Author's Note: *sighs* Blah blah blah, I don't own any of the characters or story but I sure wish I did!!! R&R--it's my first one!
The Final Masterpiece
He didn't know where to begin.
It was an art form almost, and it wasn't easy. He had an instinctive sense for things: give him an array of tools, some Jenova cells, or some Mako, and he could artfully turn any human into a masterpiece. Picking up a tiny glass vial, the scientist held it up to the light with long, delicate fingers. His shadowed eyes stared balefully at the quivering substance inside. Looking at someone, his mind schemed on how to bring out the...monster in him or her or it. Some were easier than others; Sephiroth, the true masterpiece, was the hardest....and the easiest by far that love-struck Turk, Vance or whatever his name was. Yes, the easiest was a masterpiece as well--one claw, inner demon, and tada! a beautiful work of art was born.
But now it was his own turn, and Hojo didn't know where to begin.
His fingers tightened their loving grip on the vial, and he stared hard at it. How to start, how to start...easily the hardest question. The test subject was himself, and he could hardly afford to make a mistake, of course. To start a masterpiece, one must know who their test subject is. He placed the substance carefully back on the table and pulled out a pen from his lab coat pocket, then a notepad. He doodled a little star on it--just for fun, then crossed it out--and wrote his name. Hojo. That was the first thing anyone knew about him, his name. He was Hojo, in all ways, so that must be the place to start.
Hojo was tall and lean, with greasy black hair tied in a slithering snake between his shoulder blades. His back was hunched from leaning over to examine his specimens, and his eyes behind his glasses were stitty from squinting at glowing figures in the dark, from working with his patients. His personality was as greasy as his hair---sly and haughty, cryptic and determined to prove his worth. He smiled at the thought and wrote it down--a poetic bit. He had always had an eye for poetry....but poetry isn't precise, he told himself sternly. Poetry is a messy business, full of cryptic and unsatisfactory ideas that cannot be defined. He always thought that when the longing to pen his thoughts surfaced, just to remind himself of why he chose the life sciences. To steer himself back on course before the courseway shattered into a million pieces.
So he had three things on the page: a crossed out mess, his name, and "personality is as greasy as hair, sly and haughty, cryptic and determined to prove worth." Just notes.
He dug into his lab coat pocket and pulled out a tiny hand-mirror, flipping it open. Seeing himself in the truth-telling surface. He snapped it shut again, not liking what he saw. That is, he couldn't find anything he really didn't like---any faults to use to crack open his own inner heart, to let his inner monster free from the cryptic interior.
He smiled greasily and wrote the word "cryptic" down. It had been his favorite word once before, and the memories it stirred up might be making it his favorite once again. His smile grew, and he crossed out the second half of the word, making it "crypt." He felt like cackling madly but restrained himself, only chuckling a little. All right, he chuckled for a about a minute--but soon stopped. It was too delightful to miss that bubbling burble, to not rejoice in his genius. The Turk and Sephiroth in so short a time! Such a simple soul, that Turk was; so easy to manipulate and still proceed according to plans. The manipulation was purely selfish, as it was not necessary, but who could have foreseen the boy's innocent "crush" on Lucrecia? It was far too much fun. He burbled for another long moment, remembering. Ah, the sweetness of victory and innocence! So refreshing. And the crypt...such genius, that little matter. Innocence certainly worked in his favor, for the poor boy--when he awoke from his disturbing sleep--found the crypt on his own.
The doodle. Hojo. "Personality is as greasy as hair, sly and haughty,
cryptic and determined to prove worth." Cryptic.
That was his beginning. He nearly spat in disgust. What kind of scientist was he, to have no idea where to start? Where was his master plan? His blue-prints? But--hadn't he done fine before without them? Specimen C and Z. Vance or whatever that miserable Turk's name was. Even one or two clones--by then, he'd known the procedures by heart. But never, never on himself.
And that was the main problem.
Author's note: No, this isn't finished....it's in process, but since I'm so eager to get something up I might as well do it now! ^.^