Hah! So much for a shorter turn around … actually, this first scene took me forever to write, because it was …uh, difficult. I don't think I ever want to write from Hojo's point of view again…

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Chapter 2

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"Cloud Strife," Hojo murmured, flicking delicately through the thin file. "Age sixteen. Birthplace: Nibelheim. That's interesting. My condolences." He paused for a moment, and then smiled pleasantly. "Average grades. One failed attempt at the SOLDIER exam five months ago. Ah, here it is. Though Strife meets all physical requirements of the exam, psychological testing … oh, I see. That is a shame, isn't it?"

He glanced up from the file photo to peer at the boy on the examination table. Weeks of convalescence had served to make his new specimen even thinner, though Hojo had been careful to ensure the boy's nutrition was adequate. Combined with the look of frightened confusion on the boy's face, one could be forgiven for thinking he was even younger than his supposed sixteen years of age.

Hojo kept his distance for now, waiting as his assistants double-checked the straps holding the boy fast before applying the heart sensors and running preliminary tests. They were absolutely professional in their work, yet Cloud flinched every time they touched him, trying futilely to pull back from a simple effort to monitor his pulse. The blue eyes were wide and fixed on Hojo, and the scientist gave the boy an amused look. The sedatives would still be wearing off, he knew; their lingering effects wouldn't make this any easier.

If it weren't for the fact that the Turks had confirmed it, Hojo would never have given credence to the idea that the blond cadet – this child – had been the one to kill Sephiroth. The fact that Cloud was originally from Nibelheim, however … the death of everything and everyone he knew had probably served as a catalyst. He supposed great grief and anger could allow even the weakest of mice to overthrow the cat. Certainly, there was no strength in the boy now. Hojo rather doubted the straps were even necessary; though the wounds from Masamune had healed enough for experiments to begin, Dr Grey's report had shown that Cloud had only just managed to regain his feet. But restraints served more than one purpose in the lab, and fear would only serve to make the specimen more viable for what he had in mind.

"You're a comparatively fast healer, Code C," he said, approaching as the technicians moved away. He watched the blue eyes register confusion at the label and allowed himself a smirk. "Certainly, you don't look very resilient. Appearances can be deceiving, hmm? I suppose it's that mountain blood in you."

The boy just stared at him. Hojo gave a soft snort and moved past the head of the table, pleased to see the slight body stiffen as he moved out of Cloud's line of vision. The boy might be bewildered as to why he was here, but his survival instincts were certainly hard at work. To begin with, however – at least for a short time – he was willing to allay some of the boy's confusion. It would help, after all, in gaining clear answers of his own before he commenced.

"My name is Professor Hojo." He took the chart proffered by an assistant and stepped back into line of sight, reading through the statistics with an air of disinterest. "Hmm, blood pressure is still low, I see. I suppose that's to be expected. You owe your life to me, Code C, did you know?"

Predictably, the boy kept his silence. Or perhaps he was too terrified to speak; it hardly mattered. Hojo smiled thinly as he skimmed the last of the preliminaries, then turned to meet that wide, blue gaze. "Well? Sephiroth didn't cut your tongue out, did he?"

The boy shook his head slightly and then swallowed visibly and closed his eyes.

"The dizziness will pass," Hojo said, more from a desire to watch his specimen's reactions than to give any real comfort. He reached out to run his hand lightly across the newly formed scar tissue just below the boy's ribs, thumb tracing the edge of the healing injuries left from Sephiroth's sword. Still quite fragile. Cloud went rigid under his touch, and Hojo chuckled softly at the tension that knotted the boy's stomach muscles. He withdrew his hand. "While we're waiting for the last of the sedative to flush from your system, you will answer some questions for me."

"When--" The voice was almost too soft to be heard, hoarse from disuse. The boy swallowed once more and tried again, still barely above a whisper. "When can I go home?"

Hojo raised an eyebrow at that. Surely, the boy couldn't be that naïve. He saw the truth in the boy's face – the odd mix of hope and dread and something else that he couldn't quite place, though it seemed faintly familiar – and he smiled humourlessly. "I believe you already know the answer to that question, Code C."

"Not…" The boy's eyebrows furrowed. "I'm—"

"No one," he interrupted smoothly. "And if you ever want to be more than that again, I suggest you be still and answer my questions." He gestured to the door with a flick of his fingers, paying scant attention as his assistants vacated the room and left them in privacy. He didn't need them for what came next – and here, at the very beginning, Hojo would not delegate this procedure to anyone else. It was only a pity that he hadn't managed to procure the other one as well …but it changed very little, in the end.

"Thirty-six days for you to recover to this extent," he muttered. "I suppose a Cure would have hurried things along, but no matter. Data is data. Are you aware of how you were injured?" At the boy's slow nod, he turned away, laying the stats chart to rest on the bench. "Do you have any breathing difficulties?"

"No." The boy's voice had flattened into soft defeat. Hojo glanced back to find Cloud was no longer watching him. Instead, his gaze had settled on the wall, his face blank.

Hojo studied him curiously for a moment, then turned his attention back to the bench. Clear plastic snapped away from the syringe. "Any pain?"

"…some."

Hojo smiled indulgently. "What a cooperative little specimen you are. Dull or sharp? Rated on a scale of one to ten."

"U-um…dull." There was a quaver to the voice, now. Hojo kept his amusement to himself. Apparently, the boy was merely trying to be brave. "It doesn't hurt when I stay still."

"And when you don't?"

"Why does it—"

"Precaution." Irritation shaped his next words into cruelty. "Wounds of this nature are fragile, especially when caused by this particular weapon. You appear to have healed adequately, but there is always the possibility that enough thrashing on your part will reopen them. It would be inconvenient."

Hojo smirked at the sharp intake of breath, and pretended he couldn't hear the soft sounds of the boy testing the straps. "It's in your best interest to keep as still as you can today, Code C," he added after a moment. "Now, answer the question."

The silence drew out. He was patient now, carefully preparing the first and then the second hypodermic and laying them on the medical trolley while he let the boy wrestle with his panic. To his credit, he hadn't dissolved into pleading yet. Beyond a few shaky breaths and attempts to free himself, the boy was remarkably quiet. Hojo approved, in his own way. A silent experiment was a less distracting one.

Finally, the boy stilled entirely. Hojo turned to lean against the bench to stare at the pale face, hands tucked into the pockets of his lab coat. His smile was almost friendly. "Well?"

The boy bit his lip. Hojo chuckled. "One to ten," he prompted.

"…five?"

"Very good." Five was manageable. "Any pain elsewhere?"

"No," the boy whispered.

"No pins and needles?"

"No."

"You say you remember how you were injured. Clearly?" The boy winced, and he chuckled again. "I presume so. Tell me what happened."

If the boy was confused at the change in questioning, he didn't show it. Instead, he sucked in a careful breath as if steeling himself. "Sephiroth stabbed me."

"Impaled is the more accurate term," he noted idly, and smirked as he watched fingers curl into fists. "What else?"

Blue eyes blinked at him. "Sir?"

Hojo gave an impatient huff. "What happened after he impaled you?"

"I don't…" The boy trailed off, looking at him uncertainly. "He fell. Into the mako."

"I know that," he snapped. "The lack of a corpse makes it evident, boy." As did the fact that Sephiroth would never have left his sword behind. They'd found it on the catwalk past the stairs in a pool of blood, and the small, crimson handprints and drag marks nearby had made it clear that Sephiroth hadn't been the one to pull it free of that terrible wound. It took courage to do that, Hojo would freely admit … but also a great deal of stupidity, when one considered how much damage inexperienced hands could do when removing such a weapon. It was a wonder the boy hadn't killed himself. "What happened in between?"

"I don't understand."

"Obviously."

"Then—"

"General Sephiroth," Hojo said, watching him closely as he advanced on the table, "Was the most skilled, the most brutal SOLDIER to ever grace the halls of Shinra. He was the first. He has never been beaten. You were a lowly grunt with barely adequate training." He was gratified to see the boy flinch. "And yet somehow, you managed to best him – after he ran you through."

It was amusing how the boy pressed himself against the restraints in a vain attempt to pull away from his touch. Hojo reached out and jabbed with one finger at the fresh scars, and was rewarded with a faint hiss of pain. "Here. And here. He missed your heart and your spine, Code C, on both strikes. How lucky you are, hmm? But nevertheless, the damage was extensive. You wouldn't have survived without my intervention. I must confess I fail to see how you could then go on to kill him, and I greatly dislike such gaps in my information. I am a scientist."

The boy's eyes were frightened again now, the hunch to his shoulders pronounced as if he were trying to curl up on the table. "I'm – I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise." He gave a snort. "Ridiculous. What do you have to apologise for? I merely want to know how it was done."

Oddly, the boy looked away from him, biting his lip once more. Hojo frowned. Shame? Perhaps the boy was unwilling to credit himself with the victory. It would fit in keeping with his psychological profile. A pathetic excuse for a recruit and a clear failure as a potential SOLDIER candidate; perfect for Hojo's needs. Or … no. There was another possibility, and a rather viable one.

Of course. He should have thought of this before. The mouse would have been much too weak on his own. He smiled.

"Did Lieutenant Fair help you?"

The boy's gaze snapped back to him in wide-eyed shock. Ah.

"From his position on the stairs," Hojo said easily, sure he was on the right track now, "I doubt the good Lieutenant helped you kill him. But he clearly fought Sephiroth first, hmm? His injuries were quite severe, but Fair is an excellent swordsman from all reports. Perhaps Sephiroth was already quite damaged when you found him?"

The boy's face had paled to bone white. Hojo grinned at the expression of utter …panic? Bewilderment? Either way, he'd clearly struck a nerve. He lifted a hand to pat the boy's head in a mock gesture of reassurance, and noticed with interest that he was barely paid attention to.

"There's no shame in having an advantage against a superior opponent, I'm sure. But I'm losing patience now, Code C."

The boy mouthed something inaudibly, gaze drifting unfocused. Hojo sighed with annoyance. He was considering other means of persuasion when the boy took a breath and shifted minutely on the table, blue eyes meeting his with a surprising calmness that hadn't been there before. Nevertheless, the boy swallowed nervously before speaking, his words hesitant.

"Where's Zack?"

Hojo blinked. Then he narrowed his eyes. "I'm out of patience, boy. Answer my question."

Absurdly, the boy smiled. It was fleeting; there and gone again in an instant, but Hojo read the relief in the boy's face and realised that he'd clearly been under the impression that Fair was dead. He felt a faint irritation that he'd somehow alleviated the boy's fear - but in the end, what did it matter? Fair may as well be dead, for all the help he would be able to offer to the cadet. After all, Fair was under the carefully misguided impression that he was the only survivor.

"Now," he snapped.

"Where's Zack?" The boy's voice was firm, now, despite the faint trembling Hojo could see in his loosely fisted hands. Still terrified. He shouldn't have had the courage to demand anything. Hojo stared down at him with curiosity that was at odds with his rising anger. He hadn't expected this. It was rather fascinating.

"Are you trying to bargain with me?" he asked mildly.

A shudder ran through the boy at that, and he closed his eyes. But his mouth twisted into stubbornness. Hojo broke into a chuckle.

"Lieutenant Fair returned to Midgar," he said, voice kind. "Alive and quite healthy, I believe."

It was all he needed to get the boy's focus back, of course. Cloud shifted to stare at him again, eyes betraying a wary hopefulness that made Hojo smile, his lips curling back as he continued. "He's even been in the paper. I could show you if you like. Zackary Fair, saviour of Nibelheim. I suppose that was technically you, but he certainly hasn't mentioned that part. In fact," he said with relish, watching the boy's face closely, "I don't believe he's asked after you at all. Do you think, perhaps, that forgetting you is the price for his new fame?"

He was still smiling as the hopeful look crumbled into uneasiness; further still into a familiar, dull hurt.

Then he leaned forward to place his palm flat to the scarred torso and pushed.

The boy jerked against the straps with a strangled cry, his fingertips scrabbling uselessly for purchase on the stainless steel as he convulsed under the steady pressure of Hojo's touch. He only screamed once. Teeth sank into his lower lip with a violence that made Hojo frown, but he said nothing. Did nothing; kept his hand there, firm and in place against the tender scarring and waited impassively.

Once the struggles had subsided to violent shuddering, he met the boy's agony-filled gaze. "You don't bargain with me, Code C," he said evenly. "You don't refuse to answer my questions. You don't ask questions. You don't speak unless I give you permission. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded. There was blood on his lip now. He took a shaky breath. "Please--"

"You're not listening," he snapped, palm driving down further. The boy broke off, eyes clenching shut as a whimper escaped him. Hojo eased back after a moment, anger appeased somewhat by the tears of pain that he could see sliding down the boy's cheeks. "I thought you were brave, boy, but perhaps you are merely stupid. Only a fool would antagonise me in your position."

This time there was no response; the only sound the uneven, hitching gasps as the boy struggled not to cry. Hojo watched him for a few more moments, then made a faint noise of approval and took his hand away. If the next gasp sounded suspiciously like a sob, he made no comment on it. The boy could have hysterics all he liked, provided it didn't interfere with his work.

"I'll ask my questions another day, Code C." He took hold of the boy's arm remarkably gently, now, swabbing the inner elbow with disinfectant. "I doubt you'd give me particularly coherent answers at this juncture. Now. If you'll behave, this round won't take long at all."

He didn't bother to explain himself past that; only smiled thinly when the boy opened his eyes to watch him. The gaze only shifted when Hojo lifted the first hypodermic from the trolley and flicked his fingernails against the syringe. Cloud stared at it with a frozen expression. Then he swallowed and turned away to stare bleakly at the ceiling.

Sickly green, most people called the colour of mako.

Hojo thought it was beautiful.

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Fame, Zack had long since decided, was a pain in the ass.

It wasn't as if he had people mobbing him in the streets. It was more the sidelong stares he got on the upper plate, where people saw him and recognised him and then trailed him along the road. The shopkeepers were even worse, because Zack tended to smile at them once and they'd be offering all kinds of things to him at such a ludicrous discount he sometimes found himself haggling the price up instead of down. Planet help him if he stopped to actually have a conversation with anyone, because he'd find more and more people drifting up to try and offer their own opinions, or interject, or just ... be there and stare at him. In his better moods, he wondered with a pang of sympathy what Seph'd had to deal with, because the so-called Silver General and Demon of Wutai would have had it so much worse.

Zack's spotlight was tiny in comparison, but it was growing bigger. It took him a while to work out that the President grounding him in Midgar was only partly to keep an eye on him. On extended leave, he didn't have much to do except hang out and be visible to the public, and that was really enough to keep his reputation growing. And he didn't mind drawing attention; he'd always been kind of a people person anyway … but gods be honest, it would be nice to have his privacy back again.

He'd have minded even less if he actually deserved any of it. Or if he wasn't being watched. Tseng was being polite about it, and Zack spent a lot of his days aware that he was being afforded as much privacy as the Turks could really give him … and the fact that Reno had sat down next to him the other day at a café by the Sector 5 station and bitterly complained that Zack never ate anywhere interesting was a nice touch. Tseng wasn't stupid and neither was Zack, and there was no point to either of them pretending Zack wasn't being spied on. So Zack never mentioned it, and sometimes Reno tried to steal his lunch. Fair trade. But being under surveillance meant Zack was always on show, and whether or not Tseng was making detailed reports back to Heidegger, he knew that any deviation from the person he'd been before Nibelheim would eventually show up on the desk of someone who mattered. Which meant that when he drew attention on the street, he grinned at people and bantered back and forth and made them laugh and let them take photos, because Zack Fair had always wanted to be a hero.

Which made the whole fame thing even more of a pain in the ass, because he'd never felt like a bigger liar in his life.

After a while, he spent most of his time down in the slums, and most of that with Aerith. People on the lower plate were genuinely friendly with him most days – they'd grown used to him in the company of the flower girl, and if they remembered him for anything it was that he'd been actively clearing out some of the monsters in the worst part of the slums for months now. But more importantly, the people who lived there understood the value of personal space, and more often than not would leave him alone with nothing more than a welcoming smile. That, he could live with. And he was doing the Turks a favour, right? This way, Tseng could have both of them watched at the same time. Saved on manpower all round.

He smiled wryly at that idea. Tseng hadn't spoken to him much since the debriefing, and Zack was also okay with that, though his anger at the Turk had long since died. But things were still uncomfortable between them. Tseng clearly knew more about Nibelheim than he was telling – than he was allowed to tell – and maybe it was better that the two of them weren't seen to be friendly anyway. And grudgingly, guiltily, Zack knew damn well Tseng wouldn't have let Cloud die on the stairs if he'd been able to do anything to save him.

At least, that's what he thought until the day Aerith's flower wagon broke, and it suddenly became very clear that Tseng had lied.

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"Blackie?"

"He doesn't have black fur."

"Spot."

Laughter. "Zack, you're not even trying!"

"I am so. Umm… Screwdriver."

"You want to call him Screwdriver?"

"No. But I could really use one right about--"

Aerith's foot landed squarely on Zack's shoulder and shoved him forward, and he caught himself on the edge of the wagon and gave her a reproachful look as she giggled at him, legs swinging over the edge of the playground slide. "I'm not kidding! This is kinda hard without one."

"It's okay," she said lightly. "I don't mind. Besides, it's light for you, right? I'll just get you to carry it home."

"Slave driver," he muttered. But he grinned at her all the same before slouching down cross-legged in front of the wagon. The damage wasn't too bad. The wheel had cracked and would need replacing, but at least it would still function for a while longer – if he could coax the damn thing into cooperating. The axle itself was the main problem. He had a sneaking suspicion that it was his fault the axle had practically broken in half. Which was why he was sitting here and sheepishly trying to fix it, although bare hands could only do so much…

"You're the one who tried surfing on my flower wagon, Zackary Fair." Delicate toes nudged him between the shoulder blades, and he heard the huff of her quiet laughter. "You've only got yourself to blame."

"Well, you know. Part of my cunning plan to strand us out here at sunset, right? It's very romantic."

"Not that we can see the sunset where we are."

"Hey!" He tipped his head back to pout at her. "It's the thought that counts."

At least the flowers had sold completely today, which meant he didn't feel so bad about upending the wagon on its side to get at the undercarriage. And to be honest, it was kind of nice to be sitting here in the little playground after most people had gone home; more or less just the two of them. Aerith was content to perch on the slide and watch him make … well, more of a mess of things. And for his part, being able to rest his head back against her shins and grin at her was fun.

Though it was probably just as well her skirt wasn't any shorter. Not that Zack would mind, but getting slapped wasn't high on his list of priorities right now—

"Do you think he has a preference?" she asked thoughtfully.

He shrugged. "No clue. I'm not really sure how the whole thing works."

"He likes you."

Zack shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to think about it. "He likes you too. It's your church he's staying in."

"But he's protecting me for you," she pointed out.

He paused. That Aerith would say something like that was no longer a surprise to him – though he hadn't really taken much notice, he had to admit, until after his vacation at Costa Del Sol, and Cissnei's confession to him of just why Aerith was being watched. Zack didn't know what an Ancient was meant to be, and he didn't really want to pry – Aerith would tell him eventually when she was ready, right? – but he figured it had more than a little to do with just knowing things like that.

That little one …somehow seems so sad.

He never doubted her, either. Which surprised him, in a way, but he also didn't mind. He liked that about her, too.

"Zack?"

"Don't know," he said easily, shifting his hands so she couldn't see what he was doing. Fixing the axle, that's right. Not making it worse, not in the slightest… "I'm really not that good at naming stuff. Why don't you pick something?"

"I won't be any good at it."

He snickered. "You're bound to come up with something better than Screwdriver."

"I don't think I've ever named anything," she pointed out. "I keep trying to think of names and I just come up with different flowers. I don't think he'd appreciate being called something like … well, Daffodil."

Hearing that conjured up images of Angeal with bright yellow flowers woven into his hair and a seriously offended expression. Zack nearly choked. "Uh … definitely not."

"You see?" She was laughing at him again. "I think flowers suit girls better. So we're both lousy at this."

"Could be worse." He was conscious of someone watching them, but he didn't look up. The playground was on the edge of the gates into Sector 7, after all; people were passing by them all the time. He was popular, Aerith was pretty. He'd have been surprised if they didn't attract attention. "I guess he's just hard to name. After all…" He frowned. "He's not exactly a pet. I kinda feel he deserves better."

Aerith's hands came down to rest heavily on his shoulders, and he looked up to find her leaning over him with a smile. The long wisps of her lovelocks tickled his nose. "You'll think of something, Zack. I don't think he's offended."

He grinned. "Not yet, but give it time."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Speaking of time, are you done trying to fix my wagon? I'm not sure what they teach you up in that building, but 'hide the damage and hope it magically goes away' doesn't really work."

"It might!" But he dropped his hands away sheepishly as she giggled and hopped down beside him, brushing her skirt down. She held out her hand to him and he took it, standing up easily. "Er, but seriously. Sorry? I'll try again when I get it…"

He trailed off. Aerith was smiling at him, tilting her head in faint puzzlement as he stared. Over her shoulder, in the distance past a strolling couple in their thirties and a middle-aged drunk, he could just see the girl leaning against the thick metal of the open Sector 7 gate, arms folded across her stomach. She wouldn't have caught his gaze at all but for the hair; long, thick and rich brown, it touched off memories he'd been trying so hard to forget.

She was thinner. Paler, too. But she was still wearing the same little skirt and cowboy boots, though far more worn than before. And she was staring at them both – no, at him – with eyes that burned with contempt and accusation and—

Shit.

"Tifa," he breathed.

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Back… soon, I hope? :D