A/N: 100 pages of exposition... sheesh, at this rate, this story will be well over 400 pages by the time I'm done with it...
My thanks to Ruff Collie for her very much appreciated review.
This chapter was written to two of my favorite ambience tracks - Winternight by Pasi Sivula and Three Ta'veren by the same artist. Actually, all of Pasi Sivula's Wheel of Time-inspired music is great for writing to, in my opinion.
Threads of Spirit:
Troubling Thoughts
Ortsac Nomis had been trained well. Fort Condor's only Midnight Chocobo and lavished because of it, he could handle the steepest and most unstable of precipices and the most tumultuous and chaotic of rolling seas with equal skill and ease, and Wedge himself had taught the bird evasive and tactical maneuvers in case of the unexpected. The fighter had no doubts at all that Ortsac could handle himself perfectly well without its rider directing it, evading roaming monsters and the occasional Shinra outpost with barely a hitch in its oddly trotting gait. That gave Wedge time to think and coordinate, something that he had always preferred over brash directness. The latter tended to get you killed.
Shielding his eyes against the rising sun, he began planning, re-evaluating old ideas and modifying them to fit the current mold of information as any good commander would. A lot of the discussion last night had fit in very well with the plans that he himself had already laid months if not years ago, something none of the rest of them necessarily had to know, yet. After all, he had been subjected to enough broken deals and backstabs throughout his career to know how his way about contingencies and backups.
Before him, the last of the redstone canyons, jagged in their beauty faded away, and Wedge was greeted with a breathtaking view of the Great Ocean, sparkling and dancing under the early morning sun. But the natural scenery wasn't important to him. To his north, he knew would be South Corel, where Dyne was probably right now. The miner had left early last night, almost right after signing, claiming that he had "important things to deal with". Normally, Wedge would have been suspicious, but with a man so unsophisticated as Pahlavi, the fighter wouldn't put it past him to be simply telling the truth. And that was dangerous. Simple truth made for weaknesses, and weaknesses made for enemies. But what if the miner wasn't as ignorant as he seemed? Surprises were not much welcome in his line of work, and that one in specific could be particularly deadly.
But the mining town didn't occupy his attention for long. To the south would be the small reactor town of Gongaga, their first target. Wedge tried to scan the area for tactical information, but aside from rolling, forested hills that would provide excellent cover for infantry, it was too heavily wooded for him to make much out from the glance. If he hadn't decided that he wouldn't be delaying, he would have gone in for a closer look, himself.
Officially, reconnaissance would be the purview of Lord Godo and his special forces, the Anjian. Born of Continental supporters of the Wutain cause, the group – literally, Sharp Shadows – trained nearly from the cradle on infiltration, intelligence gathering, and sabotage. Able to blend in like any other "harmless" civilian on the Continent in any population center, members of Anjian had long ago inserted themselves into the major cities. Once the recall code was given, the sleeper agents would be powerful weapons, indeed. But could they be trustworthy? That was, as always, the problem. Wedge itched for firsthand information.
But information, officially, wasn't Wedge's concern. No, his job was delaying Shinra, splitting their capabilities by drawing more of their light-infantry/police forces towards Fort Condor. Once the Company had left the main cities more vulnerable to infiltration and attack, Wedge's "allies" could proceed with their tasks. Oh, Light, how it burned that he had to continue to play passively and defensively, but he had accepted the plan, if grudgingly, and it would not do to go against it so soon. That would be dangerous, and unnecessarily so.
As they were just about to begin traveling through the water, Wedge embraced a Protect Materia in his wrist guard and cast Barrier on himself, shielding him from the spray and wake that the Chocobo's travel would generate. Part of him was worried that the wake could be tracked, but speed was of the essence, here. And if there was one thing he was truly afraid of, other than waking up to find Sephiroth standing at the foot of the bed, it was getting wet. He knew it was an irrational phobia, but he was too busy fighting Shinra to seek counseling on the matter. Rushing waves surged towards him – and stopped short three feet away, repulsed by his invisible curtain. Wedge sighed in relief.
Defeating and toppling the Shinra Company had been his goal in life, indoctrinated in him by his father – his mother had died shortly after giving birth – almost as soon as he was born. Years of watching the damage Shinra wrought had merely further driven that belief into his mind, and now he barely had the time or will to think of much else. Truth be told, he didn't really want to think of much else. His persona was that of a nocked arrow on the string, taut on the bow to seek its one target.
Ever since that day four years ago, when a SOLDIER raid had seen his father dead and his brother taken away, never to be seen again, he had taken it unto himself to lead Fort Condor, and while he relished the opportunity to soundly hold Shinra at bay for so long, it was wearing at him heavily. He didn't need the doctor or his comrades to tell him that, for he knew that no one could keep up the tense strain for long. Maybe, once this was all over, he could step down and relax. But that was too far in the future for consideration.
Muttering tersely, Wedge gave the Chocobo a slight kick, urging him on to greater speed. Even knowing that his fellow freedom fighters were just as capable without him as with, he couldn't help but feel that if he didn't hurry, the Fort would be in ruins by the time he did arrive. He couldn't help but worry. The Fort was his home, and he knew nothing but it, and strife. If it had been removed, if it had never existed, how would he have lived his life? It was something to think about. When he had nothing else, that is.
As they continued plowing quickly through the foaming blue-green waves, Wedge couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the sight that came just to the southeast. A massive stone ziggurat, rising in tiered levels of obsidian and granite, protruded through the forests, radiating power and mystery and hidden knowledge. He had never been there himself – he had no time, frankly, and the territorial insects were incredibly bothersome even for one such as he – but he thought that one day, sometime in the future, he would come back to explore and divine the secrets hidden within the structure. Something like that had to have secrets, after all.
The problem was that when every day held another assault, or two or three, it became difficult to think strategically, and one had a tendency to focus every bit of concentration on the here and now. But a good commander had to remember that there was a tomorrow, with the problems and difficulties of a new day. However, try and plan too far ahead, and the enemies of the present tense would crush you to bits. It made for a tenuous balance, and a delicate one. He was not sure, himself, if he had managed to find a working solution.
"What the...!" Wedge gasped, jerking the reins to tell Ortsac to stop. He needn't have bothered. The Chocobo stood still, rooted with fear, brilliant black plumage rising in warning.
He stared with wide eyes at the Temple. The entire structure was glowing a soft yet vibrant shade of whitish green. As Wedge watched, the very top tier of the building flashed a nova of pure gold, burning and lustrous, and the fighter had to seize the reins tightly to keep the Chocobo from bolting. Ortsac had never done so before, but neither he nor Wedge had ever seen anything like this...
The glow seemed to coalesce at the top of the Temple's spires, forming a translucent orb of radiant emerald light floating in the gray skies, bathing the area in a surreal glow. With a sound like a long roll of thunder, the orb split into two shapes that vaguely reminded Wedge of Wutain Serpents, coiling and undulating against one another. Soon, fully separated, they rose into the roiling clouds and streaked towards the north as if driven by immense winds, leaving the Temple of the Ancients dull and lifeless once more.
Shaking his head, Wedge tapped the reins, and Ortsac complied quickly, seeming glad to be getting away from the scene. Did I really see that, or was it just another messed-up hallucination? The Light knew that he had seen enough of those recently. No matter. He had more important things to be dealing with than lights in the sky. He went back to thinking of how he would present his information to his top tier of advisors and commanders.
The rest of the journey passed swiftly and uneventfully, despite a narrow encounter with a roving Shinra scout-patrol and an irritating brush with those goddamned frogs in the nearby forests. Relieved that his White Cape protected him from the more... annoying aspects of their attacks, he cursed at the distraction. He did not need nor want distractions, right now. The reactions among his advisors could be... difficult to predict.
At the base of Fort Condor, he nodded once to the sentry there, who saluted back, and handed him Ortsac's reins before climbing the knotted rope leading into the worn beaten caves that he called his home. Upon entering the first cavern, he immediately slipped back into his leadership role, firmly pushing the phenomena that he had witnessed earlier out of mind.
Seizing a megaphone, he called out. "We're holding a strategy session to discuss the outcomes of the trade meeting I attended. I want all unit commanders and higher in the conference room at 10:30. That is all."
He headed into his personal chambers to shower and change, still thinking of how to best present his information. He needn't have bothered.
"So, this Andrax, he speaks of a large number of lesser attacks instead of a few large ones, yes?" The bombardment coordinator asked when Wedge spoke of the tiger and hound analogy.
Wedge nodded with a neutral mien. "Essentially, yes. We'll want to spread out their forces as far as possible, which should be fairly easy, considering the logistics involved." The men and women around the table nodded. Gongaga and Nibelheim were almost impossible to aid, due to their remote location, and transferring equipment and men from Midgar to Junon and back would be possible only through aerial means. Those were easy to take care of.
His senior intelligence officer frowned, drumming restless fingers on his coffee mug. "Why not many large attacks directed at both the Company and the President, then? What would happen if the President were to be eliminated?" he asked hypothetically, then answering. "The Vice President is still too young to fully succeed his father, and that would leave the department heads and the military command authority to fight for the post. I think that would be to our benefit."
"I daresay Sephiroth could take it quite easily, and any regime led by him could be far worse than anything old Kristoph could ever manage." Wedge remarked dryly. A Shinra led by the General would be... bad.
Intel replied with a lazy smile, hardly befitting his hardened scarred face and missing teeth. Even he had served on the front, and he had the scars to prove it. "Sephiroth could take power any time he wanted, if he wanted. The leading belief is that he simply doesn't care about it... it leaves one to think what he does care about, but I'd feel confident betting that he would stand to one side and wait until someone else came out as the winner. And that means that no one could feasibly win." Then the man frowned again; it was by far his most common expression – news was more often than not grim any given day of the week. "However, President Shinra would be a difficult target, indeed. He is well guarded and well informed, and he has no qualms about going into hiding for a month – or even a year – if it meant that he would survive a potential assassination."
"But what about..." Treasury chimed in.
And so it had gone on, for over three hours. All in all, his senior personnel had seemed quite enthusiastic about the proposal, and the rank-and-file commanders appeared to be glad that they would be getting aid soon. As he had given his tactical orders, Wedge couldn't help but smile crookedly. This was going well, better than he would have thought.
As the personnel filed out to contact their various sponsors and the usual mercenary groups, Wedge nodded to his lieutenant, a lithe brunette woman in her middle years who was deadly serious and specialized in explosives and data sequence manipulation.
"Ilene, secure the special line." he gestured at the black cellular phone in the corner of the conference room. It was almost never used, and for good reason, but this communiqué would be of deadly importance. If there was ever a time to contact someone in Midgar, then it was now. He couldn't wait any longer if he was to have any chance at all in his operations.
The woman looked at him askance with inquiring blue eyes, but she didn't question him as she fetched the appropriate materials. The use of the Uno'yi pad was completely safe, but it was also extremely tedious, and for normal calls, an encryption algorithm would have been enough. But this was hardly a normal call.
Once the key was set to the proper alphanumeric designator – 2990M7590S4890C was the prefix of the sequencer – Wedge activated the phone for the first time in his life and dialed a number that he had been told of six years ago by his father, who had warned him about its use. The message was not long of necessity. Even with the added security he had placed on the call, it was best to limit the length of the transmission so as to deny Shinra's technicians much time to track the source. At least the call wasn't interrupted.
Turning to face his not-quite friend, he smiled genuinely. "Ilene, there's another part of the plan that I didn't explain to the others. I would like your input on it, as usual."
She shook her head and chuckled softly. "As usual, Wedge. So you really don't trust this Andrax guy, do you?" Not waiting for a response, she continued languorously. "You know, if this has anything to do with B.J., I can tell you right now that you ought to have started that part of the plan years ago. I'm sure it would have yielded quite a few fruitful returns."
"First of all, how do you expect me to trust a man who more than likely lied to all of us on more than one occasion, plans on using viral warheads on Shinra, and thinks he has the Planet talking to him? Damn it, I only accepted because he said that he'd help us out, if that weren't a lie, too. It was a business deal, just like any other. You know how these things work." Wedge sighed and shrugged, sitting back down onto his lightly padded chair. "And about B.J., I didn't call to deploy for active maneuvers yet. That call was for simple recon, contact work and the like. If we need to use B.J. offensively, we'll have to wait for now. It's still too risky."
"So you don't trust Lord Godo and the Anjian, either, huh? They were supposed to handle the intel side of this op, remember? Our role was support only, for now, at least." Her mouth tightened. "Well, actually, that's going by what you've said." She paused, unconsciously twiddling her thumbs out of long habit. "It's not that I don't trust you, per se, but you ought to trust them."
"I trust Godo as much as I would any other prospective ally." Which meant 'not very much'. "Perhaps more. We both share a common purpose. I think it's best if we get some information on our own. The Anjian probably aren't completely objective."
"And B.J. is? Damnit, I know it's no use to argue about this, what with the order already given, but Wedge, you really ought to listen to your advisors before you do something rash like this!" That was one thing he liked about her; she always gave what she saw as the truth, no matter how little he wanted to hear it. "You could be compromising their operational safety with a move like that! Sometimes, I wonder how if you even trust me anymore!"
Wedge grimaced, looking out of the window to survey the Shinra troop camps below. They would be beginning their morning drills soon. Just another day... "Look, no need to get all upset, alright, Ilene? You did fine work for my father and you do fine work for me."
"You still didn't tell me what your plans are," she reminded him with a pointed look.
A sigh. Wedge clenched his fists and turned to glare at her, though not angrily. "Are you sure you want to know what my plans are?"
"Of course!" she replied in tones of unusual enthusiasm. Then, in a more serious voice, she continued. "How else am I supposed to keep you alive?"
Wedge sighed again; she had no idea what she was getting into. Then he told her how he intended to act.
Her tanned face blanched into a shade of white, and she frowned, muttering. "Are you absolutely certain that you want to go through with this?"
"Of course. How else am I supposed to keep you all alive?" It sounded nothing at all like how she had said it. Then he laughed.
Rodney "Rude" Stephens hated firearms of all shapes and sizes with a passion, hated the barking sound of the discharge and the acrid smell of the powder and the clouds of fine red mist that would rise about the victim. They were always victims, to Rude, those who had been the targets in a shooting, no matter their status, wealth, or social standing before. It was one of the few beliefs that he held unwaveringly.
But despite that, he practiced with them daily, despising it and yet embracing it. Let the media call him a hypocrite. He didn't care what any of those idiots who called themselves reporters said or thought or did, unless it directly threatened his life – and let them try. He had better things to do, and he had his reasons.
The indoor range, adjacent to the Shinra Building Gym, was already busy when Rude walked in, full of Turks-in-training in their blue-striped black and normal Army personnel in more casual outfits. The two groups always stood apart, Rude noted. How sad. An army's intelligence wing had to co-exist and function with the army, not outside of it. Some people never learned.
Selecting two twelve-round boxes of 5mm armor-piercing – he didn't like the hydroshock rounds that almost everyone else preferred; why would you ever want to inflict the immense pain of a hydroshock when the surgical precision of the armor-piercing worked just as well? – as well as three of the standard combat training targets – he didn't expect to be attacked by circles or dots any time soon – and a set of ear protectors, he walked to an empty slot on the range.
Opening the small case that contained his stainless-steel long-barrel Red Nada T600 automatic, he closed his eyes behind his glasses and assembled the gun by memory, a task made easy by over half a dozen years' of practice. As the well-oiled steel ratcheted and clicked together, and muffled shots rang out periodically in the background, Rude couldn't help but let his memory dwell on that night, sixteen years ago... he had failed, then, but he wouldn't, next time. But there wouldn't be a next time. There couldn't. A visual inspection of the weapon told him that he hadn't failed there, at least.
Shaking his head slowly, he attached the cardboard target to the spring-clip on the range traveler, setting it to ten meters. As the target, a silhouette of a man with outlines of the heart and brain, moved downrange, he tried to let himself relax, as he had been taught. But he couldn't, not with the overwhelming sense of rage and guilt that almost consumed him, every time he let his mind dwell on that night.
When the target moved to its correct position, the cardboard turned sideways, making itself nearly invisible. Rude rolled the timer to a random setting and pressed the button. Without a sound, the target began traveling back towards him. He continued to look downrange, hands at his side. The memories were coming back, and he did not resist.
Something was wrong. He had known it ever since stepping through the threshold of their house in the Sector Two slums, back from just another normal day at his job packaging pharmaceuticals. Running a hand through his thinning hair – the damn air at the chemical plant must have been doing something to it – Rodney began walking towards the kitchen for a glass of water to clear out the dust in his throat.
"Mom?" he called. His parents were usually home by now, the nineteen-year-old thought. "Dad?" It wasn't like them to be out at this hour. "Alyssa?"
That when he smelled it, the wrongness; a foul, acrid tang that clogged his nostrils beyond what the chemicals had already done. He knew what that odor was, as anyone from the slums knew. Blood. Shrugging off his overcoat hurriedly, he threw open the door to the dining room, which led into the kitchen.
The stench was stronger, here. It hit him at once, even before his eyes took in the sight before him. Max Stephens lay sprawled on the ground, limbs askew and sightless eyes open in a gesture of shock and surprise at his death. Four ragged holes in his chest oozed blood onto the tiled floor, adding to an already sizeable puddle of it. The part of his brain that was still functioning told him that it was a fairly recent wound. None of the blood had dried yet. He tried to scream, but couldn't; his throat was so dry.
The rational part of him was telling him to leave. Now. He stood no chance against anyone with a gun, and getting himself killed here wouldn't do anyone any good. Every other fiber of him, though, screamed at him to go on and make sure his mother and Alyssa were all right, despite the vast evidence to the contrary. Damn it, his parents were elderly and peaceful, and his sister was just a little girl! What the hell had they done to deserve this?
Running towards the staircase, another part of his hope died. Lying facedown on the ground, Irene Stephens could almost have passed for sleeping peacefully, except that the thick carpet beneath her was stained crimson. Grabbing his mother's cane from her cold, limp fingers and shivering, he took the steps three at a time, booted fleet banging on the wood. He thought he heard faint sounds of scuffling from upstairs. Maybe there was still a chance...
"Idiot," he heard from his right upon reaching the landing. A cold hard object impacted on the side of his head, and everything faded to black.
When he next awoke, the sounds were much closer. He tried to combat the enormous headache rippling through him, attempting to rise, and failing both. Groaning, he realized that he had been bound at the ankles and wrists, sitting in his sister's favorite chair. Shit. No. His eyes opened despite the pain.
His sister's auburn eyes pleaded silently at him, and he felt a rasping growl rising in his throat. He had one arm clenched around her throat, another idly caressing the curves of her body. Her hands had been tied behind her back, Rodney noticed, and a dirty white kerchief muffled whatever noises she was trying to make.
"This is what happens when you get in the way of Anshiva. Tell the Boss that this was a warning. The next time, I'll be going for him directly," the man sneered. "In the meantime, I think I'm going to enjoy myself."
Rodney tried to scream, tried to protest that he had no idea what the man was talking about, that they had nothing to do with him. This was all a mistake! But he couldn't; another wad of cloth was tied against his jaw, too. There was nothing he could do. The logical part of him took down the man's physical description for later use – moderately tall, with burning blue eyes and sandy brown hair, cut short. A regal face was contorted in rage and anger, and perfect white teeth were clenched in a grimacing hate.
The human part of him wanted to but couldn't stop his sight from being processed or his ears from operating. Eyes closed, the images still burned in his mind, and he could do nothing against the sounds. Soft, faint whimpers and shrill shrieks, interposed with cruel laughter and the occasional crack of a blow. Silently, Rodney raged. Alyssa was only fourteen; she was too young for this! No, there was no age for this. The memory of her eyes, faintly accusing, resurfaced, and he struggled against his bonds, to no avail.
After what seemed an eternity, the sounds slowed, but the tense quiet was suddenly pierced by two deafening cracks. He felt like he heard metal scraping, but everything else was silent. Rodney kept his eyes shut, afraid of what he might see if he opened them.
It took Rodney a while to realize that the man was speaking. "Now, I could kill you and be justified in every way if I did, but I don't think I'm going to do that. I'm going to let you live your life full of shame and remorse, every day a waking hell! That's what the Boss did to me; he deserves the turnabout!" The voice was full of bitterness and hatred, yet also fatigue and confusion near the end. Was this guy sane?
"Now, someone's going to find you sooner or later. Don't bother trying to report me to the police; they can't touch me. Have fun with the rest of your life, you son of a bitch." The door opened and closed. Silence. The timer clicked.
And Rude immediately jerked from his reminiscence, long years of training making his actions instinct. His left hand moved in a blur, snatching the pistol from his coat pocket as the target turned to face him. At the same time, his left foot moved slightly backwards as his body crouched and turned a tad to the side. The right hand joined the left on the polymer grips when the gun was just under halfway up, and the gunsights appeared on the bottom of his peripheral vision. The moment the two sights were aligned on the forehead of the target, his finger depressed the trigger twice, firing so that both ejected cartridges were airborne simultaneously. The technique was called a double-tap, and Rude had practiced it for so long that the sound of the discharges almost blended in the air, and the echoes were just returning from the neo-steel backdrop when the empty cartridges clinked and bounced on the concrete floor. Two holes, barely a centimeter apart, dotted the target's forehead, between and slightly above where the target's eyes would have been. Flipping side-on against the spring-clip, it rather well simulated the fall of a dead man to the ground. Yes.
"Good shots, Rude." A familiar voice, serious and deep, brought the Turk back from his reverie. "How are you feeling?" Tseng asked with some concern.
He didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. The bald man merely shook his head and shrugged uncomfortably, working the slide on the automatic to reload. He wasn't done, yet.
"We'll find him some day, Rude."
And then he would be done. But that wouldn't mean that his family could live again, and it wouldn't change the fact that he had failed. But it would be a starting point. Two shots rang out again, and now there was a ragged hole in the target's forehead. It would be a good starting point, indeed.
Who would have thought that Shinra No.26 would have come down to this? Cid Highwind never would have guessed that Shinra's finest invention – he had no interest in weapons – would end up as nothing more than a landmark, or a symbol for times past. He never would have thought that that would be because of him.
But soon, that would change. Or so that fellow Andrax had said. A lot of what he had talked about had sounded too good to be true, something the pilot had pondered these last two days since returning to his hometown. He had decided in the morning that doing nothing would lead to an inevitable failure, while going along with Andrax merely gave him a chance of death, and however low the chance of success would be, it was better than nothing.
Leaning against one of the rusted support columns near the old launch pad, he cast his eyes about him warily. Wiping the early afternoon sweat off of his brow with a gloved hand, he shouted at no one in particular. "Where the bloody hell are my rockets?"
During the testing of liquid fuels, back when it seemed that Shinra had actually cared about space travel, he had crafted and manufactured several dozen medium-range ballistic rockets and hundreds of smaller ones. And now, he couldn't find a single one of them. "Goddamnit!" he muttered, before leading off into a stream of other curses.
He was interrupted by a soft voice from behind him. "Um, Captain, sir, don't you remember?" The pilot bloody well did not, saying so irascibly. "We sold all of the functioning ones to Junon over a month ago..." That was Shera, the flaming idiot of an engineer/mechanic who had been responsible for ending his career, right when it had seemed as if nothing else could possibly go wrong with it.
But no, that wasn't really fair, either, was it? He had contributed equally by acting as he had, pressing the emergency shutdown button like that, but she had set that situation up in the first place, delaying and delaying and delaying with those goddamned oxygen tanks. If she could have worked just a BIT faster, or if the manufacturer hadn't been a lazy numbskull... who knows what might have happened? If space travel could have proven profitable – damn those capitalistic bastards for thinking of nothing else – maybe Mako energy never would have really become so popular, and Andrax wouldn't have been so royally pissed off with Shinra. But if that were true, then Cid would have been in no position to complain, still the star pilot of Shinra. After all, he hadn't resigned until he learned of what they had done with his budget. Which brought him back to why they had cut his budget, and that brought him back to the annoying woman who now thought herself in his debt. Damn right she was.
Then he thought back to what Shera had said. No more rockets...Bloody hell. Without those, he couldn't deliver on his end of the contract, and that meant that Andrax would have no obligation at all to help him out... the man had said that he would have been perfectly capable of carrying out his attacks without his help anyways, only that the rockets would have made it easier. Damn it. He took out a cigarette and lit it, puffing away angrily. He had thought about quitting for various reasons, but he didn't inhale, and it helped his concentration.
"Is there any way we could possibly manufacture more?" That was a fool's hope, but he wasn't going to just give up his dream a second time without a fight, indeed. And maybe he would turn out lucky... maybe. Though Lady Luck sure as hell didn't seem sympathetic to his cause, and hadn't been for the last... what, four years?
Shera looked at him inquisitively – she was a trained engineer, after all, if not an especially competent one. "No, they took all of the fabrication sets with them when they left, and we don't have the necessary raw materials and resources any more, even if they hadn't. Besides, why do you need those rockets again? You seemed pretty eager to get rid of the last batch."
There was no accusation in the query, only curiosity, but Cid snapped back, thoroughly irritated. "That's none of your damn business!" Then he betrayed himself, adding, "I just needed to do some tests; that's all." Ugh, had he really been glad to sell them off? Probably. A few months back, he had been ready to give up. No more.
He wondered if he would have to clue Shera in on all of this. Probably not. Still, multiple independent re-entry vehicles – MIRVs – had never been a part of his specialization, and he wasn't really sure how he was supposed to load biological agents into the warhead component in the first place. Truth be told, military warheads hadn't really been a part of his specialization, either. And as luck would bloody well have it, both of those areas were under Shera's field of knowledge. But if he didn't have anything to fire, there was no point in telling her, yet. More likely than not, she'd find some way to screw it up for him. Again.
"Hmm, I think I might just have a few left over from my independent studies." She paused, slightly crestfallen. "However, the guidance packages are all messed up... I haven't had much of a chance to work on them, yet."
Cid, on the other hand, was exultant at the news. "Well, why didn't you say so before? I'm sure I could fix the targeting – "
"No, I don't think you can." Shera interrupted tersely, then reverting back to her normal demure voice. "They were exposed to the thunderstorms a month ago, and somebody, though I have no idea who, must have messed up the electromagnetic data somehow... Short of replacing it entirely, I doubt that they could ever work again." She shook her head, turning to head back inside. "And before you ask, Shinra took the replacement packages back to Junon, too."
"Goddamnit!" Cid punched one of the rusted steel girders, ignoring and savoring the brief pain. "Is there anything they didn't bloody take?" he asked in exasperation, not really thinking he would get a response.
"I'm afraid not, Captain." Shera looked truly woebegone at the prospect. "They didn't seem to want to leave us anything at all that might have still worked." She made a face. "But that doesn't mean we don't have a lot of useless junk lying around everywhere."
Like you, he thought, muttering darkly and kicking the girder, which groaned in protest. An ominous squeak sounded, the joins on the metal popping and bending. The Captain looked up at the cause of the noise and, after a moment of shocked realization, smacked himself on the head for his stupidity.
"No, Shera, I think what we have right here is just bloody well fine," he remarked with a laugh. Much better than a landmark or a symbol, indeed.
SOLDIER Commander Zachary White was not at all pleased, and there was nothing he could do about it. The two factors combined made for a very frightening display, indeed. In fact, he was the only person in sight, the normal workers having had left for "various reasons" – he had thought the employee sign-out log extremely amusing today. And yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that, too. The man wondered idly how they'd ever get real work done, at this rate. It's just like Shinra to be inefficient and useless like this.
Sighing slightly, he settled back and continued practicing his weaves. This "maintain-a-presence" thing had seemed such a good idea, in the beginning, but now he was starting to doubt the validity of it. Hojo hadn't even left his private laboratory for sixty-three hours, now! The one time Zack had seen the Professor, on that first day when the Wutain was entering the laboratory, the conversation had not gone well.
Zack had seized the puny man by the shoulder and forced him against the wall, directing every bit of force he could into a murderous glare. "What are you doing to Aeris, Hojo?"
The Professor simply sneered at him. "My orders are confidential. As usual. And you, SOLDIER, don't have the authority to override that confidentiality."
"I know your 'tricks', demon." Zack growled at him. "And I have my own plans for the girl. If I find out that you've harmed her, you will see just how skilled I am in the darker arts. I assure you that I practice often." Though not as practiced as the scientist, he was well versed in interrogatory techniques like any SOLDIER First-Class.
Hojo laughed in his way, harshly, with a tinge of madness. "The hybrid's condition is somewhat tenuous, but only because of her own decisions. All of my actions thus far are completely covered in Shinra's protocol docket."
"Hybrid? She's as Cetran as Sephiroth is!"
"Of course..." Hojo smiled wickedly. "I... talked to her, and she admitted to not knowing of her ancestry. She didn't even know it was the Planet speaking to her at all! She blocks out the voices of her ancestors, and she shuns the inborn power that is her birthright! How is she Cetran, then?"
That thought had never occurred to him... well, he would have to have Sephiroth educate her, then. "Consider yourself warned, Hojo. I will be speaking to the President about this."
Luckily, Sephiroth had been whisked away to meetings most of these days, or else it would have been much, much worse. There were some things that Zack simply couldn't comprehend about the General's mind, but this was pretty clear. Sephiroth would have probably attempted to force his way in, and win or lose, that would have most decidedly not have ended well.
As he attempted to intertwine flows of Barrier and Ice – combining White and Black magic was incredibly frustrating, but the results were quite satisfying – the elevator opened, and a man he had not expected strode through with a combination of unease and resignation.
"Cloud? What are you doing here?" In his surprise, he let the weave collapse. Big mistake.
Sheets of ice rippled from the source of the flows, spreading outwards rapidly. Oh, damn... Hurriedly weaving a Magic Barrier around himself and Cloud, he winced as the waves literally crushed everything else in their path, grinding the furniture to dust and obliterating the wall columns. After a few seconds, the flows ceased, and the warning klaxons immediately began.
In the midst of swearing loudly, he heard a timid voice speak out. "Erm... I'm here for follow-ups for the Mako treatment, sir." Oh, right. Cloud was still here. "Um... what was that, anyways? It looked pretty cool."
"That," observed a familiar sharp voice, "is what happens when ignorant and foolish boys attempt to work on higher levels with Materia." Hojo had opened the portal to his interior laboratory, sneering at the two of them. Zack noticed abstractly that the scientist's hands were covered in blood, thick and crimson.
He was going to comment on that, mouth opened, when another familiar voice intruded. "Zachary... how many times now have I told you not to experiment with weaves in a non-expendable setting?" Sephiroth's voice a barest hint of disappointment, but then added. "I like the weave combination, though. Ice and Barrier... I never would have thought to use those two, together, and especially not in that way..." He began laughing openly in his way, softly but richly. "I'm glad the meeting didn't end a minute earlier. That would have been... painful." Keying his radio, he spoke into it. "Masamune to HQ-Base. The situation is under control. Tell security to stand down. Out."
The black-haired man gave a weak chuckle and grinned sheepishly. "Ah... Damnit, Seph. I wasn't planning on letting it collapse like that... but thanks for the compliment." And thanks for pulling security off of me. Then he looked back at Hojo, and his voice changed audibly. "Now, Hojo, tell me the truth. What's going on in there!"
The professor snorted. "Many things, few of which you would understand, and none that concern you." He turned to go back in. "You still have no clearance."
"Aeris concerns me!" Zack shot back at him, then regretted it. Sephiroth's mouth had set itself back into its usual line of disapproval, and Zack inwardly sighed. Think before you open that mouth of yours, idiot!
Hojo merely took out his keycard, swiping it and pressing in the code. "How... touching. I'll be sure to remind her of that." The door clicked open.
"Tell the truth, Sakai." Sephiroth vested the last two syllables with a river of scorn, and Zack could see the Professor blanche. "I know how you joined the company, healer," Sephiroth continued in similar tones.
What was this? Hojo, a healer? And why did Sephiroth call him Sakai? I guess that guy has an interesting file, indeed. One of these days, I'll have to find some excuse to pull it... or, I could just ask Sephiroth when he's in a good mood. Hojo's reply interrupted him, though.
"Very well, since you seem to care so much." The scientist had turned to face them, smiling smugly. "The hybrid attempted to kill herself earlier, if you must know. I was tending to her when your protégé here made all of this fuss."
Zack shook his head vigorously and prepared to reply, but Hojo was already gone, the thick steel door sealing behind him. "GODDAMNIT!" he shouted at no one in particular. "Something's up. And I don't like the sound of it," He added in a somewhat calmer voice.
"Indeed. She did not seem the type to consider such an action casually," Sephiroth concurred. "Sakai must be pressing her harder than I thought... It looks like you were right. I must speak to the President about this."
Zack looked around for Cloud; the blond seemed to have left discreetly. Wise man, that one. "Alright. First thing tomorrow." The President didn't entertain 'guests' this late, though the sun hadn't yet set. "And why were you calling him Sakai?"
"It's a long story." Sephiroth deadpanned and then sighed lightly at Zack's insistent look. "Keiji Sakai – as you know him, Tideki Hojo – is the most sadistic, cruelest inhumane genius that I have ever met and hope to meet. He was originally a Healer, but he was detained after they found him torturing his patients." Sephiroth grimaced at that, and Zack couldn't help but do the same. The two men moved towards the elevators; after all, their official hours were over, and neither wanted to have to deal with the mess.
"Instead of accepting the choices Lord Godo gave him – quite generous, considering the depth and magnitude of his crimes – he defected to us, long before the War started. The President accepted him immediately, of course – no matter his faults, Hojo is brilliant – and gave him a new identity: reconstructive surgery, a complete "family", and the works." Sephiroth sneered at that. He hated people who hid behind a false front. "Keiji Sakai was assumed dead, and no one had any reasons to believe otherwise. Indeed, many celebrated his death with open glee."
The cleanup crews were beginning to arrive, and Sephiroth stopped speaking as they exclaimed over the damage and the costs. Zack felt Sephiroth weave a cloak of Manipulation around the two of them, and they entered the elevator. The General swiped his keycard with a little bit more force than necessary and set the target to the ground floor.
Then he continued. "He rose through the ranks very quickly, becoming head of the Science Department within a year of his entrance. But I'm sure you're aware of his... flaws." Zack was surprised to hear Sephiroth curse lightly. The man never used profanity. "He enjoys giving pain to others, delights in it. He is half insane, but many who are brilliant are somewhat unstable, as well. The President does not care: so long as Hojo serves well, he can take his pleasures however he wishes to – that's the President's unofficial policy regarding all of this. I don't even think the man knows what's going on in there."
"And that's the kind of person who's been treating Aeris these last four days?" Zack didn't wait for the answer, vesting every once of disgust he could muster into his next word. "Shit."
Sephiroth shook his head. "My thoughts exactly," he replied in grim tones.
They traveled in silence after that.
It was over. Part of her heart wanted to keep on fighting, resisting until the end, but her mind had already resigned from the game, accepting defeat. How long had it been? Five, six days? Aeris didn't know – her sense of time was completely skewed by the continuous sleep deprivation forced upon her by the burning rivers of pain running through her. That, and the fact that everything blended into everything else – the pain, the hurting was always there; it was just the manner that varied every so often.
Whatever time it was, Hojo wasn't in yet, but that didn't always mean the pain stopped. No, the man would set the weaves to run regardless, and she would be in agony throughout the night, or whenever it was. It completely drowned out her other senses – all fled before the oncoming waves of excruciating torment. But this time, the flows hadn't been set when Hojo had left, and that worried her. Changes in the routine always meant more suffering for her. But now she was able to think... in a fashion. Days without food and water and sleep had ravaged her mind, and she could never seem to concentrate before a relapse claimed her back into the realms of thoughtless screaming that she had visited all too often in the last week.
From her uncomfortable position on the table, she gazed down at her own body pitifully. While the direct mental torture that Hojo seemed to favor left no outside mark, his... other methods did. Bruises and gashes, long slashes and deep cuts covered her nearly from head to toe, and old, black blood from days earlier mingled with fresh, red one from the last session. Blotches of discoloration spoke of internal bleeding, and every breath she took felt like a dozen blades were pressing against her. Oh, Light, but it hurt. She was almost thinking that she would die, and she realized with a pang that she would have preferred death to this eternal agony. Then she remembered that he would never let her die. He had made that very clear, the time she was given her first choice.
She felt the harsh metal bonds holding her down on the table open, and she opened her eyes slowly, carefully. The pain had stopped hours ago, but she still groaned when Hojo grabbed her shoulder and forced her in a sitting position, muscles protesting, cracking and twitching. Then he pushed her off the table, and she fell in an undignified heap on the tiled floor. She had no energy or desire to move. At least, in this position, the pain came from different directions. Even that was welcome from the sameness.
"Get up," Hojo stated dryly.
Aeris sighed but slowly eased herself into a standing position, leaning against the table for support, wrinkling her nose at the offal that covered it. One of her lessons had been to never disobey the Professor, no matter what. She did not hold any real hope that someone would save her from this, but she would take no steps to speed up her demise, on the off chance that someone, anyone, would come for her.
Hojo smiled. "Good, hybrid." He made a note never to call her by her name, Aeris realized. It didn't seem to matter anymore. "I am going to give you a choice."
Reaching inside of his coat, he pulled out a long dagger and laid it on the side table. Aeris was no expert on weapons, but that edge looked wicked, serrated and with cruel barbs and spikes, and she gulped despite herself. It looked... painful.
"You may either choose to get back on the table, or you may pick up the knife. If you take the knife, you may attempt to attack me with it. I am unarmed. Think about it. If you kill me, you can escape fairly easily. My keycard is here," he took it out and placed it on the table, "and the guards have no orders to restrain you if you attempt to leave." Then he sneered at her. "But if you fail to kill me, you will suffer for it. Choose. Now."
Aeris stared at the weapon. Here was her chance! Without thinking, she snatched it up and held it with one unsteady hand. The sensation was new to her – she had never taken up any implement of violence before, but this was clearly a time for exception. Trying to hold it up, her muscles failed her once more, and the knife hung limp in her hand.
The Professor merely smiled at her. "Good choice, hybrid. Now, I'm going to assume that you've never fought with a knife, before. I would advise you to aim for the face. Injuries there are quite damaging psychologically as well as physically, and it's fairly easy to bleed someone to death through severing the capillaries."
Aeris tried to advance on him, but she hadn't been able to move her legs ever since she arrived here, and she had to force her burning and fatigued muscles to carry out her orders. The result was a pitiful staggering motion towards Hojo, almost losing her balance in the process. The knife shook in her hand, almost dropping to the floor.
"Or, you could aim for the intestines and stomach," he continued, almost as if not caring at all. "It is a large and easy-to-hit target, and wounds to it can cause enough pain to allow for another, more precisely deadly strike."
Groaning, Aeris lunged at the scientist, but he merely stepped out of the way as the girl lost her balance and fell to the ground. Her last conscious thought, morbid and hopeless, was to turn the knife upwards and so impale her as she collapsed. She simply couldn't take this anymore.
She heard Hojo "tsk" in annoyance, and suddenly she stopped falling, the point of the blade mere centimeters from her chest, rising and falling rapidly. The flows of Air re-arranged themselves to hold her in a standing position, and the Professor took the knife out of her limp hand as she bowed her head and cried quietly. She knew what was coming next. She had failed, and now she was going to suffer for it.
"Foolish, arrogant, insolent hybrid!" Hojo hissed, holding up the knife in a stance that looked far more professional and trained than Aeris'. "You will not die under my care. You will think of it, hope for it, but I am not so unskilled as to let a specimen this valuable pass away before I have wrung every tiny bit of usefulness from it."
She felt the knife rustle through the air and stab through her left shoulder, where the arm met the torso, and she cried out in pain as Hojo twisted the hilt 90 degrees before wrenching it back out of her, tearing and biting deep. She watched in numb shock as crimson blood flowed in rivulets down her left arm, but she didn't have time for much else before the blade cut into her right shoulder moments later, repeating the process. A gasping sob ripped out of her. She couldn't feel either of her arms at all, just a terrible burning.
"However, I often find it enjoyable keeping one on the very edge of life, bleeding away their spirit until only a fragment remains. I am told that the process can be very, very tormenting. Many of the subjects I have worked with emerged insane after I restored them." Another fountain of blood bloomed, this time on her right thigh, where the leg joined the hip. "Would you like that? To be freed from the constraints of your mortality, for a time. Hmm?"
"I..." Aeris was unable constitute a response as she felt the blood rising in her throat, metallic and bitter. She felt as if her limbs had all been replaced with burning wool, limp and helpless even as it hurt her.
Hojo shook his head, driving the knife back into her left thigh, provoking another yelp from the girl. "No, that would be much too easy for you, hybrid. You think this is bad?" Laughing, he pulled out a large green orb. "Air has more than one use."
It started all at once. Invisible hammers pounded away merrily at her bones, as burning whips flogged at her and cruelly hooked claws dragged themselves over her flesh. Knives and daggers and other blades cut and tore and pierced, and she was unable to control the screams that overtook her. Aeris tried telling herself that it was only Air; it seemed to make it seem lighter, more bearable. But in truth, they were harder than cold steel, wielded with a force no human could rival.
The world seemed to fade into white – all there was for her was the pain, and the screams, and the unending torment. She had no idea how long it was before it finally ended; when the pain at last died down and her sight returned, she was shivering on the ground, lying in a pool of her own blood as more flowed from the numerous wounds that she had just sustained.
Every day thereafter, the new "treatment" had been given to her along with the old one, and Aeris did not know which one was worse. The amount of blood she lost from the former more than made up for the slightly lesser amount of pain given. Well, she knew that together, the two had broken her. She had to admit it – her survival was paramount, here, and that meant that she would have to go along with whatever Hojo had in store for her.
Relaxing her muscles as much as she could on the hard steel surface, she tried to rest, knowing that it was impossible. Her nervous system had by now been so systematically damaged that only messages of pain were received with anything approaching alacrity. And besides, Hojo had said once that if he found her asleep, he would... do what he had did the first day. That was warning enough; Aeris couldn't even bring herself to think the word.
She no longer slept or dreamed, but from time to time she would have hallucinations of her former life, back when she was still free, able to enjoy herself. She remembered the smiles and hugs of her foster mother, the beauty of the flowers... would she ever see one again? Those kinds of visions had her scrambling to evict herself from them. Aeris simply could not deal with the past. More tears leaked from her eyes, swollen shut in shades of purple and blue.
A simple click of the door announced the arrival of the Professor – that, and the fact that all of her nerves seemed to stretch taut, and her heartbeat quickened. Her body, consciously or not, knew what was coming and tried to prepare in whatever ways it could. Opening her eyes as much as she could – they were as bruised as the rest of her – she saw him carrying a vial of a viscous purple-brown fluid, as well as a large yellow Materia.
Aeris almost screamed at his first words. "I am going to give you a choice, hybrid." This could not possibly bode well.
"There are only a few ways that this can possibly end, hybrid," Hojo remarked, taking up a syringe from the side table. "The authority may someday tire of this, and you will be thrown back into the slums, in your present condition. You would not survive long." He began filling the syringe with practiced ease. "Or, you could be transferred to another project, one that has a much lower survival rate. I do not doubt that you would die fairly quickly there, too."
"Or," he smiled, "you can allow me to Manipulate you in a way so as to force you to serve me unconditionally, and I would allow you to live in a much more comfortable setting. No more pain, no more torture, and you would be able to go back into the world. Then you could serve my own agenda." He gave a low laugh. "You would be educated on your birthright as a... Cetra... and allowed to tap into your true potential. Once my goals have been accomplished, I will free you of the Manipulation and allow you to go completely free."
The reply was obvious to Aeris. "Please, let me serve. Please... just no more hurt." Her voice was dry, choked with the tears and dried blood in her throat, and it came out only as a whisper, harsh and rasping.
"Good, hybrid." Hojo placed the Manipulate orb against her temple. Instinctively, Aeris tried to flinch away from it, but it felt so... cool and soothing. That was such a welcome relief. The Professor continued, "Now, for this to work as I intend it to, you must want to serve me, utterly desire it, with every particle of your consciousness. If you do not, I will consider it a sign that you changed your mind, and we can continue as before."
Aeris whimpered. She didn't want to go back to that... not after this. I want to serve him, and serve him well, fulfill his every desire. I want to do his bidding, complete his every order. Let me serve... Please, let me serve! Please... "Please... bind me."
Smiling, Hojo looked down at her, and she felt a wave of sensuous pleasure wash over her, indulging and soothing and cooling every inflamed fiber of her. Moaning as it assuaged her pain, she barely heard the Professor speak above her. "Serve." And something in her soul locked in place.
Suddenly, two parts of her mind fought for control within her. One, fervent and devoted, proclaimed that the scientist was a god among men, to be worshipped and served with every possible amount of enthusiasm possible. That part of her wanted to beam and proclaim her undying devotion. But the other replied vehemently that this wasn't right; this wasn't natural. He had hurt her, abused her, and tortured her! That part of her wanted to scream in rage and shame for having voluntarily accepted this. But the former ideal's strength was growing with every rapid breath she took, and the latter was tired, weary after days of attempting to resist. It was retreating, dying, and the new Aeris surfaced.
Hojo must have felt the locking, too, because he grinned and stroked her face. "Excellent, Aeris." It was the first time she had heard him use her name. Inside of her, she felt a rising sense of happiness at having pleased him, and while that tiny part of her mind screamed and shrieked that this was wrong, it soon faded, and Aeris smiled back.
"Now, one last treatment, and you'll never have to see this room again. Do you want this?" he gestured at the syringe.
Aeris wasted no time in responding. "Yes, Professor. Please."
"Good, Aeris." The needle went in smoothly, and the thick liquid began to flow into her.
That was when she knew something was wrong. The pain, dulled temporarily by whatever it was he had done, came back full force, with greater intensity than ever before. She felt like it was some poison, coursing and burning through her veins, a menacing shadow that seemed to wax and wane with every breath. The part of her mind that was her came back, somehow pushing back the gibbering and fawning image that the Manipulation had forced on her brain.
Struggling to find breath between screams, she forced out between gritted teeth, "You. Lied. Hurts." She drew a ragged breath as the needle pulled out, but the pain remained, surging through her.
"Just as I thought... the two don't mix well. Hmm." To her horror, Hojo refilled the syringe, walking over to her other arm. "So, it seems you fought and bested the outward sign of Manipulation. I'm pleased. But the desire to serve will last until your dying day, hybrid."
"No..." she managed to groan before it penetrated her skin, adding more of the vile fluid into her. This time, everything went black, as the shadows swirled around her.
She wasn't aware of how much time had passed. The lights never turned off, and Hojo was jotting down notes in the corner. The pain from whatever it was that Hojo had injected into her had died down, but it still felt... strange. Foreign. Then she realized with a start that all of the other pain had died down, too. With widened eyes – the bruises around them was gone – she noticed that her body barely bore a wound, only soft and tender pink flesh where open rents had been before. Even the pain from the mental torture seemed to have faded; her nerves certainly didn't seem to be in spasm anymore. He... healed me? It was the only possibility, and it was impossible. Then she realized that something else shared her consciousness.
""Aeris, my darling daughter... I was so afraid for you."" The voice was completely unfamiliar to her, but from the spreading sense of contentment, she knew that it was her mother. Her real mother.
"Mom...?" she ventured cautiously. Hojo did not seem to have noticed.
""Yes, it's me, daughter. You shut me out for so long..."" The voice seemed saddened at that last.
"I'm so sorry... I didn't know... I forgot," she replied with shame.
""Worry no longer, daughter. I'm here for you now. Hojo thought that he could use the pain to further harm you, but he underestimated your spirit. Thank you for embracing me again... I've been so lonely..."" her mother told her in a soothing tone. ""It's going to be all right, now.""
Aeris repressed a sob, knowing that it would alert the Professor. "But how can I ever escape from here?"
""There are ways, daughter. Now that we can speak to one another, I will tell you what you can do. In the meantime, I will give you strength and sustenance; you will no longer have to be afraid, any longer. I watched you through your agony and pain and suffering. No longer, Aeris."" The voice embraced her, and Aeris tried not to cry tears of happiness at the reunion.
"So you're the one who healed me?" she asked.
""No, daughter. You healed yourself, in the way of our people. I merely gave you the energy and the will to do so. With it, you can never die, so long as you embrace your birthright.""
"Thank... thank you..." Aeris murmured with joy. How could she have ever shut out this glorious person from her mind, before? She wanted to berate herself for all of those years that she had lived without her mother to guide her. Then she realized something that left her with a pang of remorse and shame.
"I'm sorry, mother, but... I forgot your name. Please forgive me," she directed at the warm, soothing presence in her mind.
Her mother hesitated a bare moment before answering. ""Rest, daughter. The next few days will be trying on your soul. Do not forget who you are, and remember above all else that what words Hojo speak, they are never true unless it serves his interests that they are true. But I will never lie to you.""
She remembered now, five – six? – days ago when she had first been brought up here. "Hojo said your name was... Ifalna."
Again, that hesitation. ""Hojo lies with such ease... My name... is Jenova.""
"Of course, mother."
A/N: The, plot, it thickens!
I'll be heading back to the U.S. for high school in a few days (China was fun!), so the next update may be somewhat late in coming, as will all future updates. I'm not sure how busy schoolwork will be, but I'll try to fit in at least half an hour every night to work on this.
Please review. I know I kind of changed the pacing regarding time, but it was necessary for this chapter and what happens in it. Hope it wasn't too confusing.
Good day,
Zuranh