.

"It's…" He never manages to finish that statement. His eyes shut. He succumbs to a fevered sleep as they dress him in fresh sleeping clothes.

The prowling darkness in his head yanks him back to consciousness some time later. The fever lingers, still high, but it's not as bad as before. "Of course, Sir," he hears Angeal say coldly, "I wouldn't have to if you took better care of your apprentice!"

He knows in an instant what's happening, and why Sephiroth woke him. NO! No, Angeal, no! He struggles to pry his eyes open and sit up. The effort wrings a pathetic noise from his throat, and that summons Angeal to his side instantly.

"Hey, hey, slow down," he says, a black-and-tan blur, and pushes Cloud to lay back again.

"D —" Don't, don't, don't! His tongue and throat feel so dry that he chokes on his words. It's too late anyway.

"Of course, you're right, Hewley," Sephiroth says smoothly, slyly. He feels pleased in the back of Cloud's head. The bait is on the hook. "I should take better care of him. I will simply have to find more time to devote to Cloud."

That's a threat, but it's a known one. That's not what Cloud is mentally screaming at Angeal to avoid. What comes next is: "But, of course...I would so appreciate some help, if you're willing to offer it."

Cloud finds the strength to seize Angeal's wrist and shake his head. It makes him dizzy enough that he's forced to close his eyes as his stomach churns. Don't, don't, don't, Angeal it's a trap, I'm not worth it —!

Angeal removes Cloud's hand from his wrist, cradling it between both his own like it's something precious. Cloud knows instantly that he's lost.

"Of course," Angeal says, the cold tone he'd aimed at Sephiroth replaced by a gentle kind of determination. "Of course I'll help."

Sephiroth radiates smug success like a nauseating black miasma. Defeated, Cloud turns his head to the side until his face is half hidden against the pillow. Angeal runs his fingers soothingly through his hair.

Hook, line...sinker.