Disclaimer: Cynthia is mine. The rest of the characters are not.
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The elevator ride to the lab was uneventful and dreadfully quiet. Hojo stood on one side, casually inspecting his glasses. Sephiroth was on the opposite side, his forehead pressed against the glass wall, watching as Midgar faded to a dappled iron-gray shadow below.
He raised a hand to his reddened cheek and sighed. (I wish this glass wasn't so thick. Then I could jump.)
"It wouldn't do you any good."
Sephiroth mashed his nose into the glass and squinted into the smog. "Yes, it would," he quietly insisted. "I'd be dead." (And far away from you.)
"That fall wouldn't kill you. You'd just wish it had." Hojo settled his glasses back on his nose.
The boy glanced at his father over his shoulder. "Would I sprout wings on the way down or something?"
The scientist cleared the short distance between them in one stride, roughly grabbing Sephiroth by the arm and whirling the child around to face him. "Don't be smart with me, Sephiroth," he hissed. "I know more about you than you know about yourself. And that fall wouldn't kill you."
At that moment, the elevator dinged, and the doors whirred open. Dragging Sephiroth behind him, Hojo headed into the cold, dimly-lit laboratory, moving straight toward the back. A handful of assistants greeted Hojo as he passed, but he didn't so much as look their way. And none of them paid any attention to the pale, wide-eyed boy he was hauling.
As they neared Hojo's private station, a pretty, twenty-something brunette clad in an immaculate white lab coat approached them. "Excuse me," she said, a sweet smile quirking the corners of her rose-colored lips. "Professor Hojo?"
Without stopping, Hojo replied with a brusque, "Yes?"
The woman matched his angered strides as best she could as she introduced herself. "I'm Cynthia Harrow. I was assigned to assist you today. Professor Hojo?"
"Yes, yes, I heard you, Miss Harrow." He waved his free hand at his desk. "There's a folder there outlining today's procedures. Review it and prepare as necessary. We will begin in ten minutes." Hojo wrenched Sephiroth into a small, windowless room on the back wall and kicked the door shut behind him.
Baffled by what had just occurred, Cynthia did as she was told, selecting a currently dated folder from the paper clutter on Hojo's desk and flipping it open. She scanned the outline, her aquamarine eyes widening with every word she read.
"Good grief!" she gasped, slowly raising a slender hand to her mouth. "These drugs…they're lethal! And these amounts of Mako! What is Professor Hojo planning on doing with them?" She paused, looking toward the back room, which, she noted, was oddly silent. "My God…he's not planning on using them on that child that was with him…is he? That's…"
"NO!"
The sudden shrill cry startled her. It came from the room Hojo was in. It was the little boy.
Cynthia heard Hojo bark something in reply, but the room's walls were well-insulated, and she couldn't make out his words. The boy protested again. There was silence. Then something thudded against the wall. More silence.
She hesitantly edged a step closer, curious as to just what was going on, yet feeling that somehow, she didn't want to know. It obviously wasn't any of her business; she was just a new lab assistant, and Hojo was a brilliant, if not slightly eccentric, scientific genius.
But that child…surely that couldn't be Hojo's child? She'd caught a fleeting glimpse of him; a handsome little boy he was, with strange, but beautiful, silver hair and fiercely green eyes that glowed with the taint of Mako. He'd looked so frightened, but she supposed a child of such an age being brought to a scientific laboratory in such a crude fashion would naturally feel that way.
The boy cried out again. This time, Cynthia could tell, it wasn't in protest. It was in pain.
Cynthia lightly tossed the open folder back on the desk and started for the room. It certainly wasn't her place to interfere with a renowned scientist's actions, but at the same time, whatever he was doing to that child was hurting him, and she couldn't stand by and not do anything about it.
She had gotten within three feet of the door when it swung open. Hojo stood in the doorway, an odd little smirk on his mouth that instantly curled into a dour scowl when he saw her. "And what is the problem?" he demanded. "Have you made the preparations?"
"No, I…I haven't," she said, a guilty flush rising in her cheeks. "But I…heard the boy…and…he sounded hurt, so I…"
"You disobeyed me and delayed the day's experiments even further," Hojo interrupted.
"I didn't mean to," Cynthia feebly replied, the bluster over hearing the boy's cries now long gone. "I just thought…the boy was…"
"He's fine." The scientist glanced to the side. "Sephiroth! Hurry up! We haven't got all day!"
Cynthia vaguely heard a muffled response, and a few seconds later, the boy…Sephiroth…appeared in the doorway. His Mako eyes slowly searched their way up to her face, and she could see unshed crystalline tears glistening against the emerald glow. An ugly blue welt marred his right cheekbone, blatantly visible beneath the disheveled silver locks that curtained his face.
He held her gaze for a long, stifling moment--a gaze which she found eerily entrancing--before a brisk cuff to the back of his head brought those green orbs to Hojo's stern face. A barely discernable nod at the boy's feet caught Cynthia's attention, and as Sephiroth followed the scientist's direction, trying to figure out what was wrong, Cynthia did as well. One of the child's pant legs was bunched several inches above the top of his shoe, revealing a thin rivulet of blood trickling down the inside of his leg. Sephiroth hastily coaxed the denim back into place.
Cynthia looked to Hojo, a million questions shadowing her face.
Hojo's eyes narrowed into dark slits behind his glasses as he returned her questioning stare. "Don't ask. It's none of your business." He shoved Sephiroth forward, pointing toward the testing area. The boy obediently trudged away, his gait slow and awkward.
Maybe she was hearing things, but Cynthia thought she heard him whimper.
(Why does he do that to me?) Sephiroth thought as he stiffly made his way to the stainless steel examination table. (Every time…what have I ever done to deserve this? And why didn't she stop him? Why haven't any of the assistants stopped him? Doesn't anyone care about me?)
Mustering up what strength was left in his little body, Sephiroth hoisted himself onto the table, gingerly easing into a prostrate position, knowing he'd be told to anyway. He fixed his forlorn gaze on the bland white ceiling and took a long, trembling breath. (Of course no one cares about me. When my own father doesn't, why should anyone else?)
Hojo was at his side a moment later, Cynthia not far behind. Sephiroth didn't look at either of them. He remained silent as the assistant secured his wrists and ankles to the table with harsh metal shackles. She said something to him, but he chose not to hear it. Someone who stood by while a father abused his son didn't deserve to be listened to.
"Well, since you neglected to ready the materials I asked you to, we'll just have to settle for Mako testing," Hojo said to Cynthia, who just pursed her lips and looked at the floor. "I have one thousand grams of concentrated Mako prepared already, so I'll start with that. Now go to Laboratory Supply and bring me three thousand grams of hyper-concentrated Mako."
Thinking perhaps Hojo meant to kill the boy, Cynthia remained a moment, gazing wistfully at that silver hair, those impossibly green eyes…and the stoic set of his jaw. Mentally praying for his young soul, she turned away, setting off for the supplies.
Meanwhile, Hojo had filled a syringe with the thick green liquid Mako, and was standing over his son, a wicked sheen passing over his brown eyes as he regarded his son's ashen countenance. "Aren't you in luck today, Sephiroth?" he chuckled deviously. "No drugs, only pure, undiluted Mako."
Sephiroth turned his head to the side. "Who cares?" he replied. "Everything you do to me hurts."
"Of course it does, boy. That's exactly the way I want it." The scientist snatched a handful of the child's platinum hair and jerked his head straight. "I told you I'd make you pay for your tardiness. I never had any intention of using drugs, because I know how excruciating Mako treatments are for you. If it were up to me, that's all I'd give you." Without waiting for the boy to respond, he drove the needle into his arm, forcing every last drop of the liquid into his body within a matter of seconds--much faster than was necessary, or even healthy.
Sephiroth felt the Mako flood through every fiber of his body, searing his veins, his blood, his muscles. Intense fire crushed his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs and the life from his heart. White-hot pain exploded in his head, robbing him of sight and thought.
Hojo calmly watched as the Mako instantly took hold, a slow, sadistic smile melting onto his sinister face as the boy convulsed, his lean frame snapping rigid against the steel table. Sephiroth's head whipped from side to side; a series of desperate, agonized cries escaped his throat. His chest heaved. The already sparse color in his skin drained even more, turning it the sickly pallor of death.
(That's right.) Hojo urged him, sneaking a brief check of the wall clock. (Writhe in hell, child. Let the Mako eat you alive. Jenova will bring you back. Jenova always brings you back.)
Sephiroth gagged; blood spilled from his mouth. His widened emerald eyes blazed with a wild, unnaturally fierce sheen. His pupils were invisible in the glow.
(C'mon! Let it take you! Sephiroth!!) Hojo glowered at his son, the smile now scarcely visible on his thin lips.
It was as if a switch had been flicked. Sephiroth's body went slack. His screams ceased, and his head lolled to the side. His fiery eyes were dimmed and unfocused.
"Excellent." Hojo pressed his fingers to the side of the boy's neck. No pulse. He was dead.
A minute passed. Then two. The scientist looked at the clock again, watching the second hand plod toward the twelve. …Three minutes. He looked back at his son.
Sephiroth twitched. Gasping for breath, he weakly turned his head to look up at Hojo. Vertigo seized him, and he closed his eyes. He heard his father cackle triumphantly.
(Is that death…?) Sephiroth pondered. (No. When someone's dead, they're dead. And this happens all the time. A person only dies once. But no one will tell me what it is I feel when he injects me with all that Mako. All I know is horrible pain…then nothing…then pain again. And then he laughs. Every time he hurts me, he laughs. Why is that funny? Why is my pain so funny to him?)
"Professor Hojo, I have the hyper-concentrated Mako." Cynthia's voice pierced his semi-conscious reverie. He heard her light footsteps, and the glass vials clinking together. "Three thousand grams."
Sephiroth sobbed. He didn't care if Hojo heard him. He was cold. His cheek hurt. The inside of his mouth tasted bitter and metallic. His body still ached from Hojo's punishment, and he still felt the blood that had snaked its way down his thighs from that so-called discipline.
He didn't understand the reasons for any of it. But he did understand that it wasn't fair. He didn't like it, nor did he deserve it. So that could only mean one thing.
Everyone just hated him.
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The elevator ride to the lab was uneventful and dreadfully quiet. Hojo stood on one side, casually inspecting his glasses. Sephiroth was on the opposite side, his forehead pressed against the glass wall, watching as Midgar faded to a dappled iron-gray shadow below.
He raised a hand to his reddened cheek and sighed. (I wish this glass wasn't so thick. Then I could jump.)
"It wouldn't do you any good."
Sephiroth mashed his nose into the glass and squinted into the smog. "Yes, it would," he quietly insisted. "I'd be dead." (And far away from you.)
"That fall wouldn't kill you. You'd just wish it had." Hojo settled his glasses back on his nose.
The boy glanced at his father over his shoulder. "Would I sprout wings on the way down or something?"
The scientist cleared the short distance between them in one stride, roughly grabbing Sephiroth by the arm and whirling the child around to face him. "Don't be smart with me, Sephiroth," he hissed. "I know more about you than you know about yourself. And that fall wouldn't kill you."
At that moment, the elevator dinged, and the doors whirred open. Dragging Sephiroth behind him, Hojo headed into the cold, dimly-lit laboratory, moving straight toward the back. A handful of assistants greeted Hojo as he passed, but he didn't so much as look their way. And none of them paid any attention to the pale, wide-eyed boy he was hauling.
As they neared Hojo's private station, a pretty, twenty-something brunette clad in an immaculate white lab coat approached them. "Excuse me," she said, a sweet smile quirking the corners of her rose-colored lips. "Professor Hojo?"
Without stopping, Hojo replied with a brusque, "Yes?"
The woman matched his angered strides as best she could as she introduced herself. "I'm Cynthia Harrow. I was assigned to assist you today. Professor Hojo?"
"Yes, yes, I heard you, Miss Harrow." He waved his free hand at his desk. "There's a folder there outlining today's procedures. Review it and prepare as necessary. We will begin in ten minutes." Hojo wrenched Sephiroth into a small, windowless room on the back wall and kicked the door shut behind him.
Baffled by what had just occurred, Cynthia did as she was told, selecting a currently dated folder from the paper clutter on Hojo's desk and flipping it open. She scanned the outline, her aquamarine eyes widening with every word she read.
"Good grief!" she gasped, slowly raising a slender hand to her mouth. "These drugs…they're lethal! And these amounts of Mako! What is Professor Hojo planning on doing with them?" She paused, looking toward the back room, which, she noted, was oddly silent. "My God…he's not planning on using them on that child that was with him…is he? That's…"
"NO!"
The sudden shrill cry startled her. It came from the room Hojo was in. It was the little boy.
Cynthia heard Hojo bark something in reply, but the room's walls were well-insulated, and she couldn't make out his words. The boy protested again. There was silence. Then something thudded against the wall. More silence.
She hesitantly edged a step closer, curious as to just what was going on, yet feeling that somehow, she didn't want to know. It obviously wasn't any of her business; she was just a new lab assistant, and Hojo was a brilliant, if not slightly eccentric, scientific genius.
But that child…surely that couldn't be Hojo's child? She'd caught a fleeting glimpse of him; a handsome little boy he was, with strange, but beautiful, silver hair and fiercely green eyes that glowed with the taint of Mako. He'd looked so frightened, but she supposed a child of such an age being brought to a scientific laboratory in such a crude fashion would naturally feel that way.
The boy cried out again. This time, Cynthia could tell, it wasn't in protest. It was in pain.
Cynthia lightly tossed the open folder back on the desk and started for the room. It certainly wasn't her place to interfere with a renowned scientist's actions, but at the same time, whatever he was doing to that child was hurting him, and she couldn't stand by and not do anything about it.
She had gotten within three feet of the door when it swung open. Hojo stood in the doorway, an odd little smirk on his mouth that instantly curled into a dour scowl when he saw her. "And what is the problem?" he demanded. "Have you made the preparations?"
"No, I…I haven't," she said, a guilty flush rising in her cheeks. "But I…heard the boy…and…he sounded hurt, so I…"
"You disobeyed me and delayed the day's experiments even further," Hojo interrupted.
"I didn't mean to," Cynthia feebly replied, the bluster over hearing the boy's cries now long gone. "I just thought…the boy was…"
"He's fine." The scientist glanced to the side. "Sephiroth! Hurry up! We haven't got all day!"
Cynthia vaguely heard a muffled response, and a few seconds later, the boy…Sephiroth…appeared in the doorway. His Mako eyes slowly searched their way up to her face, and she could see unshed crystalline tears glistening against the emerald glow. An ugly blue welt marred his right cheekbone, blatantly visible beneath the disheveled silver locks that curtained his face.
He held her gaze for a long, stifling moment--a gaze which she found eerily entrancing--before a brisk cuff to the back of his head brought those green orbs to Hojo's stern face. A barely discernable nod at the boy's feet caught Cynthia's attention, and as Sephiroth followed the scientist's direction, trying to figure out what was wrong, Cynthia did as well. One of the child's pant legs was bunched several inches above the top of his shoe, revealing a thin rivulet of blood trickling down the inside of his leg. Sephiroth hastily coaxed the denim back into place.
Cynthia looked to Hojo, a million questions shadowing her face.
Hojo's eyes narrowed into dark slits behind his glasses as he returned her questioning stare. "Don't ask. It's none of your business." He shoved Sephiroth forward, pointing toward the testing area. The boy obediently trudged away, his gait slow and awkward.
Maybe she was hearing things, but Cynthia thought she heard him whimper.
(Why does he do that to me?) Sephiroth thought as he stiffly made his way to the stainless steel examination table. (Every time…what have I ever done to deserve this? And why didn't she stop him? Why haven't any of the assistants stopped him? Doesn't anyone care about me?)
Mustering up what strength was left in his little body, Sephiroth hoisted himself onto the table, gingerly easing into a prostrate position, knowing he'd be told to anyway. He fixed his forlorn gaze on the bland white ceiling and took a long, trembling breath. (Of course no one cares about me. When my own father doesn't, why should anyone else?)
Hojo was at his side a moment later, Cynthia not far behind. Sephiroth didn't look at either of them. He remained silent as the assistant secured his wrists and ankles to the table with harsh metal shackles. She said something to him, but he chose not to hear it. Someone who stood by while a father abused his son didn't deserve to be listened to.
"Well, since you neglected to ready the materials I asked you to, we'll just have to settle for Mako testing," Hojo said to Cynthia, who just pursed her lips and looked at the floor. "I have one thousand grams of concentrated Mako prepared already, so I'll start with that. Now go to Laboratory Supply and bring me three thousand grams of hyper-concentrated Mako."
Thinking perhaps Hojo meant to kill the boy, Cynthia remained a moment, gazing wistfully at that silver hair, those impossibly green eyes…and the stoic set of his jaw. Mentally praying for his young soul, she turned away, setting off for the supplies.
Meanwhile, Hojo had filled a syringe with the thick green liquid Mako, and was standing over his son, a wicked sheen passing over his brown eyes as he regarded his son's ashen countenance. "Aren't you in luck today, Sephiroth?" he chuckled deviously. "No drugs, only pure, undiluted Mako."
Sephiroth turned his head to the side. "Who cares?" he replied. "Everything you do to me hurts."
"Of course it does, boy. That's exactly the way I want it." The scientist snatched a handful of the child's platinum hair and jerked his head straight. "I told you I'd make you pay for your tardiness. I never had any intention of using drugs, because I know how excruciating Mako treatments are for you. If it were up to me, that's all I'd give you." Without waiting for the boy to respond, he drove the needle into his arm, forcing every last drop of the liquid into his body within a matter of seconds--much faster than was necessary, or even healthy.
Sephiroth felt the Mako flood through every fiber of his body, searing his veins, his blood, his muscles. Intense fire crushed his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs and the life from his heart. White-hot pain exploded in his head, robbing him of sight and thought.
Hojo calmly watched as the Mako instantly took hold, a slow, sadistic smile melting onto his sinister face as the boy convulsed, his lean frame snapping rigid against the steel table. Sephiroth's head whipped from side to side; a series of desperate, agonized cries escaped his throat. His chest heaved. The already sparse color in his skin drained even more, turning it the sickly pallor of death.
(That's right.) Hojo urged him, sneaking a brief check of the wall clock. (Writhe in hell, child. Let the Mako eat you alive. Jenova will bring you back. Jenova always brings you back.)
Sephiroth gagged; blood spilled from his mouth. His widened emerald eyes blazed with a wild, unnaturally fierce sheen. His pupils were invisible in the glow.
(C'mon! Let it take you! Sephiroth!!) Hojo glowered at his son, the smile now scarcely visible on his thin lips.
It was as if a switch had been flicked. Sephiroth's body went slack. His screams ceased, and his head lolled to the side. His fiery eyes were dimmed and unfocused.
"Excellent." Hojo pressed his fingers to the side of the boy's neck. No pulse. He was dead.
A minute passed. Then two. The scientist looked at the clock again, watching the second hand plod toward the twelve. …Three minutes. He looked back at his son.
Sephiroth twitched. Gasping for breath, he weakly turned his head to look up at Hojo. Vertigo seized him, and he closed his eyes. He heard his father cackle triumphantly.
(Is that death…?) Sephiroth pondered. (No. When someone's dead, they're dead. And this happens all the time. A person only dies once. But no one will tell me what it is I feel when he injects me with all that Mako. All I know is horrible pain…then nothing…then pain again. And then he laughs. Every time he hurts me, he laughs. Why is that funny? Why is my pain so funny to him?)
"Professor Hojo, I have the hyper-concentrated Mako." Cynthia's voice pierced his semi-conscious reverie. He heard her light footsteps, and the glass vials clinking together. "Three thousand grams."
Sephiroth sobbed. He didn't care if Hojo heard him. He was cold. His cheek hurt. The inside of his mouth tasted bitter and metallic. His body still ached from Hojo's punishment, and he still felt the blood that had snaked its way down his thighs from that so-called discipline.
He didn't understand the reasons for any of it. But he did understand that it wasn't fair. He didn't like it, nor did he deserve it. So that could only mean one thing.
Everyone just hated him.