Chapter 2
Bio-altered Child
"I'm bored."
No one answered.
"No, I mean it. I'm REALLY bored."
Still nothing.
"I'm so bored I'm going to scream. AAAAHHHHHH!"
When the third time produced no alternative results he ceased the foolish outburst. And it was quite silly, the boy knew. He was unaccustomed to such emotional displays. Even at the 'tender' age of eight, his demeanor exuded maturity abnormal for his age.
Not abnormal...just not normal...
Flawed logic. But with this particular circumstance few children would remain non-hysterical to say nothing of quiet. It really was boring. The four plain walls contained his world for the majority of his eight years, with occasional visits to the training facilities and the Shin-ra laboratories. The former he enjoyed; the later he did not. There were no distinguishing features of the diminutive chamber: a modest cot, a chamber pot, and a weathered night stand. No pictures. No posters. No testament to the tortured soul inside.
Gee...I don't know what's worse...this stinking room or Hojo's lab...
Images of the cold, terrifying lab in all its hideous glory flashed through the little boy's mind. The cylindrical fluorescent light beared down from the ceiling like some merciless celestial being...the chill of the steel examination table beneath his fragile skin...the thick straps, the metal clamps...the constant prick of the needles and the sickening rush of the drugs and gods-know-what-else coursing in his veins...
Still, at least it dragged him from the insane dreariness of the white nondescript walls that now encircled him.
The memory of a squat figure with vile eyes decided it for him.
Hojo.
No...No. No. No. I'll take the boredom over him any day.
They young boy glanced around, hoping for some microscopic scrap of entertainment. He finally sighed and resorted to the game of stabbing a pen between his fingers with his unworldly emerald eyes shut. It grew lame fast–you can only perform something so many times before even the most thrilling of diversions dull.
With a huff of disgust, he tossed the pen aside. Ever since his altercation with the other children at the private academy he'd attended, the boy had been shut away from anyone less than twenty years of age. Why, he'd wondered on more than one occasion, was he removed when other disobedient children were not? The only deducement he could make was that he'd been too rough...after all, no one could do the damage he'd done.
Different...not like the others...stronger...smarter...better...
In some ways, he'd been overjoyed. Now no more taunts came his way. No more teasing about his hair length or color. No more names like 'freak', 'loser', or 'weirdo'. Such childish actions. They were the freaks, the losers, the weirdoes. He told himself it didn't hurt but it did, so much so that he'd surrendered any attempts at making friends–any at all. At least school was no more.
But out from the rain and into the lake...Now he dodged blows instead of insults, suffered pain instead of humiliation. Isolation became his friend. The only thing in his life he could look forward to were the training lessons every day. But, at times, even that could bring him no comfort.
A slight, offending sting distracted the boy from his thoughts and he rubbed it gently to quiet it. Needle marks lined his young body. Endless abuse and neglect had made up the years of his life. Years of cruelty, physically and mentally maiming experiments, had left their imprint. Years of torment from feeling so detached from it, so different–so unloved.
Love? Did he even know its meaning? He painfully had to acknowledge no.
His name was Sephiroth.
Sephiroth loafed around, absently brushing the dust that settled on his plain tunic, pants, and socks. Brushing aside his fluid silver bangs, he approached the old nightstand and heaved his lean self aboard. It teetered in a mockery of an earthquake but Sephiroth had excellent balance and steadied it. He was always so skilled, so proficient. Physically none his age, or years older for that matter, was the young boy's equal. Same with his magical prowess. He was always so intelligent...so powerful...so different...
Why? I seem normal to me! Why does everyone act as if I have eight eyes on three heads?
It was favorite saying of his, 'borrowed' from Professor Gast. Stern though he be, Gast treated Sephiroth with benevolence. The scientist's dark eyes could narrow alarmingly at times, however, he'd never yell at or strike Sephiroth. The same could not be said of Hojo, his once-apprentice-turned-successor. But now Professor Gast was dead.
It's as if someone is telling me 'you don't deserve a friend or love or kindness'. But I do, don't I?
Such conflicting and deep thoughts did not seem appropriate for an eight-year-old child. And yet, for Sephiroth, they fit like clothes that are painted on. He was hardly normal, after all.
No! I AM normal. What's so different about me?
As the multi-conflicted child came face to face with his reflection from the window, he knew he could never be normal. Silver hair, brilliant as steel and flowing like moonlight on water, framed his face with beautiful straight bangs. Two emerald orbs stared back at him, back into little Sephiroth's soul.
Who are you, Sephiroth?
Sephiroth flinched. That was not his own voice!
Who...
...are...
...you?
Suddenly a loud crash shook his chamber. If he'd had any personal items to speak of they would have scattered like frightened shadows. As it was, the young boy of Midgar took a spill. He landed, hard, face down.
The lights vanished.
Blackness engulfed every inch of the sparse chamber. Normally any child–of any age–would be screaming his death cry or cringing underneath the bed. But Sephiroth did not, only straightening himself and wondering exactly what happened. Sighing, the silver-haired boy utilized his hands to serve as eyes, probing the length of the room to the wall with touch. Eventually Sephiroth encountered a wall and he rested there a moment. Then he proceeded for the chamber's steel automatic door.
His long delicate fingers brushed fabric. The bed. They scraped against stone. The opposing wall. Lastly, the ten digits met cold metal. The door handle.
Sephiroth's breath hitched.
The long slender door handle. That was between him and his desperate liberation. Swallowing, the silver-haired child lifted his eyes, bangs dangling, to discover, if, yet again, his escape was blocked.
No red light.
For a fleeting moment Sephiroth wondered if, in his wild desire, that he'd dreamed this newfound freedom up. The Shin-ra Headquarters had automatic lock doors to ensure valuable objects are not removed from their care. A security card was required to navigate the building. The red light indicated that the door lock was operational and that, without such a card, no one could enter–or leave, for that matter.
This revelation meant freedom.
Had Sephiroth been a normal boy he'd have leapt in joy. As it was, he allowed a brief smile, of victory, before the emerald-eyed child yanked on the leveler. Pale golden light cut the still gloom, hardly substantial as it did little to illuminate anything within. No matter, thought Sephiroth, if things went his way he'd never see this 'stinking' room again.
Wouldn't that be nice?
Stepping over the threshold gingerly, Sephiroth examined his surroundings. It was a dark corridor, the main power down so the emergency lights activated. At this moment, the Shin-ra Headquarters was defenseless against terrorists or criminal activities. Of course, since the company dealt primarily with electric services, it wouldn't be too long before main power was restored. He didn't plan to be around when the problem was rectified.
Outside, the winter storm raged, howling as the silver-haired boy imagined an insane man might. Or as Hojo might. No, that sick little scientist's laughter was a pathetic sound, brittle and sadistic, not fierce and proud. Snow pelted the walls. Slowly, the child crept to the stairs. They were rarely used, most people preferring the elevator to this mild activity. But with the electricity off, the elevators were inoperative.
Just as well, Sephiroth mused as he slid along the wall, there's no place to run in an elevator.
Several times the silver-haired child nearly bumped into the Shin-ra guards and the various scientists who prowled the halls. Miraculously, he descended five flights of stairs without detection. On the sixth, though, he 'ran' into disaster.
Dressed in a silly ivory cloak, an elderly professor approached. He started at the jerky changes in the winter wind and in his trembling hands he carried a clipboard. The murky reserve light illuminated wide eyes. "Who's there?" he demanded.
Damn. He must have heard me. Sephiroth refused to answer, hiding behind a tall, malnourished plant. Winds screamed insanely. The question was repeated. What should he do? Make a run for it? Silence the man? How? Oh, what to do?!
As he hesitated, the scientist took things in hand, stepping nearer, peering into the blackness. Suddenly, his breath came harsh. Sephiroth had no time to react. A pair of hands yanked him into the relative illumination.
"Sephiroth..." he whispered, half-cursing, half-whimpering.
What's he afraid of? Sephiroth thought bitterly. An eight-year old child?
As the man appeared to call for the guards, the emerald-eyed child knew he must act or be captured. He would have preferred to avoid violence but there are times when nothing else will do. Sephiroth squirmed free. Then, he snapped an arm like a whip and rammed it into the man's head.
As predicted, the scientist dropped to the floor like a stone. All without so much as a gasp. Had Sephiroth wanted to kill him, the man would be feeding the earthworms...figuratively speaking, of course. There wasn't animal life within the whole of Midgar....
But the little boy was no killer.
I'm just a freak, not a murderer.
Shoving that to the recess of his mind, Sephiroth rolled the body under one of the many steel tables in the corridor. No lasting harm. A small head wound. Sephiroth ensured this before proceeding down the hallway. No lasting harm, no. One hell of a headache? Probably.
Eventually, the stairs materialized. He again descended several stories without being discovered. He was so good at that. Stealing in shadows. Where had that come from? Why was he so skilled?
Memories surfaced, memories unbidden. Before he would have easily dispatched the offending 'thing'. Memories, thoughts, emotions...so purposeless, so distracting. He didn't understand any of them but he knew that, on some level, he should. Nor did Sephiroth understand their sudden power over him.
What do they mean?
Memories–of those horrible experiments.
Thoughts–of how wrong those experiments are.
Emotions–of how angry he felt toward those experiments.
Snap out of it! he cried to himself. Sephiroth knew distraction could be fatal. He schooled his mind into single-minded purpose. And yet, as he crossed another sterile, abandoned corridor to the stairs, it was a struggle.
Wah! Wah! Wah!
A baby's cry? Sephiroth stiffened at such an unexpected noise. He forked his hair, strands as moonbeams, with two fingers. Children–in a Shin-ra building? Impossible. But true. What was going on?
Sephiroth's suspicions were confirmed when he stole a peek into one of the many laboratories on this level. There, shaded in white linens, an infant was prodded by a scientist. The man's whip-straight black hair hung over his crooked back. And as the child prodigy might have guessed that scientist was none other than Hojo.
Hojo. The name itself could be substitute for a curse.
"Quit crying, brat! You're almost as bad as Sephiroth!"
Ha! No one's as bad as me. I live on defying.
It was one of Hojo's private labs, with a security card reader like the rest. At this moment, however, the door remained ajar. This offered a not-so-magnificent look into the wiry man's sick world. Jars of every imaginable odor lined the shelves, files and clipboards scattered amid metal tables. A large pod occupied one corner. Inside, unconscious, was the most attractive woman Sephiroth had ever seen.
Caramel locks trailed her chiseled face. Sorrow traced her prematurely lined face. Her beauty, and suffering, was heartbreaking.
The other side of the room Hojo ungraciously handled the squalling infant. Once. Twice. Three times he struck the baby. Sephiroth eyes flashed. Memories surfaced again with unpleasant force. His childhood was sketchy at best, but beneath was simmering anger toward Hojo. A deadly fury.
Justice is a dish best served hot.
Sephiroth easily located what he was looking for. The emergency cord that lead into the chamber to supply it with back-up power ran parallel his path. It was a simple matter to disconnect it. It would not be simple, however, to reestablish.
"Blast it! Damn power!" screeched the vile scientist. He immediately shoved the baby girl into her 'crib'. It was hardly suitable for an infant, all rigging and hard surfaces but that did not matter to Hojo. He then searched for the source of the failure. Sephiroth snickered softly, unaccustomed for him, eyes agleam with satisfaction.
Meanwhile, the young woman had awakened. Drowsily, she glanced around. With all the power, including the auxiliary, down, her pod automatically unlocked. Her haggard yet lovely face lit up with joy. Quickly, she deserted the husk and snatched up the baby. Hojo, seeing the development, screamed hatefully, and attempted to stop her. However, she prevailed, running out of her prison with what could be determined as her daughter.
The sounds of footsteps found his ears. Sephiroth decided now would be a wonderful time for a hasty retreat.
It's amazing how fast you can go when you have to.
Sephiroth pounded down the corridor, silver strands streaming like molten lightning, making his way to the stairs. Hojo might uncover his disappearance and subsequent sabotage and neither would be pleased at the outcome of that. In the backdrop, he could hear the thunder of strides and loud cursing. And the wind continued its murderous symphony.
Run. Don't think. Don't stop. Run.
The instant the tormented boy reached them he dashed down the steel steps. Hair flailed his face. His breaths came shallow. Sweat beaded his brow. Yet he'd kill himself, if need be, for his freedom; a bit of exhaustion meant nothing.
Eventually he located the first floor. Auxiliary power functioned on this floor as well. The young female receptionist at the desk sat, bored, filing her nails. She seemed either oblivious or disinterested in the apparent power failure and the excitement it entailed. Though busy with the filing she didn't seem extraordinarily absorbed by the task. Meaning Sephiroth didn't stand a chance of slipping past.
His eyes cast about for an alternate escape route. None, of course.
Like a naked person in a crowd of overly dressed people...
Another unusual saying. Sephiroth chuckled. It was also Gast's. What happened to the good-natured professor? He'd heard it was a cardiac arrest that claimed the man's life–at least, that's what Shin-ra reported. A heart attack? At age thirty-two?
There was no time to ponder that, however. If the little boy stood a prayer of liberation, he'd best make a run for it now. What if he was spotted? Ah, he'd just have to run even faster...
Sephiroth tipi-toed along the wall, encountering another stairway and navigating several tall plants. The sound from upstairs continued, increasing in volume and obscenities. Occasionally the blond receptionist would glance at the ceiling, rolling her eyes and muttering "Damn scientists! Must they always make such noise?!" She expertly maneuvered the file about her nails, mindless of the creeping shadows.
Everything was fine all the way to the revolving doors. Unfortunately, it refused to budge. Sephiroth glanced anxiously at the young woman who remained blissfully ignorant of the boy's existence. Now what? He couldn't very well ask her to open it!
Excuse me, miss, I'm trying to escape from big, bad Hojo. Would you mind opening this big, bad door for me?
Trapped. He was doomed in this madman's web.
"Oh! Do you need help with that?"
A jolt shot up Sephiroth like a bullet. His head snapped around to see the receptionist standing aside him, smiling in a most friendly manner.
The green-eyed boy said nothing for exactly twenty seconds. Finally he sputtered, "Uh, yes...Please?"
"Be careful, it's windy out there!" she warned after opening the door with a security card. Sephiroth whispered his appreciation for both the absurd advice and his newfound freedom.
Whey they said it was a cold, cruel world out there, they weren't kidding! Wind and freezing snow slapped at his young flesh, plastering his silver bangs to his face. It whirled before Sephiroth, making him dizzy and playing tricks with his vision. He stumbled through the wintry mess, barely able to see his own hand let alone his way.
His way...what way? Now that he had his freedom, what would he do with it? Where was going to go? He had no family, no friends. Sephiroth realized in dull horror that, run as he might, he would always be alone and imprisoned.
Suddenly an insubstantial image of that beautiful woman carrying her infant blurred past. Her long brown hair floated in the murderous wind. She turned ever so slowly to gaze at the young lost boy. Their eyes mirrored one another–a shared torment, a shared determination. Then she vanished, melting into the wintry night as all angels do.
There was something undeniably wise and loving of the woman. But there was a coldness as well, as powerful as a glacier. Her exotic beauty was certainly not of this world. Alien. The flash of a white globe burned in his memory.
Materia?
Was I looking into my glorious destiny? Or my inglorious fate?
At that moment, Sephiroth's vision cleared. And he received a most horrifying start when he realized where he was.
At the Shin-ra Headquarters. He'd gone full circle.
And walked straight into the arms of Hojo.
Their eyes met and Sephiroth knew it was fate.
"Fate indeed," Vincent noted with a novel display of sadness. Luke had shown him the first couple of diary entries by a young Sephiroth. "Each step was set before him before Sephiroth could walk. His life was not the happiest. He fought so hard but fate is rarely kind. I saw that in his eyes–webbed in a destructive pattern. And it all started so early..."
"Such pain, such torment. Very destructive, yes," answered the reporter.
"And the beginnings of the fires of violence..."
"Yes," came Luke agreement. "Striking down that elderly man."
Vincent nodded, night-black hair dangling. "But he also exhibited promise to be a decent-hearted man. Let's not forget his helping young Aeris and Ifalna."
"Did he do that out of compassion to them or hatred of Hojo?"
To that, the former-Turk was silent. His bloody eyes scanning over the scribbled text, he could not be certain either way. The earlier pages were barely decipherable but as the child quickly caught onto calligraphy his writing improved into a flowing verse with proportionate lettering. But no matter how well-written it offered him no clue. Sometimes written words are not enough; sometimes the tone is the only way to determine sincerity or cruelty.
"I guess, we'll never know."