Hi, everyone! I want to get some content warnings out of the way. This story contains gore, violence, alcohol abuse, suicide, animal abuse, non-graphic mentions of sexual harassment and assault, and a description of harm against an infant (although this occurs in a dream sequence, if that makes a difference for you). This may not be the darkest fic you'll ever read, but I just want to make sure you all know what you're signing up for by continuing to read!

Enjoy!

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It's easy to lose yourself in medical school. Three years, eight years, twelve years pass, and you're approaching your late-thirties with little to show but dark circles under your eyes, hunched shoulders, and thousands and thousands of gil in debt. After graduation, the plan was to rejoin your family in your small hometown thirty minutes east of Mideel, but your hometown already has a doctor. Even if the spot were open, it wouldn't pay enough to let you crawl out of debt before you turn one hundred. Still, disappointment tugs at your heart as you steer your job hunt to other communities. Perhaps the clinic in Mideel is hiring.

But it turns out that the clinic in Mideel is not hiring. The town has exceptionally healthy residents (quite possibly due to its hot springs), and no additional doctors are needed. So you broaden your search and accept that your dreams of returning home to be close to family must be put on hold for an indefinite stretch of time. Your family is disappointed too, you know. Your dad jokes that he could orchestrate something to hurry your town's current doctor into retirement, and you mom tells you that you could always help your sister on the farm while you wait for a local opportunity to appear…but you want so desperately to be in the medical field that you turn her down. It's been your dream since childhood and, besides, you didn't just spend twelve years in medical school to farm.

You send out applications to hospitals in Gongaga, Junon, Kalm, and, because you're really desperate, Nibelheim. When you can barely scrape together enough gil to make your next student loan payment, you start looking for work outside patient care, even putting in an application to Shinra's Science Research Division. It's no hospital, but they are looking for someone with a medical background, and a job is a job, right? Gongaga, Kalm, and Nibelheim kindly reject you, but Junon extends a tentative offer, contingent on you working for a lower fee than usual, given that you're just out of school. Your brain scrambles to calculate if you could survive on the salary they're offering, and your throat closes, and tears blur your vision when you realize that you would still have to work a second job. But no other jobs have responded, and you need a paycheck now.

So you pack your three boxes of belongings and your houseplant that's refused to die despite infrequent waterings, and say goodbye to your family. Your mother throws her arms around your shoulders, your father squeezes your hand firmly, and your sister waves good-bye with dirt-stained fingers. You catch a bus to Mideel, a ferry to the continent, and rent a car to carry you to Junon. You're feeding the last of your dented gil into a mako pump just north of Fort Condor when your phone buzzes in your pocket. The cracked screen is rough under your thumb as you swipe to answer the call, dropping a few precious gil in the process.

"Yeah?" you answer irritably.

"Good morning, I am calling on behalf Shinra's Science and Research Division." a courteous woman's voice responds. "We reviewed your application and are very impressed. We would like to interview you, face-to-face, and offer you a position within the Shinra Science Research Division should everything go well."

You immediately feel chagrinned by your irritated greeting. Then you wonder why you're concerned about upsetting this woman when…

"I'm sorry, but I have already accepted a position elsewhere." you say, your tone much more professional than it was a moment ago. "Thank you for your consideration, though."

"Perhaps learning about salary and benefits Shinra can provide might encourage you to reconsider." the associate interjects smoothly. It's a good thing that she can't see you through the phone, because your jaw nearly hits the ground. The salary is quadruple what the hospital in Junon offered you. You thank her, schedule a time to meet, and then call the Junon Hospital to inform them that they will need to find another applicant. When the highway splits and you can either turn west towards Junon or north towards Midgar, you keep your car pointed north.

Midgar is just as much of a sensory overload as you remember. You park your car in a garage between the Slums and the Plate and sleep in it, your head nestled awkwardly on your three boxes of belongings, your legs hooked uncomfortably around your houseplant. Metal beams groan and mako lights hum throughout the night: Midgar's metropolitan lullaby.

The next morning, you walk into a cafe and act like you're waiting for a friend before ordering, but then duck into the bathroom when the barista turns his back. You brush your teeth in the sink, splash water on your face, and hope that the lighting in the Shinra Building is kind to the ever-darkening circles under your eyes.

You have never felt so small as when you enter the Shinra Building. Everything about the building screams power, wealth, and control. Your scuffed shoes are too worn to make even the tiniest squeak on the highly polished floors. Energetic, well-groomed, Shinra employees bustle around you with purpose. You hope that no one notices the wrinkles in your outfit from having slept in your car.

The interview takes place on the sixty-fifth floor in a small, dingy room that is the antithesis of the extravagant lobby below. There are two other people in the room, but you can only clearly see the associate who called you yesterday. The other person sits in the corner, their features obscured by shadows. Their glasses, however, catch the sparse light and shine like a predator's eyes in the darkness.

The interview goes well, although it's not what you expected. They don't seem to care much about your credentials, what you studied, where you spent your residency, or your technical skills.

"We have all of that from your records." the associate assures you when you ask.

Instead, they ask whether or not you can keep secrets. Can you handle the sight of blood? How much blood? A lot? Good.

They want to know where you see yourself in five years. Married? With kids? No? Excellent. Can you handle long periods of isolation? Can you follow orders without question? Would you let your own ethics get in the way of science? And yes, all experiments are approved by the Shinra Ethics Committee, don't worry.

The questions catch you off guard, but you respond with answers that you hope the interviewers want to hear. The salary and benefits Shinra offers are fresh in your mind and you are desperate to get this job. You did the math last night and realized that this salary could pay off your debt in two years.

You continue to answer their questions, "No, working with severe injuries does not bother me. Yes, I can tolerate the smell of mako. No, I don't mind long hours. Yes, I value keeping my work life private."

"Where does your family live?" catches you even more off guard, so you stutter when you tell them the name of your small community. The associate marks it in her notes. "Are you close to them?"

What was the correct answer here?

"I haven't lived with them in twelve years." you answer honestly. For some reason, instinct is telling you to not mention the week-long stretches between semesters that you spent with them during holidays, eating, laughing, and singing together as one. You fail to mention the picture of them sitting in your wallet too, worn from years of looking at it every time homesickness shoots through you.

Your answer appears to satisfy the associate. Her pen scratches against the paper as she writes your response down.

"Well then," she says with a toothy smile. "That's all we need from you. You should hear from us within the next few business days."

You wait for the compulsory "Do you have any questions for us?" but it doesn't come. The associate shuts her notebook and begins to stand. You're halfway to your feet as well when the quiet figure in the corner leans forward out of the shadows. An involuntary shudder crosses your skin as the light reveals his greasy hair, pock-marked skin, and aura of wrongness that surrounds him.

"I have one final question." he says, his voice surprisingly soft. He looks up at you, but you can't see his eyes behind the steely glint of his glasses. "Do you have any qualms about live experimentation?"

"…what do you mean?"

"I mean what I said. Do you have any qualms about experimenting on live subjects?"

The word yes gets stuck behind your teeth. Although not explicitly stated, you know if you answer yes, you'll lose this job. You're stuck. You've already thrown away your other option in Junon. Your bank account is in the single digits. This is your last chance, your only option. You square your shoulders, straighten your back, and respond with a resolute "No."

The man nods, and a slow, hideous smile crawls over his face. "Very well," he says. "You're hired."

"Professor Hojo?" the associate asks.

"You heard me." Professor Hojo says. He stands and exits the room, calling over his shoulder, "I expect you in the lab first thing tomorrow."

You stay with the associate to sign the necessary paperwork - a veritable mountain of it that would have taken days to read through if the associate didn't rush you through. Most importantly, you give her your bank account information. Shinra immediately deposits 1,000 gil into your account as a welcoming gesture. You get tears in your eyes when your phone gets the notification that the transfer went through.

You get yourself a hotel room that night, so you stop by your rental car and grab your toothbrush, pajamas, and tomorrow's work clothes. After a moment's thought, you grab your houseplant too. It looks like it could use some water.

It's not until you step out of a steaming shower, dry yourself with a plush, white towel, and settle onto your bed to flip through channels before sleep that Hojo's words come back to you. Live experimentation.

The hell does that mean?

You try to stay focused on the t.v., some show about people surviving alone in the wild, but the words slip and slide around your stomach like rancid cream.

Live experimentation.

What, like on animals? Monsters? Then…sure, why not? You cut open plenty of animals during medical school, learning how to steady your hands while holding a scalpel. Then again, those animals were already dead. Could you do it to a live creature?

You shake yourself, laughing lightly. Live experimentation doesn't have to mean cutting something up. It could also be an observational study. Medicine trials. Behavioral manipulation. There's no reason for your brain to run away with the ludicrous idea that you've just signed up to become an "evil scientist."

But the strange interview questions cling like fog to your mind.

Can you tolerate excessive amounts of blood? If your supervisor asked you to do something that you don't personally agree with, would you put your own feelings aside to accomplish the task at hand? Do you have any qualms against live experimentation?

You turn off the t.v. and lay down heavily on your pillow. Unease eats moth holes in your chest. You place a palm against your heart, hoping to calm your nerves. It's just normal new-job jitters. And, after all, you remind yourself, if it's not a good fit, I can always leave.

You show up the next morning bright and early at the Shinra Building. The lobby is just as intimidating as it was yesterday, except today you have a bright, new, Shinra employee badge to show that you now belong at the company, despite your scuffed shoes.

The elevator is jam-packed with other chattering employees, surprisingly chipper for the early hour. Perhaps the free coffee bar on the third floor has something to do with that. People filter out of the elevator as it ascends until it's just you who reaches the sixty-fifth floor. When you exit the elevator, antiseptic, mako, and something metallic hit your nose with such force that your eyes water.

There is no welcoming committee waiting for you. You wander down an empty hallway to the room where your interview took place less than twenty-four hours ago. That room is now deserted, but just a bit farther down the hall you see a shadow flit from an open doorway. You enter the room after a hesitant knock. "Professor Hojo?"

"Hmm?" He turns to face you. He's wiping his hands on a stained cloth. There are rust-colored flecks on his white coat. "Oh, it's you." he says as though he forgot you were coming. "I need you to clean up Station E in Room 12. The cleaning supplies are in the closet."

He's out of the room before you could ask for more direction or remind him that you are a doctor, not a custodian. But you need this job, so you chant your salary in your head as you grab the cleaning supplies.

Since Hojo neglected to give you a full tour of the lab, it takes half an hour to find the correct room and station. But once you find the station, there is no missing it.

You understand immediately why the interviewer asked if you can tolerate large quantities of blood. The table, waist-high, metallic, and covered with restraints, is coated in a coagulated pool of it. The cloth partitions that separate Station E from Stations D and F are decorated with crimson splatters, some in borderline-impossible locations. What could make blood spray that way?! Something sticky squelches under your feet

It takes you a solid minute of gaping before you're able to unglue your feet from the ground and get to work. Live experimentation. On what exactly? What is big enough to leave behind that much blood? Your mind supplies the answer, humans, but before the full impact of that possibility can take hold in your psyche, you see tufts of fur scattered across the table and floor. You release a breath you didn't know you were holding. It had been an animal after all. A really big animal. You feel bad for it, of course, but you're relieved it wasn't a human.

It takes three hours to clean and sanitize Station E. There is nothing to be done about the cloth partitions. They're stained beyond repair. You stumble while carrying the bucket of the now-red-tinted cleaning solution to the sink, and the liquid slops over its side and onto your scuffed shoes. The worn, soft leather eagerly drinks it in. It's definitely time for new shoes.

You find Hojo at a computer and let him know you're finished. The words are barely out of your mouth when he snaps "Come here."

You take a seat next to him and he shoves a thick stack of spreadsheets in front of you. "Enter these into the computer. I don't have time for such tedious work."

And, again, he's gone before you can remind him that you are a doctor, not some college intern. Then you remember that you are being paid quite a great deal of money, so you scoot your chair over to the computer and take a look at the spreadsheets. They're ancient; handwritten in loose, spiked script that is near-impossible to decipher. You squint your eyes and crane your neck, your body settling into a familiar posture learned during countless hours of study. The notes are gibberish to you, written in a shorthand that you have yet to learn, but Hojo already has the spreadsheet on the computer labeled, so all you have to do is enter numbers, P for positive, N for negative, and the occasional asterisk denoting an anomaly. It's brainless, mind-numbing work, but the smell of blood and bleach wafting up from your damp shoes reminds you that it might be a good thing you'll be stuck behind a desk for the remainder of the day.

Hojo still isn't around when the clock strikes five. You mark your spot in the spreadsheets and unfold yourself from your hunched perch at the computer. You're getting quite good at navigating the lab's twisting, crisscrossed corridors, so you're confident that you'll find Hojo to ask him if you can leave. You catch a glimpse of another employee in a lab coat; the first coworker you've spotted all day.

"Hi, I'm-" you start to introduce yourself, but he cuts you off.

"Yes, the new hire. I'm Joe. Good to meet you." he says shaking your hand, but his tone implies it's anything but good to meet you. You notice that the sleeves of his lab coat are tinted red too. Maybe he also had a Station E to clean up somewhere. "So this means they are expanding the program…damn…"

When it becomes clear that he's not going to elaborate, you say, "I'm looking for Professor Hojo, do you know whe-"

"No." Joe cuts ou off again. "Although, if I had to guess, I'd say he's with some new live ones, fresh from the Slums."Abject horror must have flashed across your face, because Joe quickly adds, "Monsters, I mean. The Slums are full of them. Although…" he looks as though he's wrestling with an internal dilemma. "Actually, never mind. You go home, get some rest. You have to be tired after your first day. I'll finish these up for you." He takes the stack of spreadsheets from your arms.

You thank Joe and leave the lab. You pick up a new pair of shoes on your way back to the hotel. You book three more nights and resolve to find an apartment over the weekend. You have just enough energy to stuff a bag of chips into your face and to call your family to let them know that you survived your first day of work before you fall sideways onto your pillow and fall asleep. Your dreams twist through blood-splattered rooms lined up like spreadsheets in neat columns and rows.

Despite the strange dreams, you're pleased to note that the dark circles under your eyes look lighter than yesterday. Your shiny, new shoes also offer a confidence boost as you stride into Shinra. This might not be the job you were expecting, or even hoping for, but there is a certain thrill of being part of this grand, progressive company. At a medical clinic, you might have changed a few lives. At Shinra, you might change the world!

Those lofty thoughts are driven from your head when you step out of the elevator on the sixty-fifth floor and come face-to-face with a livid Hojo.

"Is there any reason why you left without finishing those spreadsheets?!"

You fumble with your words. "Sir, Joe said that he would fi-"

"I needed these this morning." Hojo hisses between clenched teeth, seeming not to have heard you.

Your skin grows hot. "I'm sorry, I didn't kno-"

"I didn't think something so obvious needed stating. Because of you, I'm going to look unprepared for today's board meeting."

"I'm sor-"

"Finish them by five, or you're fired."

Resentment rises in your throat, but you swallow it. How could you have known the spreadsheets needed to be done this morning when he didn't tell you?! Rather than call him out on poor leadership, you merely duck your head and mutter, "Sir."

Your fingers fly faster than ever over your keyboard. You skip lunch and refuse water all day so you won't need bathroom breaks. You spot Joe out of the corner of your eye, and although you want to curse at him for tricking you, you stick to the task at hand. Finally, at 4:13 PM, you track down Hojo to let him know that the spreadsheets are ready. Your mouth is dry and your eyes are strained, but you don't care so long as you can keep this salary.

You find Hojo back at Station E. His back is to you when you enter, concealing whatever he's examining on the table. There are fresh blood splatters on the cloth partitions. A chill runs up your spine.

"Professor Hojo?" you call uneasily from the doorway. "The spreadsheets are done."

"Good, good." he hums absentmindedly. You hear pained, labored breathing from whatever's hiding behind him on the table. Gods… Despite mopping up a pool of blood yesterday, you realize that, until this point, you have been in denial about the true nature of the job you signed up for. That's a living creature on that table, one that is in pain. You feel stupid for ever trying to reason that live experimentation could mean anything other than what your gut knew was true.

"Will that be all…?" you ask, desperately hoping he'll let you go for the evening and not ask you to join him. Hoping isn't enough.

"Come here." Hojo directs.

Your heart sinks. You really don't want to see what's on the operating table. You force your feet forward anyways.

It's a Shinra guard dog. It's shaking violently from fear, pain, or most likely both, but restraints hold it nearly immobile on the table. A tight, metal band seals its muzzle shut, but it does nothing to silence its agonized whimpers. There's a square half-foot of skin peeled back on its abdomen, granting you a window into its writhing insides.

"Hold these." Hojo says, indicating to the forceps he has clenched around white, sinewy tissue.

You hesitate. You don't have gloves on.

"Take them," Hojo hisses. You do. The handles are slippery with blood.

Hojo buries his hands up to his wrists in the dog's chest cavity. The dog howls between wired-shut jaws. It jerks and strains against its bindings to no avail. Your stomach clenches. Is this really you? Are you really participating in this? Yes, it is you. You see your hands clenched around the forceps, you feel the dog's hot blood on your skin, the meaty odor of the dog's insides passes through your nose.

What the hell are you doing here?

One of Hojo's hands emerges from the dog to grab a syringe of bright, blue mako from the surgical tray nearby. He expertly guides it into the dog's chest and plunges it into the dog's heart, which you can see beating fiercely through its ribcage. The dog utters another earsplitting yelp as Hojo depresses the plunger of the syringe. You can see the mako spread through the dog's veins by tracing its luminescent glow as it disperses throughout the dog's body. Hojo places the syringe back on the tray and wipes his hands on his lab coat, leaving stains that will be impossible to get out.

"Stitch it up and take it to ward two, cell eight." he says before grabbing his clipboard and furiously scribbling on it.

"…sir."

Your hands are white-knuckled and numb when you unwrap them from the forceps. The dog is panting unsteadily when you reach for the needle and thread.

"Where is the antiseptic?"

"No need." Hojo doesn't even look up from his clipboard. "The mako will take care of any infections."

"What…what about painkillers?"

Hojo pierces you with a cutting look over his glasses. "As I said. No need." There is no room for argument in his voice.

You grit your teeth and stitch the dog up, trying to block out its fading whimpers of pain that accompany every needle-hole you punch through its skin. Eventually the dog settles into a subdued, hazy silence, perhaps finally going into shock. You welcome it, although it's too late: you've already made the final stitch.

Your stitches are neat and even. They were a mark of pride during school. You imagined one day proudly telling your patients that your stitches would barely leave a scar. Now your talent isn't saving anyone, just prolonging the suffering of an unfortunate dog.

Your hands tremble as you scrub them clean in the sink. The blood won't come out from underneath your fingernails. You should have worn gloves.

You unlock the surgical table's wheel-locks and cart the dog down to Ward 2. You pass Joe in the hallway. His eyes flick from you, to the dog on the table, to you once again.

"Welcome to the team." he says emotionlessly.

You don't have a response.

You reach cell eight and swipe your badge to open the door. You cart the dog inside and, after a moment's worry that it might attack you, remove its restraints. Your concerns are unfounded. The beast can't do anything besides lay limply on the table. You try your best to lower it gently to the ground, but its dead weight is too heavy, too awkward, for you to handle, so you end up dropping it. It doesn't even yelp. You pass a gentle hand over its fur before leaving the cell, locking it behind you.

It's now 7:30. You're not asking permission to leave the lab. You're leaving. Damn the consequences.

The journey back to the hotel passes in a blur. It's not until you're halfway there that you realize you're still wearing your blood-splattered lab coat. No wonder you are attracting strange looks. You pull it off right there in the street and stuff it into the nearest trash bin.

You collapse onto the bed as soon as you get back to your room. You turn on the t.v. and set the volume on full-blast to drown out the dog's whimpers still echoing through your mind. Your neighbor bangs angrily on your shared wall, but you don't have it in you to care too much.

The woman who interviewed you said that all experiments are approved by Shinra's Ethics Committee… Does the committee know that Hojo experiments without anesthesia? Do they know that Hojo doesn't offer his subjects painkillers? Even basic antiseptic? There was no way an ethics committee would approve something like that, would they? They must not know. They could not know.

You decide that you're going to file a complaint tomorrow.

You call your mom just to hear her voice, but the conversation is stiff and stilted once she picks up. She asks you what's wrong, and all you can manage to say is that this job isn't what you thought it would be. She sympathizes as much as she can without knowing what you saw (what you did!) today, but encourages you to stick it out. After all, "Shinra is a great company to work for!"

When you get to Shinra the following morning, you have every intention of storming up to Shinra's Ethics Committee and whistleblowing the hell out of Hojo. Joe comes across you in the hall, and he must recognize something in your expression, because he stops you and says, "Don't bother."

"What?"

"Filing a complaint. Don't bother."

You're taken aback. "Why?" Your voice hardens. "Afraid they'll come for you too?"

"No." Joe's voice is as dead as his eyes. "They won't come for me. They won't come for Hojo. Listen, you're new here. You have a lot to learn. Hojo is the ethics committee."

The floor falls away beneath your feet.

"What?!"

"Yeah, him, Scarlet, and Heidegger, who are the Head of Weapons Development and Head of Public Safety. Their decision-making process is basically 'If it protects or advances the mission of Shinra, then it is ethical.' You have no idea what kind of shit they get away with."

"But what about the government…?"

Joe's laugh is like gravel in his throat. "You really have no idea."

He claps you on the shoulder and sets off down the hall, leaving you feeling lost in a world you just realized you barely understand.

There's a new lab coat waiting by your locker, as if Shinra knew you threw the old one away. You stand there for five, ten, thirty minutes wrestling with whether or not you could bear to pull it on. Hojo is the ethics committee. Shinra knows what Hojo is doing…and they're letting it happen. They're funding it to happen.

And you've signed on to make it happen too.

The thought that you should quit crosses your mind, and you instantly know that that would be the right and wrong thing to do. Right because it would let you keep your soul, wrong because losing this salary would ruin you.

It's just a dog, you chant to yourself. It's just a dog.

Selling your soul for profit…you heard children's stories about that while growing up. You're pretty sure the moral of the stories was not to do that. And yet…here you are.

It's just a dog.

Your phone dings. It's a low-funds notification from your bank. 1,000 gil doesn't go far in Midgar.

Two years. If you could swallow your revulsion for two years, just two, measly years, you could pay off your debt. Then you can go somewhere else, anywhere else, far away. It's just a dog. With a company like Shinra on your resume, you could go anywhere. It's just a dog. Two years is all it would take. It's just a dog. You pull on your lab coat and pretend it's armor.

Joe eyes you with disappointment when he sees you wearing it.

And so it goes. Days turn into weeks, weeks to months, months to a full year. You enter data, write reports, and clean lab equipment. You restrain animals and monsters, cut their flesh, and ignore their howls of pain. Blood splatter is now a normal part of your attire. Numbness is a normal part of your state of being. Joe, having accepted that you are there to stay, does his best to teach you how to retain your sanity while working for Hojo. He's managed to last five years and outlive two of his coworkers: Sarah who died in a preventable lab accident, and Bill who committed suicide when the job became too much. Joe stresses to you the importance of routines and rituals, both when you enter and exit the lab. "Draw a clear line between who you are in here and who you are out there, and never let those two people meet." he warns you. You try your best, but your work follows you home and haunts your sleep.

Joe never apologizes for trying to get you fired, but after a few months in Hojo's lab, you understand why he tried. He tries the same trick with a new recruit, Clark, who joins a year after you do. It doesn't work. You keep your distance from your other coworker, Julia. There's a coldness in her eyes that discourages anyone from approaching her, and you're happy to oblige.

It's hard to justify feeling sorry for yourself when you're the one wielding the scalpel, not the one being cut by it, but you are suffering. Every day brings a new atrocity that you're forced to assimilate into your definition of normal by the following day. Yelps of pain from dogs cease to bother you, shrieks from monsters even less so.

Or so you tell yourself.

You learn Shinra secrets. You learn that the procedure for creating new SOLDIERs utilizes the paradox of mako, enhancing healing, strength, and vitality, but a great, and often fatal, cost. You read about Project-S, the experiment that created Sephiroth (yes, the Sephiroth), which makes you physically ill to learn about, but helps you understand why Sephiroth visits the lab monthly. He wears a pained expression like he would rather be anywhere else and leaves as soon as Hojo finishes collecting a few vials of blood from him. You learn about a being called J-E-N-O-V-A, who can supposedly lead mako-hungry Shinra to the mako-rich Promised Land, if only they could communicate with Her. You learn that, despite Sephiroth's prodigal strength, agility, and endurance, he is a failure in this regard. Despite being injected with her cells, he can't communicate with Her. Hojo hasn't stopped trying, though.

You keep your nose to your work, so you barely know what's happening in the broader realm of Shinra. It therefore comes as a surprise to you when the Shinra Building comes under attack by the ex-SOLDIER deserter, Genesis. The lab is swarmed by a small platoon of identical warriors: Genesis copies. You take shelter under a desk, hoping they'll leave you be. They don't. You watch the copy's sword swing up and come down for the killing blow. Time stands still and you realize that you are about to die.

The blow is parried by a fast-moving blur. Blood sprays across your face and the Genesis copy crumples to the ground.

"You good?" a friendly voice asks you. Mako eyes that seem too kind to have just cut down a man meet yours, and you realize that you're looking at SOLDIER First Class, Zack Fair. Sure, you keep your nose in your own business, but everyone knows who the First Class SOLDIERS are.

Your heart is still racing in your chest and your brain is still processing the fact that you did not just die a few seconds ago, so it takes you a moment to find your voice. "Umm…yeah. I'm fine."

Zack Fair beams at you. You suddenly feel like the sun is shining, even though you're in the middle of a windowless, concrete room at night. "Great!" he says. "Stay here, okay? Back-up is on the way. I gotta go protect the professor now. See ya!" And he's gone.

The Genesis copies end up being driven from Shinra Tower, and the only thing that changes for you is that Zack Fair greets in you in the hallway now.

Joe, on the other hand, vanishes from the lab without a trace. You ask around, but everyone is tight-lipped. You're forced to conclude that Joe finally had enough and quit. Or…

No. You don't want to think about that.

One day you wake up and realize you only have six more payments left on your student loans. Six months. You can do this.

Your family keeps in close contact despite you feeling more withdrawn than ever. Your sister has met someone and they've started a life together. Your mom calls every day, your dad every week. He sounds more and more tired each time you answer the phone. Your mom confides in you that he's been sleeping more and eating less. He refuses to see a doctor. "Can't you come home next week to take a look at him? You are one, after all."

You refrain from mentioning that you're a glorified torturer rather than a doctor now, and let her know that you will be there this weekend.

You give your houseplant, still alive after all this time, some water to help it through the weekend and board a high-speed train that takes you from Midgar to Fort Condor. From there, you catch the ferry to Mideel, and then a bus to your home village. It's just past midnight when you arrive, but the lights of your parents' house are on and you see their silhouettes against the kitchen curtains. You're home.

The weekend passes like all weekends back home do, in a pleasant, comforting blur…mostly.

Your dad gives you grief for wanting to examine him, but after some gentle pressure from your mom and pleading from your sister, he relents.

You can't make a definite diagnosis without a lab, but you are able to learn enough to know that it's serious. You take blood samples and pack them away in your briefcase, promising to review them in the lab first thing Monday. Sunday afternoon, you hug them all goodbye. Your mom reminds you to be safe, your dad asks you to text him when you get back to Midgar, and your sister gives you a box of vegetables from her farm to get you through the week.

Again, it's after midnight by the time you take the bus, ferry, and train back to Midgar, so you slide into bed without even changing, text your dad, and set your alarm for 7 AM. You close your eyes, and, after what feels like seconds, it's blasting in your ear.

You get just enough caffeine in you to remember to grab the briefcase with your dad's blood before leaving your apartment for Shinra's headquarters. You run your dad's labs in between assisting Hojo with stress tests (torture), sample collection (dissection), and behavioral manipulation (psychological trauma). You wish you could say it still really bothered you, but over time, it just has become a part of the job. You think of your sister, a farmer, whose hands bring life to seeds and, by extension, people. You were supposed to bring life to people. You were supposed to help them. But now your hands are slick with blood as you lift the still-beating heart from the chest of an abomination created deep in Hojo's lab. It's too inhuman, or perhaps too far gone, to scream as you severe the veins, sinew, and muscle that connects its heart to its body. It dies quietly on the table, its body slowly returning to the lifestream, as you drop the heart into a mako bath, designed to prevent the organ from returning to the lifestream by tricking it into already believing it has.

Hojo turns his back to you to study the newly deceased heart, so you turn your back on him to go check on your dad's labs.

They're not good.

"Hey, can you hear me?" you ask your mom. The reception inside Shinra tower could be weak at times.

"Yes, yes. What is it? Did you find anything?"

"He needs to go in for an MRI." you say. Then, quickly before you can overthink the impact your words will have, you blurt out, "I think it's cancer."

There's silence on the other end of the phone.

"I'm sorry." you say around the lump in your throat. "…but, it's impossible to tell until he… I did the best I could without… Things might be fine." Your voice cracks on that last word.

"I'll take him in for an MRI." your mom says finally. "Even if I have to tie him up and drag him."

The phone clicks silent. This is the first time your mom has hung up on you without telling you that she loves you.

You try your best to go back to work.

A week later, the results are in. It is cancer. Pancreatic. Advanced stage. Very little to be done. We're very sorry.

But you work for Shinra, and you've learned what it's like to not take no for an answer.

You ask around the various medical research labs in Shinra trying to find a lead, any lead, on treatments that might cure your father. There is a department focused exclusively on medical advancements, which seems like a more practical and helpful pursuit than Hojo's genetic modification. You get in contact with the senior scientist of that department and plead for help. She agrees, but tells you it will be costly. Your eyes widen as she writes down the six, nearly seven, figures the treatment will cost. Even with insurance, the cost will be exuberantly high. There's no way your mom, a retired teacher, your dad, a retired grocer, or your sister, a farmer, would be able to afford the treatment.

But you are a Shinra scientist, earning close to six figures a year. Finances would be tight, and you would have to go back to making minimum payments on your student loans, but if it can save your dad…

If it can save your dad, it will be worth it.

You put your family in contact with the senior scientist and encourage your mom and dad to move to Midgar as soon as possible. The apartment next to yours just became available for rent, so you secure it for them. They're there within the week, leaving your sister behind to tend to the farm. You try to take them out to show them the best of what Midgar has to offer, but your dad tires easily and wants to sleep on the couch all day.

Your parents are both suitably impressed when you bring them to the Shinra Building for the first time. They ooo and ahh at the polished floors, expensive lighting, and elegant decorating. You don't have the heart to tell them that the gilded lobby was merely a thin veneer masking a rotten interior.

Your dad's treatments begin, but it's looking grim. It's possible the cancer already has too strong of a hold on him, but then…

He starts going on morning walks. Then runs. Within two months, his appetite and energy have fully recovered. He says he's no longer in pain, on the contrary, he feels the best he's ever felt. The treatment is an outstanding success. Your dad went from having weeks to years.

"See?" your dad grouches playfully. "Told you I wasn't sick."

However, the doctors warn you that stopping the treatment, even for a short period of time, would allow the cancer to come back in full force. Your dad would require ongoing treatment for life. Luckily, he's able to switch to pills and powders and would only need to visit the Midgar clinic once a month. In other words, he is free to return home.

It's bittersweet, watching your parents pack up to leave. You long to follow them, but you know that your Shinra salary is the only thing keeping your dad alive. It looks like you won't be leaving Professor Hojo's lab after all. The thought puts a cold pit in your stomach.

That cold pit persists over the next few months but is somewhat alleviated when your sister calls to tell you that she's pregnant. You begin to carry the image of your father holding his grandchild for the first time in your mind to block out the daily images of torture you witness.

This image doesn't do much to lessen the grief you feel when the day that would have been your last day arrives. You go to the bar that night to drink yourself numb and pay for it the next day under harsh, fluorescent lights.

But your dad is happy, alive, and thriving, so you swallow your pain and keep at it. The spring turns to summer, which turns to fall. Your sister's due date is approaching. She sends you pictures of her swelling stomach every week, and she begs you to come out and be there when the baby is born. You agree and put in a request for time off…but then plans change.

They change because there has been a fire in Nibelheim.