a series of Final Fantasy VII fan fictions
by Sarah the Boring
Final Fantasy, names, characters, et cetera copyright Square Soft, Inc. The story itself is the property of the author.
Three: The Scientist Confederate
As adept as he was at dealing out physical pain, the thought of having the sensation visited upon himself always sent him into shudders of terror. For years he'd avoided it, fleeing the heavy fists of the slum thugs into the sleek halls of Shinra Inc.—his modern monastery, his fortress, his domain. For years, everything and everyone on floor sixty-seven lived and died by his word, and no one, no one, dared cause him harm. They talked, of course, but to him it meant little more than the shrill whining of mosquitoes. He was fond of the metaphor, in fact; mosquitoes tried to drink blood, but could manage to steal no more than pitiful little drops. They could never bring down a creature as big as a man.
...or nearly as big, at any rate...
Someone had retorted that, years ago, one of the few times he'd bothered to explain his private theorem to another person. The arguments that afternoon had been spectacular, his own escalating fury clashing with the other's eternally icy calm. But they fought with logic as well as throwing insults, and as they debated the scientist found his anger turning to a sort of sharp excitement: at last, despite the constant insolence, he could converse with a mind on his own level. The young soldier didn't know the full import of that, of course. He was driven, ambitious, his mind unclouded with earthly concerns; if he'd wished, he could, even at the age of fifteen, throw that oaf Shinra from his position and rule the corporation himself.
The young soldier, most likely, did not think of such plans. The scientist did, though. Even as the boy threatened him, dug into his mind with his comments, he proved his own merit. He was heartless, logical, and without hesitation or regret. And he had a stunning gift for finding the weaknesses of his enemies. He was a boy after the scientist's own heart. Metaphorically speaking.
The young soldier had been the last to really hurt him, though. On that afternoon he dared say what no others would say in his hearing, and by sunset, both of their voices had grown deathly cold. They never spoke after that day; the boy continued on his rise to fame—his fated, meteoric rise—without the advice of his former caretaker.
In terms of his plans, it was a dire misstep. But worse than that, it was a terrible insult...
Until now, the pain of that afternoon, which he'd kept so carefully stifled, was the worst he'd known. Compared to that, the infidelity of woman and the foolishness of man were trifles. Compared to that afternoon, he thought all other pain was insignificant.
Until now.
The lulling calm of unconsciousness shattered, plunging him into a torment far beyond any he'd suffered at the hands of his enemies. The first thing he knew was pain, and the last, and all else between. It tore through what was left of his body, already warped from the influence of the alien cells and beaten to the brink of death. The pain devoured all, leaving no nexus, no center or source to focus on. It was everywhere, in every bone, muscle and fiber of his wrecked being. He tried to twist away from it, but the pain writhed with him; he tried to scream, but it clutched his vocal chords in a stranglehold. Even thought, his last refuge, was stolen and twisted. For a few moments he tried to reason out what was happening, return to some semblance of humanity, but his thoughts were swept away in an overpowering hurricane of almost-thought and an endless, inhuman shriek of agony. Something—the something, the thing whose thoughts had haunted him, unbidden, during the almost dreamless sleep of unconsciousness—something was dying. And it was taking its progeny with it...
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of soundless chaos, the dying cry of the monster faded away. The pain that warped the scientist's body remained, but it was slowly lessening. Over the slow, slow course of what seemed like another eternity, the pain bled away, from infinite to unbearable, unbearable to horrifying, horrifying to intense, and finally, finally, to a low, constant ache. He was able to think, finally, his head clearing, his mind lifting from a red haze. Questions rose, tentatively, as if afraid to find answers: where am I? What is happening? Am I even alive?...
As the pain finally dulled, he lapsed back into unconsciousness. He welcomed the darkness and silence this time, almost wishing it would be the end. At the very edges of consciousness, he felt the ground under him shaking, and the tearing thunder as his world caved in. But drifting in the black water of oblivion, the scientist, who had once held to this place with almost fanatical commitment, could care less about its destruction.
Fragments of thoughts, not his own, trickled through the numb silence: ...out there...you're out there. Alive...
I'm alive... I know you're out there...where? I can't see you... the Meteor failed... but... you're not dead, I can feel it...
And another, whispered under the rest, subconsciously: I need you.
The voices—the voice, he knew it was a single entity—grew stronger, slowly, as time reeled by, outside his consideration. He could care less now what happened; apparently he was in hell already, or in some bizarre waiting room. The scientist had never believed in the modern religious concept of hell, nor in the infinite-renewal beliefs of the Ancients. He had always considered himself too intelligent, too rational for that. Now, in a dazed, dreamlike way, he wished for the nothingness his rational beliefs had promised.
He was almost disgusted by the return of sensation. Pain came first, which was to be expected by this point. Then dizziness, and pressure under what used to be his back, as he was lifted into the air... and finally, after what seemed like years, his leaden eyelids slid open a crack to let in a searing white light. He shut them again, whimpering involuntarily, and the ground smashed into his body again. He rolled over onto his stomach, lurching as waves of nausea racked his newly regained stomach and regurgitated acid splashed onto the broken rock. The once-scientist, now no more than a wreck of a man, heaved over onto his back into cleaner ground and lay gasping in the sulfuric air. The light still stung his eyes, but he squinted up into it. His usually poor eyesight was not helped by the glare.
A tongue-click of distaste flicked somewhere above his head. He shut his eyes again, just as a dark blur swam into his pained sight. The person—if it was a person—prodded him in the ribs with one foot, triggering an explosion of pain. He groaned aloud, raising his arm with considerable effort to clutch at the stabbing ache in his temples.
"It's you," a voice—a real voice—said quietly. "Or what's left of you...it is you, isn't it? No one else could have survived that. Not without..." The voice paused, as if unwilling to speak the name. "Jenova."
The scientist gasped, his eyes snapping open for an instant, flooded with light. He caught a watery, nearsighted glimpse of someone standing over him, someone very tall, with glowing eyes...
At last, gritting his teeth against the complaints from every muscle, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. You were nearly the ruler of the world, you fool, he thought bitterly. Show a little dignity.
"It is you," the voice said, more firmly. There was a rustling sound, and the voice spoke again from his own level. "Hojo. Shinji Hojo, head of the biological research department of the late Shinra."
Hojo coughed wetly. "The late Shinra?" he rasped.
"Yes. It's all gone, as far as I know... except for the turncoat Reeve... some scattered Turks... and you." The voice, so familiar to him now, took on an even more familiar sardonic hue. "You're barely worth saving," the other remarked dryly. "But I need you..."
Yes, that's how it ends. ^_^; These were actually written in the reverse order that they appear here, but I wanted to rearrange them in roughly chronological order. In my opinion they also run backwards in terms of quality—"Logic" is the best, "Scientist" the worst—but that's just me. The last two pieces, "Third Demon" and "Scientist", were auditions for message-board-based RP's that I ended up not participating in; only "Logic" was written as a vignette. It borrowed heavily from the notes for a story I've yet to write, but none are actually part of a larger story.
That's about all I can say. Dull, but these are pretty straightforward. Thanks for reading. :D -StB