Copyrights: FFIX isn't mine; a bunch of this fic is, characters, plotline and much of the fake science included. I don't put any claim on zombie folklore or the like, either.

Obligatory shounen-ai warning. Patience rewards those who are under its wing. If you don't think it's nice, don't read or say anything - what was that about 'if you can't say something nice, don't say nothin' at all'? Didn't Bambi teach us a good lesson there?

July 09, 2003: Update update. Better answer some questions, huh (or the one question that my reviewers have all been wording so uniquely :3)? Before I do, I just want to point out: Yes, I do take several liberties with the information presented in the game, and present several ties between certain things that probably did not exist, really, in FFIX itself. Little of it, however, becomes very implicated in the story.

Also, pardon my awfulscience. I realise it's impossible for any of this to happen, but what can I do? It's fantasy, dears. :3 Also, for those of you who are up in arms about whether Kuja's scars will heal... not yet. It's only been a little while since he arrived at Asper's and got the stitches in - don't expect any immediate, magical poof of 'my skin is better'. If you don't like the fact that his skin isn't being magically replaced with a wave of the hands (at least, not for the first bunch of chapters), you don't have to read the story, you know.

---

The cavernous area, unlike the polished corridors and apartments of the genome-and-otherwise, was neither hollowed from a root, nor rendered shiny. The floors were hardened wood, scattered with gravel and paved here and there with slate slabs - presumably where holes and empty areas had once been. The walls were quite obviously natural, as long demi-cylinders ran up and down along them, crossing here and there to eventually make walls of patchwork roots. The lighting was dim and cold, casting a pale greenness over the high-ceilinged chamber, and, under the mute hustle-bustle of the undead workers, drips of humidity could be heard from every corner. Kuja looked up; like the walls, the ceiling was composed of a root mosaic, many tendrils of which began in the walls. In several places, everywhere in the room, little shoots protruded from the roots, curling out and around like the shoots of pea plants. On many of them, tools were hung. A creature or two were scaling the walls, pruning shoots that might get in the way. Many undead creatures, all of varying sizes and shapes but virtually identical in demeanor and skin tone, milled around the room, checking experiments, ticking off items on lists, pouring ingredients from one container to another.

The room was huge, and Kuja could have sworn that if gravity did not matter, there would be tables covering the walls and ceiling as well as the floor. It did not matter that many of the tables had seen their old age already and were teetering away their ancient years; several of them were propped up with what Kuja thought must have once been table legs, years ago. Though the tables were old, and the zombies doing their work were probably old, as well, all present were well-dressed and groomed, as opposed to the zombie archetype that lumbered around, missing a limb and wearing rags. They probably smelled less like rotting flesh than he remembered they should have, too. As Asper led him through the confusion of experiment tables, equipment shelves, stock-still work devotees and other surfaces, he could not help but admire the cleanliness of the entire place, for despite the archaic appearance of the zombies, the furniture, and much of the equipment in use, there was no dust, mud, slime, or anything else expected of a necromancer's laboratory. There was nothing, however, that particularly sparked Kuja's interest as of yet - then again, the lighting was dim enough that he couldn't see very much of what went on around him.

The moogle necromancer led, and Kuja followed. It smells of chlorine and disinfectant here. Asper was obviously unbelievably, heartbreakingly rich; to afford such precious delicacies of hygiene as chlorine to clean water, and disinfectant to burn the bacteria away, one required piles of money. He wondered how much it cost to clean this entire room once.

"This way," whispered the moogle, his voice quavering with anticipation and glee. He's almost shaking. Obviously, whatever this 'experiment' it was that Asper was showing him, it was something important. To him, at least. It's a body on a gurney and he's going to show me how he puts the organs into formeldahyde...

The disgusted Kuja was lightly pushed through a gap in the roots, into a more brightly lit chamber. Its contents was breathtaking - nothing less than striking.

Huge glass tanks, full of glowing green liquid - condensed Mist, concluded Kuja - lined the walls of the large circular room. The room was no less than half the size of the previous one, but it was much less crammed full. Only about three zombies moved around this chamber, clothed in long coats and carrying clip-boards. Unlike the others, however, they looked up at their master and his guest, exchanged glances between themselves, shrugged and returned to their work, checking the various tanks that were mounted on metal platforms, switching their clipboards for others that were sitting at the one table in the middle of the room, or sharpening pencils.

"Most of them are just tentative experiments, or ones that have failed. Of all the attempts, only two have really pulled through, though I have yet to assess the final results..." Asper flapped over to the central table, checked a few of the clipboards, and chatted a bit with the scientist-zombies, who had clustered around him and were now talking animatedly. Kuja was left to wander the room.

The tanks all appeared fairly uniform, the cylindrical glass tanks each being about nine feet high and at least three feet across - probably more. Each one held different contents; one notable tank contained a chocobo, folded up foetally, and looking rather... well, bald. A bald chocobo, floating in the green fluid, attached to what must have been tens of tubes - nutrients, oxygen supply, and others, he supposed. Kuja was somewhat amused, and let the smile creep across his face even as the pity flooded his heart - this poor creature might never see the light of day, perhaps being one of those 'failed experiments' the moogle necromancer seemed so bitter about. The chocobo was a young adult, from the look of it, though all the information he needed or wanted was scribbled on a clipboard that hung on the metal platform supporting the tank. He picked it up and leafed through the pages - it consisted mainly of daily status reports involving the chocobo. The back of the clipboard was what interested him, though, and he stared at the basic profile, interested. Its name was... Whied, apparently. Good name, Kuja snickered mentally, checking the rest of the statistics. Black chocobo. Doesn't look it... then again, no feathers.

He hung the clipboard back up, and stared back at the discussing quartet - the zombies were showing Asper clipboards, talking about 'developments' the experiments had made, and the moogle was accepting the facts with open arms... rather, ears. Kuja took this as an opportunity to inspect the next tank, which contained a dark blur of hair that had caught his eye. (Then again, anything in a glowing green tank would catch his eye. This one was just closer than the others.)

He walked over, took the clipboard that hung on the platform, read the name. Sariyah Nauphel. Better name, thought Kuja, surveying the information. Male. That information was basic.

But the rest...

It puzzled him somewhat.

Race: Summoner. Age: Unknown.

One thing: Summoner - they were gone, most of them, save two. The two he had once fought... the canary, and the horned girl with the moogle. He stared at the clipboard without acknowledging it, brought into a frame of mind that switched him from reality to memory; they were few - he had not known the two girls very well, but he had seen them in battle and in situations outside of the fight.

The other thing: This boy's age... it seemed somewhat obvious, from his appearance. They could have estimated.

"You like?" The squeaky voice of a moogle necromancer said, from behind his left ear.

Kuja looked up at the boy in the tank, and guessed that he had been in there for a great portion of his life - he was insufferably thin, and against the milky green of the Mist he was a pallette of monochrome. Black hair, probably very long, sat tied at the base of his skull; white skin, pale as a crash of Holy, seemed very green in the light of the glowing fluid around him. His huge eyes were closed; a large portion of his face was covered with an air mask that, on a regular interval, would shoot out a few bubbles to indicate the boy was breathing. His forehead was... there was a tiny, worn bump of a horn, less than a quarter of its former spiraling glory, eaten away by decay and by the strange fluid about him. The genome's heart was given a flash of white-hot pity when he noted that, like the chocobo, the boy had been stabbed in several places to allow a great multitude of tubes and wires to penetrate his skin. Unlike the chocobo, however, his skin was covered in them, until he seemed little more than... well, than a mass of tubes, an experiment in a tank. Kuja reached up to touch the glass of the tank; it was cold against his fingers, and when he pulled them away several drips of condensation dropped to the metal base of the tank.

Mortification swept over him. How? Why? Questions ran through his head like chocobos on a racetrack. Awe and fascination came in waves, as well - he extended an arm to lean against the tank, touching his right temple to think - these creatures, robbed of life, taken from the grave to be jolted into a now-unfamiliar world. They would have no soul. It was like... like they were being bred. A wave of sickness washed him.

Another memory touched his mind, of weapons in the form of creatures. He had said the same thing about his own - that they were soulless, that they would not feel the suffering. But this was different... he swore to himself, it had to be different. This was a human. Neither was originally meant to be treated as this, and now this summoner, this beautiful hornless summoner that he had seen so joyful in a painting, and his chocobo, who was ironically featherless and would remain so for a long time, were being bred in tanks, as experiments.

It hadn't seemed like such an abomination with the black mages.

That thought struck him like a headbutt in the chest. He suddenly felt confused, hot in the face; a thousand needles of searing realization jabbed into his head at once. He would have dropped to his knees, or cried out, but Asper's wings flapping next to his ear made him consider otherwise.

"This one's name is Sariyah," Asper added. Kuja already knew, but he shrugged it off. Asper pronounced the name too nasally, the letters, consonant and vowel sounds alike, being pronounced hard. 'Sariyah' was a soft name - Kuja hoped not everyone pronounced it that disgusting undialectic way. It dirtied a name that was otherwise quite pretty, he thought.

With the little moogle bobbing ever-so-enthusiastically at his shoulder, Kuja meandered his way back to the central table. Leaning against it, that tired confusion aching in his skull again, he said, "I'm going to take care of him, then?"

"Yes. It's a delicate process, but you'll get used to it, I'm sure. Just give us an hour or so - the assistants are preparing him for withdrawal now." Asper grinned, and phlomped down on the table next to Kuja, his kelly-toned wings going slack behind him, his face glowing as though he were a child on his first chocobo ride. "Ooo, I can't wait! Finally of finallies - maybe we'll have little Whied out in the next couple of weeks..."

As Asper rambled to himself, Kuja tuned out, his main focus returning to the tank containing his still-sleeping charge. The three assistants were milling around it, now; one had pulled away a metal panel in the base with a clink, and was now pulling levers as one of the other zombies read off scientific names from a clipboard.

"Trytophan, off. Manganese, off. Biotin, off. Cobalamin, off. Retinol, off..."

Slowly, one by one, she read off a short list of these names, names that did not register in Kuja's head, and the assistant on the floor pulled a lever with each word.

"Cutting him off his essential nutrients," the squeaky voice next to him noted, having perceived his new nanny's interest in the proceedings. "That way, when we take him out of there, he'll have to adapt to his surroundings."

The third zombie assistant was taking notes on the other side of the metal base, presumably from some information source provided there. "Status checks," Asper said, voice shaking with anticipation. "We're noting how he adapts to having his environment changed."

Now the two assistants on one side replaced the metal plating and moved to another sectioned-off area of the base. The same procedure was followed, the same assistant knelt to pull similar levers as before, and the standing assistant changed pages. "Increase environmental temperature by four degrees." Every minute or so they would do this, the third assistant taking notes diligently, until finally, having increased the temperature several times - again, nothing of a quantitative sort was registering to the genome - she appeared satisfied and signaled a halt.

"More environmental adaptation," Asper whispered, as though Kuja had no idea. Still, the silver-haired man nodded, his head feeling heavy. Right now, he felt more like a rag doll than he had before. The moogle seemed to notice his exhaustion.

"Tired much? You've only been up a few hours..."

"Four, to be more precise," muttered Kuja, kneading a temple. "Look, if all this is going to take an hour, I'm going to go have a rest. Please call me just before he's..." he looked back at the tank briefly, a flash of pity drowning his eyes and ears, "...he's removed." The word was emphasized with a distinct and bitter taste of contempt. He stepped toward the door, not even really aware of where to go.

Asper was too intent on the tank and the boy inside to care or seem to notice. "I'll have... one of the helpers... get you some help, mm?" His little wings flapped every once in a while. Kuja rolled his eyes, quite sure that, any time now, Asper would begin having heart palpitations.

"Yeah, whatever," he mumbled, heart siezed painfully, as the statistics-reciting zombie hurried to find him a guide.

---

There were no words for how he felt when he climbed under the warm covers of his (for it was his, now) bed. He felt like crying, screaming - no, caterwauling as loudly as his lungs would permit - curling up and dying. His heart was being eaten away slowly by the acid of his blood, acid that had been created with his cruelty, so long ago. Confusion flooded him, sweeping over him in thick waves. How? Why? The questions burned behind his eyes, forcing a stinging tear out of each. The salted water stung a little on his still-new scars, and he rolled into a pillow to soak them away.

He shut his eyes, sealing them tight against any further move of his emotions against him. Sleep. He needed sleep. He began drifting with his desire, letting his breaths carry awakeness with them.

A beautiful, reassuring voice, rendered beautiful by its words, in the side of his brain joined in chorus with his somnal mind-chant. Sleep. You sleep. Sleep now. It was compassionate and gentle, accompanied by a lovely light, a familiar green light that made him smile, even through the sewn lesions. The light soothed everything that burned, warmed every frozen inch of his chest. His breathing slowed; the voice repeated to him the simple words, over and over again, sleep; you sleep; sleep now. It wove around him as a spell might, starting at the core of his chest and sprouting out, up and down like vines, warm and cool, relaxing his pains both emotional and physical. His head nodded on the pillow; he pulled the blanket closer about him.

The voice brushed over him like soft fingertips, cooing tenderly in a childlike manner - the words were almost sing-song, words without speech. Kuja imagined his mind was giving the words a voice that would fit them, one that was perfect to their cadence and pronunciation. He could not describe it. Reaching toward the light with mental fingers, he drew it close, held it to his heart, where it warmed him indescribably.

My heart, he thought, touching it almost imperceptibly, wonderment and joy flooding into the very beat of breath in his lungs. My soul

This was himself. It had to be the depths of himself, a soul in a body not always meant to carry one - he held in his arm something with which he had, for so long, lost all touch.

The globe of light pulsed dimly, fading a few shades of brightness, sighing to him hopelessly. My heart, it echoed, sweet and tender and frightened. You sleep - now, my heart. Sleep.

There was an almost desperate tone in its 'voice'.

The genome nodded a little, clutching it close, as though to beg it not to leave him. It flickered again, a flame threatening to extinguish itself, a child giving up. You are everything to me. None may have you, save myself. You are mine and only mine - something I dare not say about anything else. You are unique to me. My own spirit.

It shivered again, dimming, clinging to Kuja, its last hope to burning brightly. I dare not... it whispered, failing to retain strength, failing to finish a phrase it had begun. It blinked out for a long moment, fear and desperation and sadness pricking its nonexistent speech. He clung to it with equal desperation. You must... must be mine. Do not leave me - stay. Here.

I dare not leave, it said gently, finding the words, its voice dimming in volume as it flickered. I dare not stay. Sleep.

It jumped, flashing brightly, almost to return to its former light - and suddenly his dream-world was void.

finit: cinquième chapitre