Terra Incognita

by Thyme In Her Eyes

Seven days after Sephiroth summons Meteor, Hojo reflects.

Terra Incognita

by Thyme In Her Eyes

Author's Notes: University a slow writer makes. I've been dying to write something for ages and then this popped into my head. So it had to be done. This is my first attempt at a Hojo-fic...let's see how I do, shall we? Helpful information – this is set during the second time the party is in Junon (sans Cloud), after the incident at the Northern Crater, just before the Emerald WEAPON attacks. I was just wondering what Hojo might've done during this time. So that's the setting. And of course I own nothing. As you all know, feedback is my opium so feel free to throw all sorts of (helpful) comments my way.

-- TERRA INCOGNITA --

There is nothing so delicate, so fragile, as that invisible balance upon which the mind is always trembling. Mad to-day and sane to-morrow… Who has not been, or is not to be, mad in some lonely hour of life? Who is quite safe from the trembling of the balance? – Mary Elizabeth Braddon, Lady Audley's Secret.

One easily divorces what was never united – the riddle of us two together. – Anon, Wulf and Eadwacer.

-

So here I am, he thought.

Red was everywhere; blazing and blinding. The world was red that morning. The sun was hanging low, the sea was deceptively calm and the city of Junon was buzzing. He stood perfectly still, alone and watching; a small, thin thorn of a man in the distance, dressed in sterile white. Professor Hojo, Shinra's very own mass of complexes, was the only human in Junon who appeared to be perfectly calm and in control, completely unaffected by the events whirling around him, as always.

But appearances were deceiving. To anyone watching, he must have looked as calm and untroubled as the Junon Sea, never guessing that beneath both serene, harmless surfaces, powerful monsters were thriving. It was all a mask, a cunning disguise. It hid the truth, wrapped it up tightly in the thick folds of deception. He was living deceit. Yes, he was calm – but not unaffected. In fact, the significance of everything that had happened in the past week had touched something fragile and dangerous lodged deep inside him, and set it off. There wasn't a fragment of his mind that hadn't been shaken.

Not by Shinra's scurrying and plans and counter-attacks, of course. None of that interested him. Only Sephiroth. Sephiroth dwelling in the Crater; half-dead, half-god. Sephiroth, Meteor, WEAPON…how could he not be affected? Next to these things, Shinra's ideas and hopes of self-preservation were dust, only far less complex in structure. They were as close to nothing that they may as well be precisely that.

It was blindness, really. That was his opinion. Ignorance on their parts, if they couldn't see that something inside him had changed, was beginning to laugh and rage out of all control. Anyone with an ounce of sense could already tell that he was a man of secrets, a man whose secrets had a writhing, stinking intelligence of their own – behind his cold demeanour, his brain a fever of them, all crawling, rotting and eating, and there was always plenty of room for more. They grew in his mind, like snakes, as though his thoughts hissed and spat on his scalp.

But his mood was a happy one, or at least as close to happiness as he was capable of. Elation, perhaps. Even joy. He'd felt this way ever since the incident in the Northern Crater, when his theories were proven, and his wildest expectations were exceeded. Scientifically, it was so perfect it was almost a thing of beauty.

But the others, knowing better, knew nothing. They all underestimated him. After all, he was just an aging, half-mad scientist well outside of his sphere of control. They had more important things to worry about, crucial things. More fool them.

Junon was breathing with their hasty foolishness. Plans were underway. Anyone could tell. The city was like a huge ant colony; precariously and fiercely alive and crawling with activity. During the past week, whispers, rumours and panic spread like a disease. The Shinra Army was gathering its forces for a full-scale attack on WEAPON and the day was about to begin with the execution of the ringleaders of Avalanche, a feeble move. How typical of Shinra, for their vision to be so small, so narrow. Whether or not those rebels lived or died made no difference to anything.

All for the people, the President would say. All to regain the trust about the people. Hojo was full of scorn. So what? What about the people and their simple-minded trust? What did it matter? Such a waste of concern, a waste of resources. As if the people were important. They were just numbers. Statistics. Bodies. Flawed beings. Imperfect. Of no scientific value whatsoever. Unsuitable for preservation. What did it matter what they thought? Typical of Shinra, to see so little, to only see as far as the consumer. None of them had any vision; none of them could see any potential, any truth in anything. The final outcome of his project was here; the inevitable was at their doors, they were surrounded by terrifying greatness, and all they could see was the people.

Disgusted, he looked towards the wounded sky again, as if it could understand his vision. The sky was painted a vivid orange, from the dawn or the giant Meteor looming in the sky like a dark sun, deep red with power and destruction, no-one could really tell. Its brightness was repulsive. The glow of it was piercing. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from it, couldn't stop his mind from screaming over and over again about the beautiful significance of it. He could see what that harbinger meant. There was very little he couldn't see now.

Hojo was standing at a large, high window overlooking the sea and much of the city, his posture stooping, his hands wringing each other behind his back. The room was featureless, small and cold and had a sterile smell to it, but he never noticed. He was used to it. A few black tendrils of hair clung to the side of his face, and he didn't bother to brush them away. He was close to the glass; glass that reflected a pale, thin, barren face, and a pair of dark eyes shadowed in their sockets and a thin, tight mouth all edged with dozens of lines, as if he'd brushed the threads of a spider's web that would trap him in the end. He glanced for a second at the steam on the glass near his mouth that had risen from his breathing lips, evidence of the air pumping out of the grey bags of his lungs.

He adjusted his glasses for a second. If the bright glare of the raw sky hurt his eyes, he never showed it. He was glaring up at Meteor, lost in thought. His small, sharp eyes were the only part of him that looked alive, and they were firmly fixed on Meteor, gazing intently, staring hard, and studying it, almost as if he was preparing to dissect it. There was nothing else to stare at. Meteor was everything.

Meteor…so it was all but over now. A narrow view of it, he thought. Hojo preferred to think of it as a beginning, a beginning of a better era, a greater time, regardless of whether or not they would live to see it.

But on the other hand…he hadn't been around at the birth of the Planet; it was more than adequate compensation that he could be around to witness its death.

But who could ever have guessed that it would end like this? It was a testament to Sephiroth, and to Jenova. Who could ever have guessed that Sephiroth could achieve this, could create such a glorious catastrophe? He certainly hadn't guessed. He'd never even thought about it. He could only concede to Sephiroth's victory over everything…it was Sephiroth's crowning achievement and, in a way, his too. He had always felt the need affect significant change on the living world and after being patient for thirty years, it was here at last. The fruit of all his work.

In the face of such perfection, how could anyone care about the human cost?

He reflected bitterly. Seven days they'd kept him here, all of Shinra clustering pathetically together, at this military base, trying to save the world. After escaping the Crater, they'd landed here in Junon, and had remained there since, all of Shinra's leading executives debating over what course of action to take. Seven days they'd held him back, deprived him of any other option other than simply biding his time. And he was confined to this ridiculous, hopelessly under-equipped excuse of a laboratory they had. A senseless waste of his time. He'd even been consulted on the state of that rebel girl and her coma – another waste of time. A waste a time, a waste of him. A waste of what he was capable of. He almost felt himself grin. As if a petty insult like that mattered anymore.

He'd had his own ideas about what to do with the prisoners; to make something useful of them instead of making a pointless example of them. Only two members, the two responsible for the Midgar bombings, were being killed – that left several other members who were all technically innocent but impossible to release. The company needed to get rid of them – why couldn't they have been put in his custody? Why not use them for scientific research? He'd already concocted some interesting ideas about what to do with them; he was always in need of new specimens, and what better samples than a group of people no-one would miss, enemies of Shinra.Inc, and who had all been in close contact with both the failed clone and the last Cetra? He'd even had his Red XIII sample restored to him.

It was something of a shame that the failure had been lost, and wasn't available for close study. He would have liked to check up on it. Ever since that first encounter in his labs weeks ago, when he'd pulled himself safely away from the surprisingly ferocious Red XIII specimen and then from behind some equipment keenly watched their battle with the HO512 sample, his curiosity had been piqued. He'd recognised the youth from the Nibelheim experiments, his desperate attempt to salvage decades of work lost after Sephiroth's death. It was the perfect chance to test his Jenova Reunion hypothesis, at the very least. There was a lot he could learn from all this, he mused. A lot of valuable information to gather… But in another way, he was relieved the failure was gone, that he didn't have to study him or look at him, or concede to his existence. It was an evaluated failure…how could he accept it in any way? It would be humiliation itself – to have to admit that he could've been mistaken about a reject when all his proud successes failed.

But enough of that. He could have the others, and they could all be so useful. There was still so much he could do, so much to still learn, so many theories in need of adequate experimentation, all in the name of science! It was an opportunity too perfect to pass up.

A pity the young President didn't agree. Whatever he planned to do with the remaining members, turning them over to the underground projects of the Shinra Science Department wasn't an option. Rufus clearly had no love of the idea of human experimentation, and so his work couldn't continue. Hojo was bitterly disappointed by the slight. He despised wasted opportunities. Rufus Shinra's father would have agreed. He might have been a simple-minded and greedy fool, but he understood the need for Hojo's experiments. He knew that they were necessary. He was a man who, like Hojo himself, was willing to sacrifice a few insignificant people to the needs of science, of knowledge. After all, the end always justified the means. There was a method to his madness. The former President appreciated how he had turned venal, useless humans into something greater, much more beneficial to their motives.

But whatever the boy was, he wasn't his father. His father had always had an understanding with Hojo, due to his appreciation of what he'd been ready to give up for the Jenova Project so long ago, appreciation of how much further he was willing to take his work, appreciation for his continued dedication to advancing research into the effects of Mako and Jenova cells on humans. Thirty years ago he had proven his devotion to the project, to his goal, what he was willing to sacrifice for the sake of his work. In every project, he got in deep, and got out. He was a success. His mettle had been tested, and he'd passed, and this had helped him rise through the ranks of his department until he was finally its head, where he'd always deserved to be; a suitable reward.

But Rufus Shinra was thwarting all his efforts, all his ideas. The boy wasn't a fool, much to Hojo's disappointment: he was a clever, calculating and cunning young man. And his arguments weren't fuelled by emotion or any of that bleeding-heart nonsense either, but by thought and an intellect that was all his own, and even quite sharp, in the boy's own way. So no, he wasn't foolish, just ignorant. Hojo despised him; him and his wretched ignorance.

He had no idea of everything Hojo had done for the corporation, what he had given them. So this was how he was to be repaid. For all these years, he'd thought that he was untouchable, totally safe. After all, no-one else could operate his equipment, or deal with the complexities of the things he'd created – on all the Planet; there was no scientist greater than him. He was so deeply ingrained into the company that no-one would've dared to plot against him, but to the new President he was nothing but a dull and disturbed relic of his father's era. He had no potential. After the Jenova Project, he had risen as far as he could go, he had thrived and flourished but now it was a thing of the past, and so was he, and his vision. Now he saw that his time was well and truly over. The only way he could go was back down. It was maddening, infuriating! He had done so much to become a real scientist, an esteemed scientist – everything else had paled to that wanting, and now it was all slipping away. The anger, the outrage was difficult to bite down. Everything he had gained, won, earned…he was on the verge of losing it. It was inevitable; he was ruined. All his work was being undone. He had no control over it. It was over.

There was no place for him in Rufus Shrinra's new world. Now the young President's world was a dying world. And Hojo's vision had never been more alive. It made him want to laugh until he ached, to let all that corrosive bitterness seep out of him, like pus out of a sore, in the form of wild laughter. Even during the end of days, he had the upper hand and the last laugh.

Not that it mattered anymore. It didn't matter that he was confined to Junon for now, it didn't matter that he was deprived of a group of specimens, it didn't even matter that his hold on his position was growing more precarious by the minute. How would he be better off in Midgar, in his labs, safe in his status and with a delectable selection of specimens ripe for study? It wasn't such a great loss, not in the end. There wasn't even a point to continuing his work. Through Sephiroth, they were all at the dawn of a new era and his experiments were irrelevant now. Everything had changed. The work had changed.

WEAPON was something to focus on; something that had the power to fascinate a mind like Hojo's. These planet-made monsters were rampaging everywhere. Shinra sources even believed one was close to Junon. The Shinra Army was preparing its defences, even as the scientist stood there passively contemplating things. The fools. To even think they stood a chance…they deserved whatever came to them.

Well, at least some good would come out of being confined here: his chances of seeing one of them were very high. He'd caught a glimpse of them on the deck of that airship as they left the Crater, but the encounter was far too brief. He wanted a chance to really see one of those creatures, to look into its eyes…he longed for it. He would've sold his soul there and then for the chance to study one of them, to grasp at every strand of knowledge available, but he knew it'd never happen. These beasts weren't for capturing, or studying, only destruction. They were the perfect killing machines. And again, thinking of them in such terms only strengthened his desire to study them, to understand them and what they were. It was his desire as a scientist, wasn't it?

His interest was purely perfunctionary. So many interests that had consumed him were loosening their hold in the face of everything around him now. In a way, he was only interested in WEAPON because it inspired thoughts about Sephiroth and the great things he had achieved.

It was still a shock to know that they existed…he'd never believed. He'd never even given it a second thought, just written it off as another Cetra fable, no matter what Gast believed. Gast…the old fool. But now it turned out that he was the fool, he was the one proved wrong…again. Blasted man; even the grave didn't prevent him from winning. That Gast always had to be right, didn't he? Still had to be the greater mind, even as a bullet-ridden corpse. Oh, how he'd relished hunting that man down, turning the tables, ruining him, capturing his Cetra wife and their brat, personally ending his life and his miserable career…yes, he could admit that there was pleasure to it.

And why not? He hated the man. The man Sephiroth adored – always interfering, always believing he knew better, always getting in his way…if any human denied taking pleasure in disposing of someone they hated, they were liars.

Ha…he'd always longed for the day when he would bury Gast…never thought he'd do it literally, of course… Funny, in a way. He allowed himself to let out a mirthless chuckle at the thought.

The situation was impossible. He was still being thought of as second-best next to that man, that damnably ethical man, damned hypocrite more like…but didn't his actions and discoveries prove him to be the greater genius by now? It must! He despised himself for his weakness, the lingering emotional frailty, but Professor Gast's posthumous scientific victory stung. He was the one left standing, he was the one who had advanced his department so much, he was the one so fiercely respected by Shinra, he was the one who had thought of taking the Jenova Project a step further and had been capable of doing it. He – Hojo! His genius! He had won!

This was childish. Another victory to Gast, no doubt. Hojo frowned – he'd have to school his thoughts more effectively. Usually he could do this very well, and not feel anything but a cold, indifferent emptiness towards Gast, or anyone else, but recently his controlling grip was loosening and all those furious and wild thoughts were spilling out. There was no point in being concerned about it, not really.

But what did it matter about Gast, or what any ignoramus thought about him? It was pointless. He was dead, had been for years, whilst Hojo was very much alive. That was all that mattered.

But there'd still been a flicker of triumph in him when he'd heard about the Cetra's death – murdered in cold blood by Sephiroth, for reasons unknown, possibly because she was a threat in need of removal. As a scientist he was horrified at the news; a specimen lost, the Cetra line decimated. It was a terrible blow scientifically, a great loss, nothing less than a tragedy. But at the same time…a lovely, twisted sense of victory. A child of his cutting down a child of Professor Gast…it was too perfect. He couldn't help but feel a morbid glee – after all, he'd won a second time round. Yes, his superiority was proven.

How could he go back to Midgar and continue as he had done for the past thirty years? How could he go back to those confining labs when the real experiment was out here? How could he conduct the same experiments with Jenova cells when he could be studying the fruition of the Jenova Project itself? Everything he used to be so concerned with – pointless. Everything he used to know had changed gradually – he'd felt it happening. His eyes had been – for the first time! – opened fully. There was nothing left for him back in Midgar. The only way left was forwards.

And that was where he'd go. He'd follow it no matter where it led him. Whatever was in store for him, he'd meet it, if only to be able to see it.

If only he could stave off this loss of control for a little longer – that, or embrace it fully. There had always been something different about him, something he had in his mind that no-one else possessed, or perhaps something he had lost, but he had always had it rigidly under control. Now it was assuming a fierce life of its own, its own control…and he was enjoying it. It was the sort of thing you had to smile about.

Everything was spiralling out of his control…there was nothing to hold on to anymore… A recent discovery that made him smirk was that one of the members of Avalanche was none other than a recently-freed and drastically-altered (thanks to him) Vincent Valentine. The Turk…with his absurd name. Still trying to right all the world's wrongs, was he? Still intent on rescuing the innocent from the clutches of darkness? Still intent on interfering in matters that didn't concern him? Still denying that Lucrecia was capable of making her own decisions?

The shock had been, in fact, quite horrible. He knew he was lucky not to have encountered him in the Crater…who knows what might have happened to him. The Turk could have torn him to pieces, if he'd wanted. He was hideous, inhuman, monstrous, but powerful. How much had his strength increased after his alteration? Five, ten, fifty fold? This was the situation: Valentine was awake, loose, and far closer to perfection than he was ever capable of recognising, probably. It was a testament to the perfection of Jenova, more than anything else. Jenova's perfection…and his ability to make use of it.

Valentine was a living work of art, living proof of his genius, a terrifying secret, a brutal triumph, a vicious side-project that became a fine creation in itself, but he was also probably hungry for his blood. He, who'd shot him, transformed him, locked him away for three decades…and Hojo knew that no matter how much he'd been improved, Valentine would forever be ungrateful for the honour. Suitable reaction really, seeing as he'd done this to him out of malicious, violent, sadistic spite.

He hated that Turk. He barely felt it now, he was beyond such pettiness now, but thirty years ago he'd fumed with it. He'd never believed in jealousy – it was just a useless waste of energy, but the fact that Lucrecia had never let go of her friendship with that miserable Turk, that the Turk had turned her against the project, against him…it seethed inside him. He'd had to show that Turk, make him see what was real – that it was him she'd chosen, him she'd married, him she'd been splayed beneath countless nights…what right did that Turk have to try and influence her in any way? The way that pathetic man had shown up in his private laboratory after she'd died, raging at him, still interfering, still trying to ruin him, insisting it was his fault she'd died…well, it'd be too much for anyone to take without snapping, without retaliating. Oh, and he did retaliate.

Valentine…he hadn't been an experiment carried out in the name of science but in the name of…what, exactly? Fun, he supposed. Close, but not quite. The experiment had been fuelled by his emotions, his motives, his hatred, his curiosity…Jenova cells were still a hot topic in those days; why not see what they were really capable of? He'd wanted the Turk's reaction to be horror. He'd wanted him to become a monster. More than anything, he'd wanted that Turk to suffer. He'd already shot him…why not give him back his worthless life? Why not channel every ugly feeling in need of release into changing that interfering idiot? Why not change, twist, mutate and mutilate the man, tearing him apart, stripping away his humanity, peeling it off him, until he would never be whole again? It was nothing less than what he deserved.

Ah, but the irony of it. He could appreciate that. In trying to make a monster of that Turk, he'd given him incredible powers too. And after locking him away and wilfully forgetting about him for thirty years, he was back in his life, doubtlessly looking for revenge. And he had done it – he'd made it possible. He'd let him live, and gave him the strength and power to rip him to shreds…all of it. He didn't feel afraid, because by now, after what he'd seen, he was far beyond fear, but he detested the power he'd given his rival. And he was to blame. The architect of his own demise, and all that. And it was so funny, in a way. So funny, his shoulders shook with laughter just thinking about it. How appropriate it all was, how…fitting. It really couldn't be any other way, could it?

The sound of activity below silenced him, cutting through the shrill, unnatural sound of his laughter like a blade. Hojo listened intently…it must be time for the executions. Nothing of interest.

Hojo was suddenly gripped with a mad shock of feeling, everything he'd reflected on creeping up on him like assassins. He didn't often indulge himself in reveries, but it had been inevitable, in its own way. He almost felt his mind tremble with it…this…this sense of…cultimation. He was losing all sense of control, his work had collapsed, and one of his darkest secrets was roaming the world, and he couldn't imagine any other outcome. He'd felt this way only once before, thirty years ago, when the path he'd chosen yielded its results, and while the Turk stood there babbling about the death, some silent force that had been squeezing and squeezing his mind for months grasped and squeezed it one more time until it burst open like a sore. He had lashed out, ending that chapter of his life, his identity, and starting a whole new one. A new beginning, forged in the depths of the Shinra mansion basement. Noble origins, indeed.

He was feeling that way again now. His brain was fizzing and bubbling with it, his mind shouting and quivering with its force. He'd lost control, been driven to a terrible brink, and then released himself thirty years ago and had suppressed it ever since. He'd locked it away, forced it out, pushed it down under layers of ice and shadow, banishing it utterly. But it never died. After all, it was a part of him. When pushed, when tested, he was capable of doing great things for the sake of his goal.

Now it was coming back. It had been laying in wait, gathering its forces over the years, building up its strength, testing its barriers and now all that madness, all that violence he'd started so long ago was back, slamming against the walls of his brain. It was rushing through his veins. It was burning him through his blood. Everything around him was crumbling. It was inevitable, unstoppable. It was the strangest feeling, one that defied all his attempts at analysis. It was a feeling of incredible power, not strength, and certainly not freedom, but the feeling of being capable of anything. And wanting to use this capability, to break out of the prison of his body, the tethers of his mind.

He'd started so much…now everything had reached its head. Soon, it would have to end. He was at that brink again and somehow, it felt like home.

Everything felt inevitable. He hated the idea, but felt it to be true nonetheless. The chaos he released had finally revisited him and was building up inside him. He felt like he was degenerating, or being pushed towards something, towards an end, towards a decision. That whatever happened to him would be inevitable, eventual even. He couldn't see it, couldn't see what fate he was leading himself towards, what he was prepared to become. He only knew there was no other way to go. Only forwards. It was too late; there was no turning back now. Every other option had been stripped away and he was ready to embrace it, to see what these thirty years, what his entire life, had led him to.

But he still couldn't see it. He wondered what it would feel like, when the last veil was taken from his eyes and his destination became clear, when the realisation hit him.

The disguise of reason was slipping, he knew. He wasn't beyond realising that, not yet. But all this week, he couldn't remember ever feeling more rational. Something else was creeping up on him, as inevitable as the future. There was no stopping it. But everything still made perfect sense…too perfect for him, perhaps. It was overwhelming.

The wildness of it had loosened his tongue. He barely cared what he said to anyone anymore. Why not let everyone know everything? It was a beautiful thought. He felt mad with it, but was always pragmatic enough to resist temptation. Already, he'd come close to freeing all those ugly, cherished secrets a dozen times since the Crater, just to see the looks on their faces, so they could see what he was responsible for, what he had created. It was all slipping out now, he couldn't control it. But that secret was the last thing that was truly his, the only thing that made him who he was anymore and he wanted to keep it rotting inside him, to take it to the grave.

He looked at his skinny, long-fingered hands for a moment. Cold hands. Hands that had handed his newborn child over to a proud President Shinra. Hands that had wielded a scalpel over a bleeding Turk. Hands that had pushed a mako-filled needle into the veins of a nameless and faceless human specimen. Hands that had placated every part of Lucrecia's body. He checked the palms: no hairs. An eerie smile crept up his face.

His thoughts were interrupted by the screams of alarms. A siren was sounding, probably through the entire city. The room was flooded with red warning lights. His mind lit up with crazed expectancy as a panicked voice announced over the speaker:

"Emergency! Emergency! WEAPON approaching! Attention all military personnel: take your positions!"

WEAPON – so it was close. Very close. He was surprised at how excited he was. He looked down out of the window and saw Shinra's forces assembled to attack. Idiotic. Did they really think they could make a difference? A foolhardy plan, more than anything. They army soldiers with their firearms looked like children playing with toys – they were just asking for it. They were lined up for the slaughter. It was fine with him; let them throw their miserable lives away if they wanted to. Well, at least this should be interesting to watch. But the fate of the soldiers didn't interest him; the only thing on his mind was getting a glimpse of WEAPON, of seeing the creature his son's machinations had brought into the world. The creature his son had assumed control over, and was using to his own ends: another testament to his perfection and his father's success.

His son…he hadn't thought of Sephiroth in such terms for years. And he'd certainly never thought of himself as a father, not even in the months as he watched his wife's stomach distend with the child inside her. In a way, Sephiroth could never truly be his son; it was far too late for any of that. After all, he'd barely known him, and Gast had seemed more than eager to try and fill that role. There was no need for him to do anything. But he'd watched him from a distance often, evaluating his progress and so forth…perhaps there was a flicker of something personal too, but he couldn't remember very clearly. It was the closest to affection or tenderness he would ever reach, but it was still just a shadow, barely a ghost of an emotion. He'd always known better than to indulge feelings like that; it'd only distract him from his purpose. It was so difficult to think of Sephiroth as his son, to think that he had ever been a boy, a boy with a father and a mother… It was better the way it was – he was never able to scrape up much interest in Sephiroth's personal life and feelings, and so forth. Besides, he knew that the child despised him. Always looking down on him like that, never knowing that they were knee-deep in each others' blood…there was something funny in it…

Yes, even his own son underestimated him, had no idea of what he was capable of, what he was capable of creating. Sephiroth would never know the truth. But he would always know, he could never forget. That knowledge breathed and lived in every inch of his body. It made him sick with a kind of glory.

Thinking of the son naturally brought thoughts of the mother too. Lucrecia. He almost felt it a pity that she couldn't be here to share this wonder, this glory, this fulfilment. He rarely thought of her, but after the reappearance of Sephiroth she'd been in his mind constantly, but his thoughts were devoid of any romance. Oh yes, he had cared for her while she lived... In fact it was probably the closest thing to love he could ever feel.

Of course, there was no such thing as love. And what he'd felt for her was nothing like love. In fact, he detested the word and what it suggested. It was so impractical, and such a ridiculous concept. It was just a hormonal imbalance, the instinct to procreate, human biology.

But all the same, he'd been mad for her. Mad enough to let her drive him to distraction once. He was a man after all, and he'd wanted her so much. Strangely, he'd never realised exactly how much he wanted her until they were married and he finally got the chance to put his hands on her. He'd touch her in public, even. He'd never been a toucher, always physically remote but he liked to have a hand on her – shoulder, arm, waist; she'd inspired that. He also rather admired her as a scientist, respected her, even to the point of giving her praise. He'd certainly formed an attachment – he'd liked her and enjoyed her company and had a sort of affection for her, an affection that had come out of nowhere. And it was surprisingly and even frighteningly easy to get used to her, to get used to her always being there.

And no matter what Valentine thought, she was just as excited about and devoted to the Project as he was, no matter what she thought towards the end. She'd believed in it so strongly, believed in him too. She made her own choices, went into it with eyes wide open. She was nobody's victim…just unlucky.

Her face was rather hazy in his mind, as all records and photographs of her had been destroyed after her death, but strangely enough he could quite clearly remember falling asleep with one arm locked around her and with his face either half crushed in his own pillow, according to his own custom of years of solitude, or nestled in her hair. He'd despised that reliance but all too quickly he'd forgotten any other way of living. It all contributed to her lasting influence, the stubborn refusal of the memories that contained her to grey, wither and die. Yes, in her own way she'd been a revelation.

There had been something special about her – he couldn't remember ever feeling so much for any other human. Maybe that was it – the answer to the riddle of his feelings for her. She was the only person he'd ever known who was really human to him. The only person whom he thought of as a human being. After all, he still remembered her name, even if he never used it, and he was terrible with names. A name was just a word – meaningless, signifying nothing, giving no clue to identity…but he still remembered hers. That was how human she had been. Human and weak, in the end. Too weak.

He didn't miss her. Her death had burned away something in him, but he hadn't felt it; he was just aware of the fact of it. He hadn't missed her even thirty years ago, when her death was new. And he certainly didn't stretch himself over her grave, like that pathetic Turk. He had been passionate about her, within reason, but detaching himself was more than easy. The world was a quieter and lonelier place without her, true, but there was no sense of losing her, only indifference, as it was all in the past – she was gone and that was it, and he'd gained so much in return. End of story. While she lived, she'd been important to him, but the moment she died his interest in her died too. Whatever he felt, he'd destroyed it long ago. He let her die inside him. His affection came out of nowhere, and that was where it returned to. He'd simply gotten used to the idea of her not being there, and carried on with things. In a way it made things much easier, it had emptied him of whatever feelings she'd inspired in him, got them out of his way. He'd emptied the bright goblet of romance; at a single gulp he had emptied it.

It was convenient that she was gone, really. She'd been too attached to the child. She would have protested to so much. Hojo was incapable of imagining what the past thirty years would have been like if she'd survived – he could only see what she would have obstructed, and couldn't imagine any new possibilities she would have created. It was better for all of them that she died when she did. But she had left her legacy behind. Sephiroth.

But when was the last time he'd thought of Sephiroth as his son, his child? Yes, it was after the Nibelheim massacre. As a scientist he was bitterly disappointed at the end result of the Jenova Project, that years of work and research had been wasted. But there was something else to it too, something rather saddening, but whatever that feeling was, he'd crushed it quickly. There was a strangeness to it…at the same time, his disappointment in Sephiroth as an experiment faded instantly in the face of his disappointment in Shinra. Sephiroth was capable of so much, Hojo knew, he'd had so much potential – they hadn't used it correctly. They'd squandered it, squandered him. What he'd felt then was very close to guilt – guilt at letting down his son, of giving him to a world that wasn't ready, wasn't worthy of him and his magnificent potential.

But Sephiroth hadn't died. He was very much alive, in fact. Hojo had known since the Reunion began, of course, but at the same time, actually seeing him alive and cocooned in power at the Crater was something else entirely. His mind was still trembling with the force of what it had done to him.

In his reverie, Hojo had been distracted from what was going on around him. The city was preparing its famed defences. Outside, huge steel plates were activated, protecting the residential area of city. Impressive, but not enough.

With a kind of boneless grace, he shuffled towards a better spot, where he could have a superior view of what was about to unfold. He stared hard – he couldn't see it yet. But it was nearing fast. With cold disregard, he observed a huge port opening up in the street, with small cannons extending from it, as the huge main canon rotated into place. It was aimed directly at the sea. Yes, Hojo thought, now he would see what WEAPON was truly capable of.

With a mighty explosion, a roar of sound, the canon released a huge burst of energy out at the sea. The shockwaves that gripped the sea were massive. Even Hojo was willing to concede that firepower like that was a force to be reckoned with, but it was nothing compared to WEAPON. It was nothing compared to Sephiroth…

He noticed that everything was very still, and very silent. Everyone was waiting expectantly. Haha…they really thought they'd destroyed it, didn't they? He waited patiently, and gave a dark demi-smile in the direction of the sea.

The alarms screamed to life again and the room blazed red with the warning lights. It was coming – faster, faster, faster than he'd expected! He felt his smile turn into a grin. He felt on the verge of laughing but was far too awed for any of that. He stood stock still, frozen to the spot, his eyes fixed on the sea. WEAPON was closing in on the city. Yes…yes! He could see it now! It was going to land!

It was perfect. It was beyond what he'd imagined. He watched it, thrilled and awed, as the creature swam towards the city at an incredible speed, rising through the waters, revealing its beautiful, monstrous form. Huge purple fins, spines… To be given the chance to actually see something as great as this! He looked at the soldiers below, and their attempts to prevent WEAPON from reaching the city. Pathetic. All their secondary cannons and firearms made no difference…it wasn't even slowing down. No visible effect. It was as if they weren't even touching it. All their crude, brute force was nothing against its elegance, its power. It wasn't a tragedy that countless soldiers were about to lose their lives – the tragedy was that they were so achingly close to such a thing, and couldn't appreciate it, couldn't appreciate the inhuman magnificence of what was directly in front of them.

It was so close now, unbearably so, ripping a huge wave in its path. This destruction…this power…it was beautiful. Ha, the soldiers were fleeing now. Not that it'd do them much good. But let them run, let them try.

Then suddenly: it was there. WEAPON careened into the city, slamming against it with incredible, terrible force, causing the earth to shake and the city to tremble. The force of it caused Hojo to fall down, hitting the floor with a hard slap, but he pulled himself up with some struggle, pressing himself close to the glass, still watching, still overwhelmed and gripped with joy. It was going to kill them all. This was the end, his Day of Judgement. Although he certainly would rather live than die, he couldn't help but be delighted, thrilled that he was going to die this way, at a moment like this.

This was Sephiroth's doing…his son's gift. This was what Sephiroth had given the world! Perfection! All this power…it was just a reflection of what Sephiroth was capable of, what heights he could reach. He'd felt it in the Crater, and that knowledge could still shake his haggard soul with delight. This was the end of human frailty, the beginning of an age of perfection – the age of Sephiroth and Jenova. And he'd created it! He'd fathered a new god. He had conquered god, shown that science prevailed over everything. Look what his scientific genius had created! Nothing could hold power over him now. He was the overcreator; this was his own perfection – his immortality. He was filled with pride; the pride of a father for a son, the pride of an artist for his greatest creation.

Sephiroth had gone beyond everyone's vision of him. It proved he was right – that the years of experimenting on him as a child were necessary. That they had made him perfect; made him a god amongst men. He was more than a masterpiece. He had become so much more than any of them had ever guessed. Next to this glory, Shinra's plans for a killing machine, a perfect warrior, seemed juvenile. He had been designed for that purpose – but he'd exceeded it. He'd created a new purpose for himself. He'd gone above and beyond Shinra's dream, exceeded all their plans for him, exceeded the original work and created a future none of them could have ever imagined. And knowing this made Hojo shake with pride – the vision of it, the audacity of it, the brilliance of it!

If only Lucrecia could see him now! If only she could see the state of the world now! If only she could see the end product of their vision, of their scientific dream! If only she could see the great being her son had become, and all that her son had made possible! Look at what the three of them had accomplished!

He was thrilled beyond belief, as he watched WEAPON rear up to its full height, its deadly maw glowing brighter and brighter with energy, releasing a beam of power, striking at the city. That thrill, that power was alive in him. His hands clenched desperately, as if he could physically hold on to that feeling and keep it close to him. It was brilliant, beautiful, and unbeatable. He felt himself cackle with triumph as he looked into those dangerous and intelligent yellow eyes, filled with destruction. He was face-to-face with his son's victory. And behind WEAPON, hanging in the sky, was Meteor; his son's masterpiece. That was when he knew…

No matter what, he would protect his son's plans, ensure his son's future. He'd never been a father to him, but this would make up for it. Help him…that was what he had to do. All these years, he had done nothing…and look at what Sephiroth had accomplished on his own. Whenever he could see a chance, he would do all that he could to help his son, to make everything right.

Perhaps seeing him truly alive in the Crater, strong with undreamt-of power but somehow strangely vulnerable, had stirred up paternal feelings in him for the very first time. Or perhaps madness had finally caught up with him. No – for the first time he was seeing clearly. He knew what was required of him. All he had to do was follow the path he'd paved for himself thirty years ago, and accept what he had become, to finally fulfil and consummate his life's work. He accepted it with eerie glee. There was no other option. He was trapped in his own work, his own vision. But he was happy to be. The time for disguises was over.

So here he was…on the brink again, and almost giddy with it. But Hojo was calm. He barely noticed the Junon Canon fire a second time, barely saw WEAPON sink, sans head, back into the sea. It was all irrelevant. Amusing, but irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was his son.

This wasn't to be his Judgement Day. He'd guessed as much. No, he still had plans, things to do. Not yet…it couldn't end yet. And it hadn't ended. So this wasn't his Judgement Day…but it was coming. Soon.

He could already feel the air of it pollute him. He could already feel the pressure of it crush him. He could already feel the irony of it force wild, deranged laughter out of his mouth.

He could already feel his arm ache with the needle's sting.

-- FIN --