.3.
Sephiroth was surprised when the girl ran from him, back down the stairs they had just ascended. The wound she had received was more severe than he had initially thought; the bullet had missed the bone and was now embedded firmly in the muscle. If it wasn't removed quickly and with precision she could lose all mobility in that arm. Not that it really mattered; chances were that when Mother was through with her she would be in much worse shape. He had noticed the way her body trembled, both from shock and from fear, and therefore had assumed she would put up no further resistance. When he was proven wrong and the girl fled from him in an astonishing burst of speed, he swore vehemently and leapt in pursuit. He had almost reached her when she staggered on one step and tumbled forwards. He lunged for her too late and rushed forwards as she fell from the stairs to the floor. Blood was running down her face from a gash above one eye, and as he knelt at her side he could hear her harsh gasps as she struggled to bring air into her lungs.
"Relax," he told her, "Don't fight it."
But she was fighting it; it was instinctive when the wind was knocked out of one's body. She gave one last furious gasp before her eyes rolled back and she went limp. Sephiroth cursed softly. Alarms were sounding all over the building, and it was only a matter of time before the body of the President was discovered. He lifted the girl, who had resumed normal breathing upon falling unconscious, and held her close to his chest. Her slight weight would not be a hindrance. He headed back up the stairs. The President was slumped over his desk, blood pooling on the scattered papers and dripping in a steady stream onto the floor. Sephiroth allowed himself a savage smile of satisfaction at the scene before turning and running headlong at one of the many windows spanning this floor. He tightened his hold on the girl as they crashed through the glass, the force of his momentum causing it to shatter entirely. Then they were falling, the floors of the building they'd just left rushing by ...
A rooftop rose up to meet them and he landed with an easy, feline grace. He was by far more stronger, swifter, and agile than any other human and it was obvious in his movement. He took off running, a blur to anyone watching. Buildings rose and fell as he leapt from roof to roof with ease.
He allowed himself, for a brief moment, to feel exhilarated; He had found the girl and rid the world of the loathsome Shinra leader. The main reason he had been at the Shinra headquarters was to liberate a piece of Mother from Hojo's lab. Upon freedom said piece had fled, off to become a part of the whole. Soon, he knew with a certain grim satisfaction, Mother would be complete.
And then all the world would tremble before Mother and Son.
It took him short minutes to leave the wretched expanse that was Midgar behind, even with the burden of bearing the girl. Perhaps, he mused, this was a quicker method of escape than it would have been had she been conscious. His extreme speed carried them over the grasslands, and into the forests that from a distance bordered Midgar. He could run for hours at the same pace before any sign of weariness; upon glancing down at his burden he realized she needed immediate attention. Certain that they were deep enough within the woods to avoid any unwanted attention, he slowed to a halt in a small clearing. Setting down the girl as gently as he could, he set about creating some method of warmth. It was a small matter to gather fallen branches and twigs, and soon he had enough tinder to support a healthy blaze. He used one of his materia to ignite the wood, and soon a fire was burning, creating a comfortable, encompassing heat.
He turned his attention to his unwilling companion. She lay where he had placed her; on her back before the fire. She was pallid, and her brows were creased in pain even in her unconscious state. He frowned. Had she sustained more injuries form her fall? He ran his arms down her arms, feeling for any bones that felt out of place, or any swelling indicating internal injury. He lightly ran his hands down her side, paused, and ran them back up. There it was ... a rib out of place. It was either slightly broken or cracked, most likely the latter. He sighed; he had nothing to bind her side with, and leaving it as it was would only serve to slow their pace on the rest of their journey. He wore no clothing that would be suitable for a binding; it was all leather and metal. He eyed the hem of her pink skirt, and proceeded to rip a wide swath of it off. It fell now to her knees, baring her calves and her bulky, worn boots. They were, he decided with some amusement, the ugliest boots he had ever seen. He had to move her to bind the cloth around her, and as he supported her weight she made a soft sound of pain. He set her carefully down again and tied off the makeshift bandage.
His eyes moved then to her shoulder, noting how the arm of her dress was thoroughly soaked with blood. There was no other way to treat the wound than remove the bullet, and he knew from experience that it would be unpleasant. Without something to numb the pain and the proper instruments, extracting the bullet was going to be excruciating for her. He set his jaw and went about pulling the shoulder of her dress away from the wound. It stuck to the wound, the blood having long since dried, and as he ripped it free she made another small sound. He watched her for a moment to see if she would awaken, but her eyes remained closed and so he continued. Once the wound was bared, he leaned in for closer inspection.
It was, he thought grimly, a good thing she was out cold.
He rolled up the sleeves of his coat, baring thick, muscular arms. Removing from where it rode secured to his belt his small canteen, he twisted the cap off and dribbled some water onto the wound. Squinting in the firelight, he dabbed away the dried blood as best he could. And then, as gently as possible, he inserted a finger into the wound, fishing for the bullet.
Green eyes, much different that his own, flew open, and she screamed.
.x.
Rending, searing pain.
That was what ripped her from the depths of the void she had so thankfully been lost within. Her eyes flew open, and she could not help the agonized cry that passed her lips. Her vision was filled with green and white, and as she struggled away from the source of the pain she realized it was Sephiroth, crouched over her, his pale hair falling like a curtain around them. He withdrew his hand abruptly, and it came glistening in the firelight. It was covered in blood, she saw, and then realized it was her blood. She attempted to get up, get away, but a different pain pulsed through her side and she fell back with a gasp.
"I'm trying to help you," Sephiroth said in an irritated tone. "Be still."
"No!" She said, trying to sit up again, much slower. "You were hurting me."
"It will hurt much worse if you don't let me remove the bullet."
"What happened to me?" she murmurred, running her hands over her side, and finding it bound tightly with cloth ... cloth that upon closer inspection seemed to belong to her tattered dress. Indeed, it seemed the hem of her dress had been raised a few inches. She looked a question at the man kneeling before her.
"You fell," he told her with an unfriendly look, "when you ran from me. Down the stairs. You cracked some ribs."
The memories, so vivid and alarming, came rushing back. Her eyes rapidly widened as she stared at him with a mixture of intense loathing and fear. "You murdered them!"
"Indeed," he said, and the smile that crossed his face was chilling.
She began inching away from him, unable to do much more before collapsing in agony. He watched her impassively for a moment, before reaching out and catching her uninjured arm. "Where," he asked, sounding amused, "do you think you're going?"
"Away from you!" She snapped, her ire rising at his tone. He shook his head slightly, and using her arm as leverage pulled himself closer. She shrank away as he loomed before her, overwhelming, imperious. He gestured to her wound with his bloody hand.
"If you would like to retain the use of your arm, I need to remove the bullet."
She glared at him. He merely raised one eyebrow, awaiting her decision. She sighed, and it hurt; she winced.
"Do it," she said quietly, and averted her eyes as he focused his attention once more on her exposed shoulder.
"Prepare yourself," he said, and she tensed. The intensity of the agony that rolled through her was staggering; she bit down hard on her lip but couldn't contain her cry. She clutched at him with her free hand, fingers gripping his shoulder in an attempt to relieve her own pain. His fingers, probing the wound, caused patches of black to cross her vision. She closed her eyes against the sensation and concentrated on breathing, on anything but what he was doing. Just as she began to black out, he made a satisfied sound and pulled away. She looked up through watering eyes to see him holding a small, bloodied bullet between his fingers. She relaxed her body then, and released his shoulder. The pain was still acute, and pulsing, but she was relieved all the same. He tossed the bullet off to one side and gripped her skirt. Before she had time to protest he had ripped off another wide swath of cloth. Her hem was now above her knees. He used the cloth to deftly bind her shoulder, and then leaned back on his heels. His remarkable eyes moved to her face; she was unprepared as he reached out with one finger and gently brushed at her lip. Startled, she stared at him. He held up his finger, and it held traces of blood.
"Your lip is bleeding," he said by way of explanation. She raised her own hand and tenderly touched her mouth; when he had removed the bullet she had bit down with such force she had split open her own lip. He rose suddenly, turned to the fire.
"Get some sleep," he said, and his voice was once again imperious and unfeeling. "We travel at dawn."
She wanted to ask why, and where they were going, but as if anticipating her questions he looked at her, and the warning in that glance was enough to keep her silence. He walked to a tree not far from the fire and sank to the ground with the trunk at his back. She watched him warily for a moment, and his eyes flicked to her.
"Sleep," he said. "You need it. I do not."
And with those words, he returned his gaze to the flames. She swallowed, and eased her aching body to the hard ground. There was enough heat from the fire that she didn't feel the chill of the night, and slowly, too slowly, sleep claimed her.