A/N: For MOG, in the style of MOG.

The Master's Ball

Sephiroth toyed with his jar of clear pink hair gel. He mused on how however much he applied the cold, pink sticky mess, it never coloured his albino hair.

"Amazing," he murmured, setting the jar down and running a bone comb with the word "Zack" engraved on it, through his hair.

He dragged the comb through his hair in an attempt to encourage it to spread out a bit more. A rustling behind him made Sephiroth flick his gaze a little higher on the mirror to watch his black- clad cousins (he had taken to calling them ghouls lately) shuffle in. The leader of the group held a golden tray with a single purple ball sitting at its centre. The afternoon light streaming through his office window caught the purple ball and sent it aglitter.

Sephiroth spun around, his gel- clumped hair sticking to his cheeks.

"That materia . . . it's like nothing I've ever seen before," the tall clumpy- haired mutant exclaimed in gleeful excitement.

"Master . . . " began the ghoul who held the golden tray, " . . . this . . . Ma-"

"Yes, yes," Sephiroth cut in, flapping his hand impatiently and sending pink gel from the bone comb flying in all directions, "Materia right?"

"Ma . . . Master . . ."

Sephiroth shook his clumpy head and leapt over his desk in a smooth, easy motion. He was mildly fond of their goth ways but his ghouls just embarrassed him when hey talked. It was all too clear who inherited the smart genes in the family, Sephiroth thought to himself as he shook his gel- damp head. Walking over to his ghoul cousin, he picked up the purple ball.

"Looks a bit strange," Sephiroth began, turning it in his hand, "oh and look, there's a button."

"Ma-"

"Right, right," Sephiroth dismissed distractedly, "I wonder what will happen if I just-"

"Master-"

Whoosh!

"Aaaaargh- it's sucking me! GOOD JENOVA IT'S SWALLOWING MY HEAD, AH! Ah! Aaaaargh!"

"Master-"

Shake, shake, shake, ding!

"- Ball"

" . . ."

"What . . . do now?"

"Master in Master Ball."

"Big trouble."

" . . ."

"Let him out?"

" . . . Maybe . . . next year . . ."

The End