Chapter 48 - Rise of a SOLDIER
August, 1991
"This looks fine," Sephiroth says as he watches his men work through the practice drills.
The sun bakes his shoulders and sweat rolls down the back of his neck. His black shirt is hot but even his simplified army wardrobe is full of impracticalities from Clarence. Still, he stands with his hands in his pockets as the drill sergeant next to him yells the next sequence. The 3rds move in a mechanical slow dance as one executes the exercises and the other blocks before switching.
Sephiroth can see them glancing at him out of the corner of their eyes. Most of their moves are jerky. Without this audience, he's observed them striking with much more confidence. Sometimes they even laugh at each other. Now it is quiet except for the scraping of shoes and tense breathing.
His eyes lose focus as he watches. His shoulders are stiff from the battle yesterday and a cut on his leg is in the process of healing over. Has it only been a few months of this? Has he been gone less than half a year? The questions are dull in him. The answer doesn't even hurt anymore.
Swords beat together. This is cursory. Sephiroth doesn't need to be here but he wants to motivate his troops. Showing up for them makes them show up for themselves. An extra movement snaps him out of his head. The third man on the left almost stumbles. He catches himself quick enough that in a crowd, it wouldn't be noticed.
"Repeat that last sequence," Sephiroth says to the sergeant and he leans his weight forward until he is forced to walk.
If the SOLDIERs weren't nervous before, they are now. Before the drill sergeant can shout the order, half the men turn to watch Sephiroth as he walks behind them. He keeps himself neutral and doesn't train his eyes on the SOLDIER he's worried about. The training field is beaten flat. His shoes are silent as he waves his hand for them to continue.
The sergeant starts yelling. The men drop back into line. The order goes out and Sephiroth pauses by the man.
The third man on the left takes two steps and Sephiroth knows immediately what is wrong. The back of his brain screams out of habit as he draws the sword off his back. He ignores the bloodlust and steps between the pair intercepting the blades. The clang doesn't bring the others to a stop but the two SOLDIERs freeze.
They disengage and jump back more than needed.
The trouble SOLDIER's lips go white at the sight of him. The helmet hides the rest. Sephiroth still feels strange about this. Most likely, this man is his senior but he's afraid of him. They somehow don't see the gangly teen body that is hidden under all these clothes. Perhaps he does have something to thank Clarence for.
Sephiroth allows the magnet to lock his sword back in place. The weapons clatter together around them a few more times before they drop silent.
"You are dancing, not fighting." Sephiroth shifts himself into their attack stance. "If you keep your weight on your heels and try to lift your feet that high, you will fall back or into your enemy's sword. Neither is a good option."
The SOLDIER nods a few times and shakes out his sword arm. Sephiroth waits. He stares at the ground and stiffens as he realizes his mistake.
"Sorry. Yes, sir." He hurries through the words.
"Try it again." He notices everyone is watching them and focuses on the sergeant. "Let's all go again. Count them in, please."
The man has yet to make eye contact with anything other than the dirt as he moves back to his partner.
Sephiroth has been trying to find out who he is as a leader. Every part of him fights being like Dinand but he has to expect the best from his men or else they will die on the battlefield. He draws on everyone else that has ever taught him. Orlin, in this situation, would probably stand in and partner this SOLDIER to make sure the blows feels right. Sephiroth can't be that involved. Mariella would stand back completely remote. Sephiroth can't do that either. Even Professor Gast's compassion from his letters feels wrong on him.
All of them are children in the face of this war.
The shout goes and the SOLDIER pauses for a millisecond before starting in. Sephiroth crosses his arms as the first two steps are a repeat of last time. The combat boots scuff on ground. The SOLDIER pulls it together on the last two. He straightens and his weight falls forward. The steps are neat and solid. The hits from the practice sword sounds stronger.
Sephiroth dies to roll his neck and release the ache. He thought that he knew exhaustion when he was doing high school and PR work. Now adrenaline eats into him after battles and the amount of meetings are absurd. The people in the meetings are even worse. The heat presses against his skin and he feels his connection with his men disappear. He needs to care about them but it's hard when all he sees is eyes wide with fear.
"Good, keep working on that." Sephiroth turns back towards the base before they are done. He starts to rub his face but instead brushes his fingers through his hair. The dampness sticks to the damn gel that they make him use. Appearances and statistics, Shinra pressures into him.
They keep asking for more and more.
Somehow he keeps providing it.
Sephiroth stares emptily out the window of his small room as the video call rings. He waits for Orlin to accept the invitation. The view is not extraordinary. The one window looks out over a stretch cut down forest and the wall they built to protect the base.
Also, a couple miles to the north is Station A. Shinra had the common sense to put miles and miles between Dinand and Sephiroth. His stomach tightens.
Tomorrow, he will be back over that fence. His stocky sword sits by the desk. It's clean, the surface shines but like him, no matter how many times he cleans it, it feels dirty. He sighs and leans back against the chair. He should be thankful for the room. Most are shared with three other people. He gets privacy. He didn't realize what it is like to be watched every moment until he arrived here. At least in Midgar, R&D barely bat an eye at him.
He had hoped for company, not this isolation. Even Thea's dinners with Mariella, no matter how awkward, have a place in his mind.
When the next SOLDIER got promoted to First Class, Sephiroth had hope. Bedivere was friendly towards him after battles and meetings. The other First had a strong aptitude for materia and a clever sense of humor for someone who had come out of Midgar.
It hurt Sephiroth to try to speak personally towards the SOLDIER but he had done it. He performs automatically for anyone who sees him as "First Class Sephiroth". Every word felt wrong. He had trained himself never to talk in the last three months. The First took it in stride. They were similar in age. Bedivere offered to play card games with him late at night. Those evenings they spent playing together were quiet but warm. Something eased in him. It felt like stability. They were going to be fighting together for years.
Bedivere died two battles later.
A spear to the chest.
His open brown eyes covered in dirt, trying to look at the sky.
The First that followed him got a more hesitant greeting from Sephiroth.
He got killed by friendly fire.
Sephiroth can't even remember the face of the one who came after that.
It is only him. It is only going to be him.
It became known as "The Curse of the First".
He was the only one immune to it.
Time has moved on so fast. It spills between his gloves.
Rafi moved to college to get her bachelors in accounting in a city near Midgar. His phone stays lit with an overwhelming amount of memories that she is willing to share, mostly selfies, from the library, her dorm room, even the pool.
Sometimes she sends him packages with books. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that he doesn't have the energy to read them. When she asks about them, Sephiroth skims a summary and sends thoughts back to her. She's not caught on yet. Why would she? She doesn't read outside her math textbooks.
Another part of him clings to her. She's something familiar and grounds the horror that he sees everyday. It's a vicarious dream that he sees when he closes his eyes. Someday the war will be over and he will be able to go to school. He doesn't know what he wants to study. It doesn't matter. He wants to wander the quad in fall with a heavy backpack and a coffee worrying about inconsequential things.
A foolish dream.
He shifts in his chair and straightens. Even sitting is a luxury. He tries to remember who he is now and what he does.
The call connects and he tries to focus on the blurry face.
"There's the kid." The audio has static but even with it, the warmth in Orlin's voice is unmistakable.
Sephiroth finds a smile on his face. "It's good to see you."
He means it. The shock of seeing Orlin tightens his heart and reminds him of life before.
"Yeah. Sounds like you are smashing it out there. Good job."
Sephiroth leans forward. "How are you? How is Midgar?"
"Well. You know. War is tightening everything down but the bars and the stores are still open so I can't complain." Orlin's eyes wander around the room he can see. "Are those flowers?"
Sephiroth checks over his shoulder to see the small bouquet that has been there a few days. "It appears so."
"I didn't think admirers could get mail to you."
"They can't."
A flat package sits wrapped in front of the vase. He hasn't watered the flowers and they still looked vibrant. The building staff must be taking care of them. He wants them to disappear but he doesn't have the heart to throw them out himself.
"How's it going?" Orlin says and Sephiroth realizes that his eyes are still trapped on the gift. He hasn't even touched the note on top. The handwriting looks to be Lazard's or his assistant's. He's never been sure who signs or writes any of the notes. Surely the Director doesn't have time to do it himself.
"Fine," He says after tearing himself away.
"How's combat?"
"Fine."
"Come on, Sephiroth." Orlin's voice is sharp. "Don't do this, I know you better than that."
Sephiroth's finger goes in a circle on the desk out of view. He's the one to set up the video call. He should try to do what he wanted to do on the call.
"After all this fighting, I know I should feel bad but…" He stops himself.
"They would have killed you first," Orlin says firmly.
Sephiroth's smile falters.
Orlin doesn't understand. A seed in Sephiroth has grown into something that is curling around every part of him. Shinra is recognizing him for his work. No one has been able to stand up against him. PR has had a field day with his performance but for once, what they are saying is true and the bodies keep stacking up. He excels at the art of slaughter.
It's like something has woken up in him that he cannot control. A part of him that craves for the blood and the way bodies stiffen in pain on his blade.
Knowing this mixes pride and horror within him.
"I can't count the amount of people I've killed in combat," Sephiroth says the words delicately. He reminds himself to try to be guilty. The feeling tries to lodge in his heart but it can't find purchase in the wall he has built. It disappears.
"Don't worry about it," Orlin says and takes a drink out of a can, "You are part of the club now."
Orlin's texts were on his phone when he came back from his first battle. The words were simple. Everything that he had done was not his fault.
They were supposed to make him feel better. In the pit of his stomach, those words didn't speak true to him. He could blame everything on Shinra. Sephiroth could wrap himself in a blanket of ignorance. He is another cog in Shinra's endless machine. It didn't change how it felt when artillery structures bloomed into fire or when he took another's life into his own hands and snapped it short.
"Maybe it is a shit connection but you look pale. Has Mariella come and seen you recently?"
"No. She's been busy sending us SOLDIERs. I'm fine."
"You've got medical conditions. Is someone looking after you?"
He knows it is true. Last week he noticed he was a lighter shade of pale and a shake has been coming and going from his fingers. He figures it is a consequence for everything.
"R&D has checked in."
Half truth.
They barely touched him. He's pushed them away by never being where they asked him. A First can always find something more important. He thinks of laying on a gurney while scientists he doesn't know apply cold metal to his body and mark down numbers. No. He doesn't need anyone looking too closely. It might break him.
They still keep sending him his next two weeks' of medication after missing his appointments. The pack sits next to his computer. He also has a small tin that he clips into the inside of his pants now at all times. If the camp is attacked, Sephiroth has five days to find his way back to Shinra before his body resumes destroying itself.
Orlin's sigh brings him back. He isn't talking. His eyebrows knit together and he's tapping the desk in a rhythmic pattern. Sephiroth sits still and his eyes skate around the apartment he knows so well behind Orlin. How many times did he fall asleep on that couch? The memory feels like a dream.
"How are your missions?" Sephiroth asks.
"Almost died a few times. Without many other veteran SOLDIERs here, I get all the really dirty work."
"Oh. Can I help?"
"How?"
"I don't know."
"Yeah. Don't worry about it, kid. Staff keep on deserting too, it's a strange time over here."
"Still? With the war actually happening?"
Orlin half laughs. "The Turks have been busy. Some are stupid enough to take paperwork to reporters. I'm almost jealous, you know?"
" For getting away? Do you want to leave Shinra?"
Orlin blows air. "What is a SOLDIER without Shinra? Do you know?"
"You would just be Orlin."
A bitter laugh comes through. "When are you coming back to Midgar?"
"I don't know. They keep changing the schedule." Sephiroth gets an ache in his chest. He can't describe it.
"Come see me next time you are here." The finality in what he says gives no room for discussion. It's unusual and cuts sharp in Sephiroth.
He nods in response.
He can't say how he is feeling. Maybe it is the worry in Orlin's face that blocks it off. He shouldn't burden him with emotions that he won't understand. Outside of fighting, he isn't doing fine so he hides behind noncommittal words. Fighting is eating into everything, leaving bleeding gapes where he used to live.
Usually, he has been able to ignore it.
Their conversation falls into pieces after that. Sephiroth tries to ask questions. Orlin answers them and asks things that have a meaning that Sephiroth can't decode. He can't say what he feels Orlin wants to hear because it would be lying.
Orlin drives into him, the thing that he's afraid that R&D will do. He's squinting at the details that no one in camp sees. They see a SOLDIER and that shields them. For that purpose, he is strong and confident. Orlin watched him grow up. He knows every sign that Sephiroth tries to suppress.
The questions all carve in at the same problem.
He can't stand it.
"I'm so sorry, Orlin. I've got to go. I'll text you later?" He glances at his phone and pushes out of his chair.
"Text me." It sounds like a defeat through the speakers.
"I'm doing fine. Don't worry." The half smile feels fake.
"Yeah and I'm a pile of sh-"
Sephiroth half rises and ends the call.
All the fake urgency to leave disappears. He slumps boneless in the chair. His hands press against his eyes.
He misses everything. How did he miss how good his life was before this?
The screen asks him how his connection was and he looks up at the five empty stars. How can he rate the confusion he feels? Orlin should have been a warm experience. Something that would wake up the dead thing inside of him. Instead, it feels even colder. The screen snaps to black. He sees his own face and everything that Orlin noticed. He struggles to take a breath and gets up.
The flowers wait behind him.
He goes over to the note and flips the paper open with a finger. It says exactly what he expects it to say. Sephiroth nudges it off. The silver wrapping paper is smooth as he runs his hand across it. The size is too distinctive. They even bothered to frame it. His mouth is dry as thinks about opening it. What does it matter anymore? His fingers stop in the middle and press down into the empty space that hangs between the frame and the glass. It starts to rip.
He stops.
He can't.
It feels wrong.
It is trivial in the sea of blood and slaughter.
Who would care about a high school diploma?
He's a different person now. Everything has changed. It cracks him inside.
A foolish faint dream.
This belongs to a different person now.
I just want to say thanks to the guest who wrote the most amazing review. Thank you so much for your thoughtful words. Most of this story's readers comes from AO3. I have considered stopping posting here several times but there is a small number of you that seem to consistently read every week.
Thank you for making the work worth it.