Chapter 8
Dead Men Tell No Tales
According to the Shin-ra Statistics Department approximately eighty-five percent of the Midgarian population rode the Midgar Train. Those people appeared from all walks of life. From the garishly dressed middle-aged woman who sat directly opposite him to the sullen 'bad-ass' youth on his right, evidence of the diversity of the city could be witnessed all around. That annoyed him, to be one of Shin-ra's statistics.
A smile crept into his lips, like a snake into a chocobo's nest. Statistic? Sephiroth? Hardly. Should they be aware of who rode in their midst, the train would not be long in emptying. Difficult to remain inconspicuous considering my notoriety or celebrity status. Sephiroth had never really been sure how people viewed him—one moment a paragon of courage to fight the savage Wutains; another, a slaughterer of young oriental children. Like the wind, one could never tell which way the masses would swing.
Now his lips twisted, amused, an ugly expression on a beautiful porcelain face. Oh, how he longed to wreck his vengeance in this city.
The train lurched, throwing the gaudy-dressed woman to the floor. She descended into a fit of ungodly shrieking, of which no one minded. Sephiroth had long ago acclimatized himself to the eccentric behavior of Midgar's residents. He had lived among them, once.
Not entirely truthful, that. I lived above them, beyond them. First a specimen trapped in the Shin-ra Building, then a victim of their SOLDIER indoctrination.
Aside from the brushes with the Midgar Press, his interaction with the general public was severely limited. A far preferable state of affairs than his pitiful association now. Scowling, Sephiroth shrank further within his hood and further into his cocooned mind. He heard naught the grinding of the train wheels, nor the irritable chatter among the passengers. Masamune rested under his long ebony trench coat, surprisingly soundless. Revealing its presence likely would shatter the relative calm on the train along with his hopes to maintain a low profile.
Jolting everyone but the ex-SOLDIER, the train screeched to halt. Sephiroth's glowing green eyes flew up to the dog-eared map tapped to the opposing wall. Not there yet. Another two stops. Citizens of all sort, shapes and sizes lumbered in, shoving and cursing one another. Soon after a whistle blew and the train sprang to life down the tracks.
Shin-ra Avenue, next. Midgar's most congested stop. A stinky old man plopped to the right of Sephiroth while two scantily-clad girls hung around one of the poles, chatting about "Like, this, guy, like, he's, cute, like..." while another anti-social boy gingerly dropped to an opposite seat. The constant presence of humans in all their 'glory' grated at the ex-General's nerves and he feared that, should he remain any longer here, he would not retain his composure.
Worse yet, due to sleep deprivation, Sephiroth found himself nodding off. Desperate to keep himself awake, the ex-General left his seat to roam the train. This body needs rest, even though it is of superior quality. Patience is a virtue I must employ. Not a virtue of much desire. When word reached him of the location of his mother's body, the ex-General abandoned all his other projects and hastened to Midgar.
Five years. Five years since the Nibelhiem Disaster as the local newspaper were wont to say. Five years since last he'd laid eyes on his matriarch. True, he'd often enough conversed with Jenova in that timeframe—still the actual sight of her would put his mind at ease. For too long he'd feared his failure at the Nibel Mako Reactor meant his eternal separation from her.
Not long now, my beloved son. Not long before we are reunited. You shall earn your birthright and don the Crown of the Cetra. I shall see that before my days are done.
As syrupy the words soothed his unquiet soul. He returned to find his seat already occupied, an unfortunate commonality on the Shin-ra train. Occupied now by the middle-aged woman who invited him to sit back down—on her lap. Throwing her a frosty glare, Sephiroth clamped his hand on the pole and gazed up at the advertisements, ignoring the leers his statuesque form often garnered.
Another stop. Finally, the woman left, spilling coffee on the train's floor. His footing sure, as often it was, Sephiroth sidestepped and reclaimed his seat. He again scanned the map. Just two more stops. Yawning, the ex-General drooped his head ever so slightly forward and shut his eyes...
A hand slid along his thigh.
Like that coffee splashed him, Sephiroth jerked awake. His hand instinctively searched his belt. Everything accounted for...No, not all accounted for. His money pouch was missing. Stolen, most likely. Sephiroth growled, his eyes swiftly appraising the nearest passengers. They seemed innocent enough...
His eye caught the almost imperceptible shift in light, the kind that dances off of materia.
Sephiroth rose, his hand running down Masamune.
Today would not be a good day for that thief.
Hurrying past a pair of purple-haired twins and a man who reeked of Kalm tequila, Sephiroth again noted the glint of materia. His materia, in the hands of a man sporting a silly hat. Small build. Large caramel-colored eyes. Ragged clothing. Hardly more than a child.
Ah, but a child of sin. A child of the humans. Remember that, my son. Remember what I told you about the Crisis and her illusion.
Yes, for disguises can be deceiving. A smirk crossed his smooth skin as Sephiroth followed the boy from boxcar to boxcar. Aware that someone shadowed his steps, the thief climbed up the ladder to the roof of the car. If he figured this would deter his pursuer he was sadly in error. Not a breath of hesitation issued forth from the ex-General as swept up and over, long silver hair whipping the wind.
Now thoroughly frightened, the robber tossed the pouch at Sephiroth. His hand shot out as if independent from his body, catching it cleanly. A mad hope to sate his pursuer's rage or a sincere effort at tripping him? Sephiroth knew naught, cared naught. What he knew, cared, was that here again stood a human determined to cross the Heir.
"Take your damn money and go!" the boy cried as he launched himself onto the next boxcar roof. His balance not nearly as sure as Sephiroth's, the thief stumbled, his hat slipping into the grinding wheels. Perhaps the sight of its destruction brought into stark reality his own danger, for the boy flattened himself to the roof.
Looking up, he stared into the deadly emerald eyes of the Wutain war veteran.
In them, he saw death. His death.
"No, please!"
It lasted mere seconds. Sephiroth speared the boy on Masamune, cutting off any protest. Blood steamed onto the roof. With a single thrust and the thief fell into the oncoming boxcar. His shriek knifed the train, effecting a chorus of cries throughout. Once the body hit the wheels it tore apart, leaving little for anyone to identify.
Shrugging, the ex-SOLDIER returned to his seat and didn't look up until the red sign stating: Shin-ra Headquarters, came into view. Then, keeping his head down and hood up, Sephiroth stepped off the train and onto the street. His menacing stare created an alley in which he could stroll right up to the wide concrete steps.
A breath, two. Then Sephiroth entered.
...
1st Floor
Sephiroth strode through the revolving glass doors, shadowing his face against the glare of the fluorescent lights. By beloved Cetra, but did her ever despise those blasted false suns! As he scanned the floor, his heart leapt in his chest, green eyes burning. Memories stormed him, a little boy of silver hair and shattered soul. Here, he'd spent fifteen years of his young life as a prisoner and a lab rat.
Like the blood of his victims, Sephiroth could almost taste vengeance on his lips. A smile danced lightly in his eyes as the ex-General confronted the front desk. The familiarity of the receptionist, who was by no means young, edged on the fringes of his mind. Ah...yes...the absent-minded young woman who'd let him out all those years ago. And though he'd not escaped that night, that one naïve act now played in her favor.
"Hello. Shin-ra Headquarters, please hold." Her slim glasses slid down her nose as she glanced up at Sephiroth. "Oh, who are you? Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes. With the President."
Her eyes fell to the clipboard. "Hmm. I'm sorry, he's not seeing any one today..."
"He'll see me." Lightning-quick, the former SOLDIER's fingers stole around the green materia on Masamune's pommel. Bright violet light cradled the receptionist. She squealed, her clipboard dropping to the marble floor. Before the body could follow, Sephiroth scooped the receptionist up and set her across the paper-strewn desk.
A hand tiptoed on the Masamune...then stopped. True, though the same vile blood of humans coursed her veins, yet the ex-General couldn't go through with impaling her. Her unintentional benevolence stayed his hand. Besides, Sephiroth reasoned that a slumbering receptionist was less likely to arouse alarm in security than a dead one would.
Flipping through the mounds of papers, Sephiroth assimilated the knowledge with his mako-enhanced photographic memory. They supplied their front-line clerk with surprisingly little information. Not so unlikely, considering the lack of data sent to even one as senior as the High Commander. Frowning, the ex-General grimly recalled the destruction of a ship and seventy-nine passengers—the result of President Shin-ra's inability to inform Sephiroth of the vessel's explosives.
Keep your mind on task, my son.
The reprimand lured his mind out of path of the past and onto the highway of the present. In one minute, he cracked her login; in two, her password. With abnormal speed, Sephiroth delved through the programs, noting the locations of Upper Management and the Heads of Department—Science, Weapons, Urban, etc. Nearly every single code that he was privy to as the High Commander remained in effect. That corporate oversight would make his job easier. Still it irked Sephiroth, who simply could not stand such foolishness.
Remember, Sephiroth. These are humans. They are stupid, weak, inferior creatures.
Inclining his head, the ex-General snatched up the Receptionist's keycard and made his way to the elevator.
...
68th Floor
A ding and the elevator doors slid open. A dozen Military Police roamed the corridor, completely obvious to the newest arrival. The ex-General assessed the threat, determined it minimal and hurried across the floor with his cowl up. No one bothered to question him. Likely accustomed to a myriad of people coming and going, they thought nothing of yet another employee on business.
Possessing of vast knowledge, most of it trivial, Sephiroth easily recalled the patterns of the guards. Waiting until the security swapped, the ex-General knocked out the on-shift guard and dragged him to a corner of the monitor station. He tapped at the console. The computer beeped, then his fingers pressed a complex series of buttons and the screen blinked to life.
Women's Washroom. A side view of a stall. Sephiroth chuckled, amused. Hardly any surprise that his comatose friend was a pervert. Most of the security team abused their privileges. Tap. The view screen flickered then displayed a dimly-lit study quarter. The Shin-ra Library. Of no value to him at the moment. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Ah, there you are," murmured Sephiroth. "Like an ant scuttling across a page that is unaware that the cover is soon to be shut."
Like the insect the ex-General so described, Hojo scurried from desk to pod, collecting samples of blood, urine, and other liquids Sephiroth didn't dare identify. By no means alone, protected by two Shin-ra guards within and three outside, still such would pose no problem for the likes of the Heir. Eliminating the guards might in fact prove a worthy appetizer to the entrée that was Hojo.
And the gleam in Sephiroth's eyes was hot indeed.
Like a fugitive facing execution, he tore up the stairs and through the hallway. At regular intervals, Shin-ra guards warded various corridors and antechambers leading up to the laboratory. Tempted to slice a path of crimson, still the master materia-wielder held his rage in check. Easily they would fall to his blade, but then what would result? Detection, undoubtedly. Detected undesired.
The few guards unfortunate enough to necessitate watering his blade died quietly enough. His mind hardly registered their deaths, even as their lifefluid stained the metallic floor like rivers of melted roses. Stepping under a walkway, the ex-General passed by another set of stations. If his memory didn't deceive him, the door to the Laboratory stood only a few feet...
There. The door.
Ecstatic, Sephiroth drove six feet of steel at six tons of metal.
Not surprisingly, it didn't penetrate.
"Damn you, Hojo," the former SOLDIER swore under his breath. A stream of obscenities then issued forth, such that was uncommon for him. Sephiroth had little use for cursing, seeing it as a cheap attention-stealer by someone who wouldn't be note-worthy otherwise. At this particular juncture, however, his patience wore away to near breaking point.
Far be it from Sephiroth to hang his head and admit defeat. Not one accustomed to such, instead he fruitlessly slammed Masamune against the door. Reason eventually overrode his momentary mental lapse and the ex-General stepped back to assess his options. Turn back? Not among them. Still, ramming his body and blade at the six tons of metal had proved thus far unrewarding.
"Damnation. For almost ten years I slaved to escape that miserable, human-infested room and now, here I am, unable to get myself back in." He could hardly stand the irony. Sephiroth clenched a fist, willing the stain of red-rage to dissipate from his emerald eyes. Vengeance unsatisfied often made for poor health—for him, that is. For anyone else, his inability to vent usually spared their health, and lives.
My dear, if you simply must enter then use your vastly-superior mind to get through that door.
Mother, how do I accomplish that? No amount of higher intelligence will break it down.
Like a vibration in his head, Sephiroth heard laughter. Amused. Chiding. Condescending.
No, my son. I said 'bring down' not 'break down'. Surely one of the guards has a key...
Such simple logic. Mother, you are much wiser than I am. I must take after my father's side...
Father's side...Had he not a patriarch? One of the halves of the whole that created him? Sephiroth staggered back, suddenly ill. Why did that not occur to him before? Each person had both a mother and father. His father...
No! No father. Only I. Put that out of your mind. It's...human thinking.
As quickly as the thought seized the materia warrior, it fled, like gentle mist over a morning horizon. Mother was right. Mother was always right. Demi-gods needed no sire. A Cetra owned no individual family, not even Jenova herself. The superior race belonged to one another, as one entity. Thinking otherwise was sheer malfeasance...sheer humanity.
Like so much dust, Sephiroth swept the disgraceful introspection under the carpet of his mind. Rather, the ex-General concentrated on a solution. His calculating intellect cycled through a number of possible scenarios. Taking a hostage would prove so much easier, but then that would alert the guards whom, in turn, would clear half the building long before Sephiroth would reach the Laboratory.
Like a flash of lightning, the answer hit him. Returning back to the antechamber, he hurried through the hallway. The bodies of the three guards he'd slain lay there still, still in death. Genuflecting, Sephiroth smeared a generous helping of blood on his smooth black cloak. Then he ripped a hole in his left selve and slit his right pant leg. To these, the ex-General administered more of the sticky crimson liquid. Satisfied, Sephiroth took off again.
Several minutes passed before two Military Police approached his position. Clearly, security had discovered the slumbering Receptionist, for the two muttered among themselves about the firing of a front desk clerk. Fortunate, for her. Had she remained, Sephiroth was unsure of how to retain his composure should his venture amount to failure. At last, the two drew close. Hoping his theatrics would suffice, Sephiroth 'stumbled' in their path and let out an overly dramatic groan.
"Are you hurt...sir?" the taller one asked.
Sephiroth pierced the man with his glaring green eyes. "Oh, no. Don't worry. I'm only bleeding to death."
After a quick glance of confusion to one another, the two rushed over to assist. As their hands encircled his arms, a wave of distaste surged through Sephiroth's body. Natural instinct despising human touch shrieked in his head. He endured it. Such would aid his purpose. As they hauled the ex-General to his feet, they whispered back and forth. It amazed Sephiroth that it did not occur to them that, despite referring to him in the third-person, his hearing allowed him to note everything they said.
"Oh, Ronnie, isn't this...you know..."
"Sephiroth? It can't be..."
"No, this is him. I remember the picture on the Shin-ra Bulletin Board. Six foot in height. Long silver hair. Green eyes..."
"Dave, Sephiroth is dead."
The sheer stupidity of the situation forced Sephiroth words out his mouth. "If I am dead, how is that I'm still breathing, standing here before you?"
Neither answered, mouths gapped in astonishment.
Swiping the long, bloodstained silver strands out of his face, the former SOLDIER trudged on toward Hojo's lab. "Come on. Come on. There are places I need to be. If you hesitate and thus kill me, I swear on my mother's grave I will come back and haunt the both of you."
That hurried their feet along. Each acted as crutches to assist the 'wounded general' up the stairs. While they traveled, Sephiroth concocted a tale about some assassins, dressed as Shin-ra guards, attempting to do him in. He, being the most powerful man on the Planet, made short work of them. Still, others from behind managed a few blows, resulting in his current blood loss. Those, too, he dispatched, right before Ronnie and Dave arrived.
He needed an answer to bodies. He had it. He needed a way to enter the Lab. Again, he had it. A neat little predicament that solved itself.
"The door, human."
"What? Human...?"
"Never mind. Give me your keycard."
He balked, face white as snow--before it hit Midgar's paved streets that is. "But, sir, you're the General. Don't you have a keycard?"
"Fool! Do you think that in my fight with three assassins I'd keep a hold of a keycard?"
"Assassins?" Now Ronnie cast his eyes about, as if expecting said assassins to leapt out and cut his throat. "Are there more? Shouldn't we alert the President—"
"No!"
That truly bewildered the guards. The gears worked in their head attempting to decipher that logic.
Composing himself, Sephiroth managed his most benign smile. "No. I'll report to the President myself once I deem it necessary. I'd hardly think Mr. Shin-ra has time for the likes of you two." His smile twisted, amused. "You will return to your posts. Remain silent about everything that has occurred since you encountered me." If Sephiroth's order confused them, the guards concealed it. They disappeared down the corridor with nary a look back.
Sighing happily, Sephiroth slid the red-striped keycard across the card reader. For a second it continued to flash read. Then, green. The door swung open. The stench of scientific materials and the dim light rushed into the void as if desperate to escape the chamber in which it had been captive. Sephiroth's breath caught in his throat. Here he stood, on the threshold of his former prison, to finally repay the years of abuse to that fell-minded scientist. The ex-General could hardly contain himself.
Of all the solids, liquids and gases orbiting the Planet few could be considering more luminescent than a Super Nova. Yet Sephiroth's eyes burned brighter still as they scanned the chamber. No Hojo. No, the only occupant of the room was another scientist. A taller man, with curly brown hair, and a healthier build. He currently hunched over a petri dish, prodding the organisms with a needle.
"Hello, Professor Berinstein."
"What in blazes—who! You!" The professor choked, his hold on the dish so precarious that at the sight of the master swordsman it fell from his hands. A thousand pieces shined on the floor, unnoticed by either man. "You...You're dead!"
"So, I've been told." Sephiroth laid his right hand on his left chest. "I'm starting to question my health. Tell me, Professor, do I look dead to you?"
"No, no, but—Guards!" Overwhelmed, the scientist abandoned all sense of dignity and bodily threw himself at the door. "Let me go! Let me go! What do you want out of a poor old man like me!?"
A forefinger curled as a mini-zolom under the ex-General's chin. "That's a most excellent question, Professor. What ever will I do with you?" He took to pacing. His words dripping with venom. "I'll tell you a story. One about an innocent child trapped in room, as you are now, put to inhuman—"A chuckle as cold as ice issued from Sephiroth's mouth. "No, put to very human experiments and tortured for no other reason than because his captor could."
For as long as Sephiroth lived—and inheriting godhood would make that long indeed—he would never forget those awful memories. Eyeing the scientist greedily, the ex-General snapped up the blade and drove it into the professor's chest. Berinstein twisted, but there was no escaping the blade.
"No, please..." the scientist muttered as he gurgled up blood. "It's Hojo you want..."
"Oh, don't worry, he'll end up on my sword soon enough. Just consider yourself lucky that I'm in such a good mood today."
"Oh...how...so...?"
"I could have made your death a very painful ordeal."
Once the scientist breathed his last, Sephiroth planted a black boot on his chest and hauled Masemune out. The body slumped over. Blood stained the floor a bright crimson. Sighing, the ex-General proceeded to vent his fury in the laboratory. A table cut in two for all the times he'd endured 'examination'. A shattered pod for his captivity. A destroyed cabinet for all the needles jabbed into his arms.
And a dead professor for all the times I've suffered humiliation and agony for the betterment of the human race. Masemune cut cleanly through a row of canisters of green goo, splattering their contents across the ruined examination table. Still unsatisfied, the former SOLDIER lifted his blade, eyes flashing, for another strike—
Enough!
The voice ripped into his head with the asperity of a thunderclap, staying his hand and setting his heart aflutter. In such a violent state of mind, Sephiroth had to forcibly lower Eskallanilna. His breathing shallow, he responded via telepathy. But, Mother, I hate it all so much...The memories keep coming back...the things they did to me...the scars...the pain...the abuse...
Do you not love your mother?
No, Mother! I mean, yes, yes, I love you! Forgive me. It's these emotions...I can't help but feel—
You have no emotions, no feelings, my child. Those humans thought to chain you down with their frailties. Rise above them. A pause. Sephiroth waited with bated breath. Listen to me. You are the last of a dying race. The last of the Cetra kin on the Planet. Together we can make all the wrongs, right, take the planet back. Maybe, one day, the Cetra can return...
As if diving into a waterfall, the Heir drowned in her words, her tender voice. It was a wondrous feeling. She wrapped him in love and guidance and he drew upon her like a man relying on Wutain weed. No one else but Mother cared for him. Sephiroth had spent his childhood alienated, abused. His teen years and adulthood were little better, what with the superficial love the masses afforded him.
Now, come, to the warehouse and free me!
I'm coming, Mother! Still drowning in her sweet song, the ex-SOLDIER abandoned the laboratory and rushed down the hall. Ecstatic at the prospect of seeing his mother again, Sephiroth nearly missed the elevators. Impatient, he tapped the UP button and swept in almost the instant it arrived. A gloved finger punched the 67th floor button while his other hand jabbed the keycard in the slot. It lit up and away he went.
...
67th Floor
Much like the other floors, the ex-General encountered little resistance. Only two Military Police and a guard, all of which met a swift demise at the end of his blade. More humans determined to prevent his reunion with Jenova. No child should be kept from his mother. But, then, that was just like the humans. Divide and conquer. After learning of the disease the humans inflicted on the Cetra while they posed as friends, did the Heir really expect any sense of fair play?
Danger...
The ex-General halted in mid-step. He'd been approaching the Scientific Pod Station # 2 when the tingling sensation lifted the hairs on his arms. Something was not quite right. Memories of his unauthorized exploration of the Shin-ra Building fringed on his consciousness demanding attention. On a hunch, he dislodged a materia orb from Masemune's hilt and hurled it a few feet straight ahead.
Like bars of transparent mako, three emerald lasers sprang from one wall to the other.
Had he not listened to his instincts, the Heir would likely be incinerated. Even a would-be demi-god could not hope to survive thousands of volts of manufactured electricity. He tossed a couple more materia spheres to decipher the pattern, and then sped past them once they retracted. A normal man would never have cleared the distance but such was his physical prowess that the maneuver was a snap. He picked up the orbs and jotted them back in.
Silently, he slipped among the piles of HANDLE WITH CARE boxes and crates. Still, he needed not have bothered with stealth. No one warded the storage area and he continued past an archway unhindered. More bureaucratic idiocy. No surprise there. If his experiences dealing with the company taught him anything, it was the sheer disorganization and lack of proper delegation it entailed. Common sense was a concept too utterly foreign for them to apply to even the most significant of tasks.
If his heart sang before now it cried a note of beauty and sound as he turned to face the pod. The green of the mako flashed against the green of his eyes. Though many years had past since last the materia warrior gazed upon his mother, his memory did not deceive him. Still, that lovely sapphire-skinned face, those unworldly eyes, that exotic majesty. Still, that nameplate rested on her forehead like a crown of thorns.
Ten fingers touched the cool glass, imploring it to break as surely as his heart now did.
"Mother..."
With all the rage and pain of over thirty years, he slammed a fist onto the smooth surface. It did not yield. Sephiroth growled, sliding Eskallanilna out of its sheath. Gripping the pommel tightly, the Heir yanked it backward then rushed forward, striking the glass. It imploded inward, sending a wave of aquamarine fluid onto the floor.
Of singular mind, Sephiroth tore the head off. Bolts shot from the severed cords but he paid them no heed. Much like his walk through the flames, the ex-General strode through the sticky liquid and around the volatile electricity, unharmed. Her voice melted into his mind, prompting him to smile and laugh with joy.
Sephiroth, my beloved child, thank you. Now, our task is not yet done here...
The ex-General spoke as he skipped a puddle. "No, indeed not, Mother. The head of the snake looms, his hissing tongue injecting poison into the Planet. President Russell Shin-ra sits on a throne made with the blood, sweat and tears of our people. Time for his tower to fall."
A pause...
Yes, him too. But did you forget the clone? My son, he is the key. We need him for the Reunion, remember? The fool has gotten himself captured. You must free him to ensure he will come.
A frown creased the Heir's beautiful facial features. Ah, yes...Must we help him? Surely if he were worthy of us the pitiful creature would clear his own path...What is our need of him, anyway? You never did tell me. Jealously surged through him. Why didn't Mother depend him to accomplish the tasks? Did Mother love the clone more than him?
Jenova answered his thoughts, as she often did. My dear sweet child, I love you. Never doubt that. This clone is a mere tool. You are the Heir, the one who will rule the Planet. He will serve his purpose then perish, like all the others. Dismiss such human fears and do as your mother bids.
Though his mother's words stemmed the tide of jealously, it did not dispel it entirely. Back at the Crater, Jenova had vaguely described her plan for the restoration of the Cetra people. None of the details seemed to include the clone. Her desire for the clone's rescue made no sense to Sephiroth whatsoever.
Retreating back the way he came, Sephiroth kept a hand on both Masemune and Mother. Again, he skillfully evaded the laser beams and turned a corner. As he walked down the poorly illuminated hallway, his fear over Mother's true intents for the clone haunted him. At first, the idea of the clones as convoys and meat shields appealed to him. This required action seemed...suspicious.
Sephiroth carefully concealed those thoughts under a layer of affection for Jenova. Mother had an unerring ability to drill into his skull with excruciating pain. Inflicting agony on one's own child defied the protocol as a parent, yet that might only be human thinking. After all, humans grew up weak and evil; why would he want to be raised by such means if that should be his fate?
At last, the Heir arrived at the holding station. The company had placed a single guard there, and like the prisoners, he was fast asleep. Regret stabbed at the former SOLDIER. When he headed the army, Sephiroth employed a system of honor—no taking hostage, no raping prisoners, etc. Killing a man in his sleep was hardly honorable.
Of course, that part of his life had ended. This pitiful specimen was human, and, thus, expendable. Quietly and cleanly, the Heir slid his blade through the man's ribs. The guard perished without ever opening his eyes. Then, Sephiroth detached a chain of rusted keys from the man's belt, ignoring the blood dripping from the red Shin-ra logo.
Not wanting to waste a single second on this errand, he tried all the keys on the door to Strife's cell. A slight click sounded at the last one. Satisfied, the ex-General tossed the keys on the guard. If the clone willed his friends free, he'd have to do so himself. Sephiroth was eager to head after President Shin-ra. Each moment he waited he feared that Russell would escape.
Turning on heel, Sephiroth's eyes caught the flash of a materia orb. He stopped, puzzled. There was something peculiar about that light—glinting not as materia normally should. His green-as-lifestream eyes landed on the cell adjacent to Cloud's. Inside the dank, smelly room, a girl with brown tresses lay on a pallet. Sephiroth gasped almost inaudibly. By the Cetra, he knew her...!
Yes, Sephiroth, it is her.
As if his hands had a mind of their own, they snatched up the keys. He opened the door silently, eyes locked on the girl's lovely face. Sephiroth could hardly stay his hands from touching her. When Mother showed him the image of her, the ex-General had anticipated that it was not a true representation of the original. That the girl would have scars, blemishes, anything. She did not. She was perfect.
Stay away from her! Jenova's voice came shrieking into his mind. She's the Crisis! She's evil!
She's also beautiful. Despite his handsome face and features, Sephiroth engaged in very little romance. He'd found the entire idea dreadful. Why open your heart to someone who can so easily hand it back to you in a thousand pieces? Still, the thought of a one-night-stand didn't appeal to him either. The whole situation was rather ironic, considering the number of formal and indecent proposals he'd received.
Here, now, lay a young woman who the Heir guessed to be a virgin. She was delightfully lithe and lovely. The ex-General's hands again betrayed him, seeking her hair. Soft. Delicate. Those fingers trailed down to her cheek. Also soft. Warm. What would it feel like, to take her? It had been so long since he'd experienced the warmth of a young woman's body...
Damn it! If you must have her, then do it and be done with it!
That voice was as a slap to the face. Startled, Sephiroth straightened. What had he been about to do? He may have abandoned many of his human values since his realization of his origins, yet surrendering to his urge, raping the young woman, was on a level of evil he abhorred. Killing the guard ensured his anonymity; deflowering the girl accomplished nothing.
No...That serves no purpose...He paused, considering something. Shouldn't I kill her?
Again, that grating sound in his head. No! The Vision dictates that she must live. If you kill her now our plans will surely fail. Trust me, Sephiroth.
As always. The silver-haired manleft the cell and lifted the keys. Lock or not?
Lock it. I need to test something later.
Shrugging, Sephiroth turned the key in the lock. Click. He returned the chain to the guard, sticking them in his coat pocket. Then the Heir hurried down the hallway. Blood pounded in his veins. His revenge was at hand. Leaving a trail of blood glistening the floor, he darted into the elevator and pressed the 70th button.
...
70th Floor
At last. He stood but a few feet from the President's private boardroom.
Every step he took sounded harsh in the ex-SOLDIER's ears. Yet he didn't stop, or slow down. If anything, the pace increased, until Sephiroth could touch the solid surface. This was it. A moment he'd envisioned for so long. President Shin-ra had agreed, no, insisted, on the use of Mako infusions on SOLDIERs. It was he that commissioned the Jenova Project. Indeed, the head of snake.
Sephiroth slammed his fists against the cold steel. Unyielding. With strength such as his, the door would not last long against his assault, but how much noise would result? If the disappointing scene at the Laboratory was any indication, the President could probably make hasty his retreat, avoiding the warm welcome Sephiroth had planned for him.
His green eyes gleamed. Yes, a welcome I simply can not allow him to miss.
Moonlight made less sound than the ex-General as he hastened up a set of steps. Arriving at a landing, Sephiroth shoved back the patio doors. Sharp and swift the wind slashed at his face, forcing him to bend as he peered over the railing. Hundreds of feet downward, the city lights burned, people scurried across the streets, business boomed as usual. Should he will it, the fall alone would kill him, lest of all the crash upon the merciless pavement.
Nothing could be colder than Sephiroth's laughter. Not the wind. Not the air. Not the entire Northern Continent.
"...Keep them under observation. I want them questioned once the Professor returns to his office. And I—"
"President Shin-ra, I'm so sorry to interrupt but there has been a disturbance downstairs—"
"Arrest the perpetrator and confine him to the same quarters as the Avalanche members. Now, get out of my sight. I have an important meeting to attend to."
Yes, Russell, you do.
With a deft hand, Sephiroth stripped the curtains off the window. His experience in the Gongaga jungles and the Nibel Mountains taught the former SOLDIER resourcefulness. Three minutes later, he fashioned a makeshift rope. Securing it on the railing, he tugged twice. Then, breathing lightly, Sephiroth swung over the balcony and dangled his body down.
Up. Down. For a span of a heartbeat, distance, dimension and direction merged in one sickening jumble. He'd forgotten how much he detested the mountain climbing exercise. I must remind myself to employ less drastic, and dramatic, methods next time. The sensation swiftly ended as he shattered the floor-to-ceiling window of President Shin-ra's private office.
As a thousand tiny dying stars, glass rained on desk and several nearby guards. Shots rang out, each of which Sephiroth deflected with Masamune and sent into the hearts of their owners. One. Two. Three. Four...Five bodies hit the floor, blood spilling like summon materia that's been melted. The President screamed, as loud as the breaking glass, descending into a state of shock.
"Please, please, don't hurt me...Please..."
Landing lightly on his feet, Sephiroth kicked a pane of glass out of his path. The moonlight shone as silver daggers through his hair, as midnight fingers through the cloak the former Head of SOLDIER flicked over his shoulder. Wind billowed both, affording him a threatening, powerful quality all the more so with the deadly Eskallanilna blade resting in his hand. Like the Angel of Death, he strode over to the President's table, eyes never leaving Russell's.
Bang.
Masamune came up in a blinding arch, cutting the bullet in half.
"Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. President." Sephiroth waved his forefinger. "That's hardly a way to greet an old friend."
Russell whimpered as he dropped the gun back into its drawer. Babbling, he fled as fast as his stubby legs would carry him toward the room's sole door. A door that sealed shut a moment later as Eskallanilna flew through the air and slammed into its lock. After several ineffectual tugs, the corpulent President of Shin-ra slumped his back against it, crestfallen.
That door wasn't coming open any time soon.
Yawning, Sephiroth eased his lean frame into the President's expensive leather chair and propped his feet. A ring of smoke rose from a cigarette the former SOLDIER lit. Sephiroth had little use for the human triviality, one that, if you believed the Science Department, led to a number of abnormalities. Still, when one is in Midgar, one must do as Midgarians do.
"Russell Shin-ra, why so eager to leave? I was rather hoping we could...talk."
The President's voice was startlingly strong. "What do you want, Sephiroth?"
"Talk. Like I said." With obvious distaste, the ex-General squat the cigar into the ashtray. "There's so much I want to hear—I need to hear...and you're going to tell me."
In a hypnotic moment deceiving the eye into unawareness, Sephiroth slid over to the steel door. Delicately he removed the blade and balanced it directly at the President. Spellbound, Russell stepped away, face torn by raw fear. Ever pressing forward, Sephiroth guided him to the chair. A less than benign shove and the President stumbled into the chair.
"Now, why don't we start at the beginning..." Circling until he came to a full stop in front of the desk, Sephiroth laid Masamune across the strewn papers. A peace offering, of sorts, as such between warring nations. Russell's eyes widened as he gazed at his own reflection in the steel mirror of the blade.
"...We...You...I...Don't...Know..."
Sephiroth masterfully sifted through the incoherent splurge. Much he knew already; some he did not. The confirmation of his origins tore at his insides, but the former SOLDIER concealed even the slightest shadow of torment. None could be allowed to witness the distress of the Heir. No, now Sephiroth savored the sweet cup of inflicted fear; drank of the terror in Russell's eyes.
His fingers trailed lazily along the impeccable length of Eskallanilna. The sight elicited more information from the President. Eventually, he sputtered the last tid-bit of his knowledge. Russell's pudgy hand stole over to the pack of cigarettes but the ex-General knocked them off the table to land in a heap of shattered glass and ribbons of blood.
"That's a disgusting habit, don't you agree?"
Nodding, the President whispered, voice harsh from both extreme anxiety and over-smoking, "You have what you want, now go and leave me be."
Two black-gloved hands dropped to the tabletop. "Whoever said I had what I came for?"
"Names! I can give you names! Of the heads of the Science Department—"
"I have all those." A hand cut through the air, a gesture of dismissal. "No, there's something else I have coming looking for."
In the obese condition the President suffered, it amazed Sephiroth that he hadn't yet suffered cardiac arrest. As it was, Russell gave a singularly satisfying start. "No! Then, what? Money? I have money! Here, lots of gil and materia..." Hauling out his designer wallet, Russell flung bank notes and gil coins at Sephiroth as if to shield himself from the deathblow.
"A paltry sum," Sephiroth muttered as his fingers fiddled through the pile. "Not nearly enough to sate the damage you inflicted upon me."
Desperate, President Shin-ra hurried through the fat wallet to reach his checkbook. "Name your price, then. A million gil? I could wire it through the bank of your choice and—"
"Not enough."
"What, then? A billion gil? I could manage if you let me assemble my assets..." His voice trailed off as he looked up to see the materia warrior shake his head of silver hair.
"My god, man, what would make you happy?"
"Your head."
"My—No!"
In one fluid motion, the former SOLDIER snatched up his blade and slid behind Russell. The President jerked but a hand clamped down his shoulder. "Don't move, else I decide to give you a mouth where your throat use to be."The squirming stopped. "...Do you not see? There are by no means in which you can absolve yourself of the hurt you've caused me. Not all the money in Midgar, not all gil on the Planet. I shall transcend mortality and embrace this birthright you have forced upon me." He halted, deep in thought. "In fact, in a way, I suppose I should be grateful to you—after all, not everyone is conceived to be a god."
"Does that mean you'll let me go?"
"Does a man thank someone who burnt down his house but ending up collecting insurance more than the house is worth?'
"...Yes?"
Laughter, mired in madness, filled the room. It swirled around and around much like the wind that flooded from the massive cavity in the window. Sephiroth's mind sunk into the endless moments of torment prorogated by this very man. His cruel birth. His isolation, indoctrination. All of it, to sate the avarice of a man who dismissed his anguish as mere advancement.
A smile. "Yes."
Then Sephiroth plunged six-feet of pure steel through the man's spine. Comical, it was, to witness the relief written across Shin-ra's face only to have it vanish a second later as the pain reached his brain. Salient like a spear, life-fluid gushed onto the ex-General's chest. The sight of it prompted him to laugh so hard his cheeks and sides hurt.
"None can know of my ascension...and as you well know, dead men tell no tales."
Sephiroth laughed all the way down the elevators of the Shin-ra Building.
"And thus began the tale of Sephiroth's bloody revenge. A long, sad tale, one wroth with confusion and hubris. If only..." Vincent's voice trailed off.
"If only...You say that a lot." Luke noted as he stretched.
"...I have many regrets."
"Like...?"
The ex-Turk glowered. "Like this interview, for one."
"Oh..." Luke's eyes widened, as if uncertain how to take that. Shrugging, the reporter bypassed it altogether, his cheery voice rattling on. "I'm sure there's plenty more."
"Plenty more?" The frown deepened. Indeed, the former member of Avalanche had many reasons to wish a Time-travelling materia existed, but he didn't appreciate having that thrown in his face. He contained the anger, though, determined to keep Chaos beneath the surface. It would be a shame to kill the reporter merely for a misunderstanding.
That is, after all, what Sephiroth often did. Kill, for even a slight.
"Yes, many, many regrets. It is, after all, my fault that this story did not have happy ending."
"Oh, how so?"
"Had I stepped into Sephiroth's life when he was still a child, things might have been quite different."
Luke bounced up and down, excited. "I guess so!"
Weary, Vincent turned his back to the reporter. He desired to keep his feelings hidden, to conceal his grief. "That, unfortunately, is only wishful thinking. Like the hope of the robber to escape, or of Bernstein's, or the President's. We are all damned. Remember how I mentioned judgement?"
"Yes, yes?"
"I, too, stand alone."