a&n: Wow, it's been ages... sorry, collaborations can get rather slow. If you're still there, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thanks so much for sticking around! Thank you so much for those who have added Adagio to their alert/fav list; even mute encouragement is lovely. ;)
•5•
He took the train back again simply to buy a bit more time. A bit more time to wonder about her, to savor the lingering scent of flowers on his jacket from where she was pressed against when he held her fragile form in his arms – the only parting gift she could offer him. In a few short hours, her gift would disappear and be replaced by the stench of gunpowder and blood, but there was no time to think of such things. He took in what he could, refraining his urge for another cigarette in fear of ebbing out that delicious scent. Her scent was so powerful thoughts of the previous hours cascaded into his conscience like a collage of still pictures; her slight figure outlined under thin sheets in her living room, her vibrant pink coat contrasting against the metallic grays and blacks of the Midgar slums, the abashed expression on her face as she witnessed her lover's drunken debauchery, her fatigued countenance in conversation after several glasses of wine. What he wanted most was to capture that strange emotion when he placed his lips on hers, yet the memory, though just as clear as the rest, was not lucid enough to satisfy him. He wanted more than just a visual memory of the moment. It was a battle he knew he could not win, for such things could not be replicated. It was only in that one moment in time that those strange, overwhelming emotions enervated and invigorated his entire being as if being encumbered by pure mako, by the lifestream itself and every single nerve in his body was being ravaged by that essence.
No, perhaps his memory had already been tainted with time, that that moment was no longer impartial to the myths and lore that captivated the inner workings of his imagination and was slowly being etched into a beautiful caricature for him to relish upon.
But is a being, which was born for the sole purpose of becoming the perfect killer, capable of such emotions?
The being in question was now drifting into slumber in the empty compartment. He was not fatigued in body for he was used to long in harsher, more arduous conditions, but his mind had been overworked by this little slum girl who smelled of fresh flowers. "That couldn't have been perfume," he mumbled, and his body sank into the wall as his conscience drifted away.
•
The fog scattered like velvet curtains unveiling the sun in the distant horizon. Its muted radiance caught the dewdrops that lingered on flowers and blades of grass, chasing away the darkness of night as it infused the violet landscape with the first glimmers of morning.
Two trucks emblazoned with the Shinra banner were parked to the side of a beaten dirt path just short of a forest heading south. From the forest emerged a young boy with silver hair flowing over his face, splotches of fresh blood on his face and clothes. In his left hand was an even more bloodstained sword that equaled near the entire length of his body. His expression seemed indifferent to the fact that he was smothered in gore, yet his left hand trembled as he paced toward the two trucks. A man dressed in uniform hobbled behind him. He was struggling to keep a dignified stride, one hand applying pressure to a deep gash on his upper thigh with the help of a reddened cloth.
The child reached the van first and was greeted by another soldier, who bowed his head as they crossed paths. The child handed him the sword and the soldier retreated and set off to the wounded soldier behind him.
"Crisis, what happened?" the soldier mumbled as he heaved his companion's shoulder to offer him support.
"That kid," the wounded soldier huffed, using extraneous effort to force the words out of his mouth with each sharp gasp, "he's not normal. They… He…" The words barely squeezing out of his throat, he reached a hand out towards his partner, his eyes rolling upward as he ran out of breath and fell unconscious; the other soldier heaved him up and dragged him toward the van.
"He's been poisoned!" The soldier yelled as he set him down. He reached into a compartment on his belt for an antidote as he removed the bandage from the man's leg.
"Useless," the child jeered as he stepped into the back of one of the trucks.
Inside waiting for him was an eerie old man in a white lab coat gazing intently into a small pod.
"Have you completely cleared the path?" the man queried keeping his eyes fixed on the contents of the small pod.
"What's so important about that little kid?" the child asked in defiance.
The man turned around, for once offering a piece of his precious attention to his silver-haired protégé. His gaze was as cool as a Mako fountain – clearly he would accept no questioning. "Is the path clear?" he asked again, deceitfully slowly.
"Yes," the child answered, absolutely unfazed by his superior's manners. For a child of about 10 he was decidedly imperturbable; without further ado he jumped up and sat cross-legged on one of the benches lining the inside of the truck. He could feel the familiar writhing of some sort of icy fluid in his veins as he tried to push down the battle fever; knowing what was coming, he stretched out his arm towards the man in the lab coat. The man turned to him with a small device, pierced the tender inside of his arm and waited a moment to see the results.
The numbers rode ever upward as the child grew and became more and more accustomed to battle- now they were bubbling uncontrollably and refusing to lower even as the child tried to steady his breathing.
The man smiled crookedly, before returned to his business.
"Good, good."
•
The shouting was horrendous. Sitting in the snow with his little hands pressing against his ears, he tried to block out the noise- he kept his eyes wide open as he saw jagged figures cutting up the light that flowed from the windows.
"Will your humanity ever cease trickling away from you, you demented fool? You don't even know the damn consequences of what you're doing!" he heard a man yelling.
"Please, let us talk," a woman's voice pleaded, "We could cooperate. We could-"
"Let my wife go, Hojo! I'm warning you!"
There was strange, sickening laughter. "You're warning me? Let's see just how well you can back that up, Gast."
There were sudden shrieks, and a man was shouting, yelling, and then just as the chaos was beginning to make the silver-haired child want to close his eyes, he saw blood splattering the lace curtains that hung before the windows.
His eyes were wide open now. Nothing could make him want to shut this out, even though his chest was heaving and his breaths were becoming short.
Gast?
The shrieking had escalated, and then quite abruptly they changed to despairing groans- someone had probably gagged the poor woman.
"Take her out."
And then the door was kicked open, and the silver-haired child watched with his back against the truck wheel as two armed SOLDIERs dragged a struggling woman out of her house; her hair was loose and lashed wildly around her tear-soaked face as she fought against them- she'd spat out her gag, and her teeth were set in an expression of anguished fury. They took her to the trucks, and as they past the huddled child, the woman glanced down at him, her wrists bloody in the grips of the men at her sides, abstract webs of green spanning in her eyes.
He couldn't hide himself from her- the mere look that she gave him was enough to have him enrapt, mesmerized and yet terrified at the same time.
"Be careful with the child!" he heard Hojo shouting, and he lost the woman's gaze as they pulled her into the truck that he was sitting by- his head snapped toward the door of the house they'd just raided, and he watched as a soldier headed out, scowling as he kicked away something in the house that was trying to hold him back and running towards the truck, a wide-eyed toddler in his arms.
The silver-haired boy was about to follow the soldier and child into the truck, but then a hand slapped against the doorframe of the house, fingers dripping blood and slipping on the wood as a man heaved himself up against it. His other arm was draped around his torso, and he watched with indescribable pain on his face as the truck started up.
"No…"
The man's gaze met the boy's, and for a second it seemed as though there was a ghost of smile of his lips. And then the slither of fierce life that had spurred him to such efforts finally succumbed to the bullet that had lodged in his lung, suffocating him, and he slipped pathetically from the doorframe to the ground, half in the snow, bloodied hands staining the beautiful white.
"Sephiroth!" barked Hojo as he saw the child crouching behind his former tutor, clean hands clutching the dead man's slippery fingers, eyes fixed on Gast's sightless ones.
The child did not look up.
Once back in the truck, he sat down next to the soldier who held the little girl on his lap. The green-eyed woman was on the opposite bench, her hands tied and resting in her lap, her gaze frightfully steady as she stared at her child. It was like they were sharing a solemn, silent vow, their expressions undecipherable. The silver-haired child couldn't fathom why the damned toddler wasn't even dribbling or screaming about something futile- was that part of why Hojo was so fascinated by it? Because he wouldn't have to worry about playing the ever-present cooing nurse as he left it in the hands of machines that were worth the entire city of Midgar? That couldn't be it. There had to be something else, something… dire.
He gazed at the woman, admiring how headstrong she was, how noble even when she was shackled and robbed of nearly all that was most precious to her. Sighing, he let himself relax into the truck's steady rumbling, closing his eyes and trying to melt away from the sour-tasting atmosphere.
•
A lump of furry heat curled itself into a ball by her stomach, the loud purring tugging her gently back into consciousness; her lashes slid open, and as the formless colours around her began to become more focused, she managed to make out a very fat cat all snuggled in the hollow of her belly, resembling in colour and corpulence a glob of custard.
"Aeris! Breakfast! It's getting really late, honey," came a shout from downstairs.
Was it? How long had she been sleeping? Frowning, she tried to undo the muddle of last night that sat in her mind in a big obstinate knot; she could only remember fragments for the moment, but the feelings came more eagerly than the images. It was just like waking up from a godawfully fantastic dream, not remembering an ounce of it, and being frustrated because the godawfully fantastic feeling doesn't seem to have a reason to be.
Her frown deepened as her mental cleaning-up seemed to press on her brain a little too hard and give her a dull, thumping pain.
"Ugh," she managed to groan, bringing a hand to her forehead. She couldn't have been drunk, now could she? Damnit. She had promised herself… But the taste in her mouth wasn't foul at all, not like the disgusting taste you get after a night of binge drinking ; she closed her eyes again, bringing her knees up closer so that the cat was starting to get a little crushed between her thighs and arms. Shutting out the typical sounds of late morning, she relaxed, opening her mind to the memories.
Sephiroth.
It resounded in her head as if someone had spoken it- her eyes cracked open. And then, the groggy feeling intensified as a flood of sensation came back to her; silken strands pouring between her fingers and down her throat, a burning humidity on her lips, her heartbeat pulsating wildly against his palms as he held her wrists – red, whirring before her eyes, her throat raw after so much wine…
Sephiroth. The name knocked at the doors of her conscience, begging inspection. But she couldn't bring herself to formulate some kind of logical progression of how the night had been; how had it come to that? She would never have let a stranger weaken her defenses. Never.
Slowly, she uncurled herself from her fetus position and sat up, inspecting herself as the covers fell away from her. She remembered a vague feeling of cold, of grogginess as they'd sat in the train on the way back- he'd had this queer expression that wasn't quite a smile as he sat in perfect silence beside her, abnormal eyes never turning her way. And she'd been so tired…
She'd learned never to look a Turk or a SOLDIER in the eye; never to act differently than coldly polite- it was the slums here, it was the spectacle of nailing Virtue to the cross every single day in order to get by one's business without having to worry about Her looking over your shoulder with a frown- but there was still a certain code to abide by. Never try to hide the misery. Never try to be more than you are; truth is the only thing that will help you down here. The bitter truth of having one's body as sole resource; the truth of the tired, nerve-racked faces, of the children scavenging in the junk-piles for things to sell off, of the greedy knives in the dark.
The truth of kind strangers having wicked purposes.
Looking down at her loosened corset, she attested to this one at least; he had weakened her with words as fine as the liquor they'd tasted, and then… had he carried her down? Had it been his fingers that had pulled at the ribbon to allow her more room to breathe?
She blushed, quickly getting rid of the corset and freeing her ribs and chest from its gaping steel carcass- hurrying to her wardrobe she slipped into a short white dress, hoisted blue stockings up her legs hurriedly, tied her hair into a high ponytail. She stopped before the mirror for a second, her eyes scouring her sleek legs, a bit too skinny to her taste- sharp shoulders, sharp chin, and those eyes that seemed far too wide for her own face. She bit her lip, eyes sliding up and down her anxious reflection. Did she look that gullible, damnit?
Elmyra was smiling as she heard her daughter rushing down the stairs and scraping a chair across the floor, sitting down for breakfast.
"I heard some… agitation last night," the elder woman teased, her voice mischievous. "I do hope you're awake enough to get some work done before going to Joey's."
"Why are we going to Joey's?" Aeris responded automatically, her heart thumping for absolutely no reason. The stairs, probably.
"TV. He's practically gathering the entire sector into his living room to watch the ceremony up above." When Aeris looked over at her quizzically, the elder woman sighed. "The SOLDIERs' departing speech? Their last minutes in Midgar before taking off? Ring a bell?"
"Oh." She didn't have her head set on quite right. That, or she'd willingly chosen to omit this event from her mind. Zack was sure to be standing there in the rows, exposed to the sunlight filtering down through the stained sky… weren't these the kind of events where the civilians flocked the streets, straining against the guards and yelling incomprehensible things at their loved ones? Weren't these the kind of events where everyone seemed to be losing their minds and believing that this was really what ShinRa called it, a ceremony, a celebration of departure- fooling themselves that the raw scarlet outlining their eyes was proof of joy?
The lucky ones would be at an arm's reach from their loved ones. They'd catch their gazes, they'd speak through the tear-slick language of the eyes. And down here, the unlucky ones would stare at a screen; pixels and glass walling up the reality, and all the love that they'd send or yearn for would get lost in the endless wires, the endless currents- but it would still spark and explode and exist, somewhere hidden from all – the tears would be square and flickering, the eyes would be lost in a electrical blur of red, green and blue.
•
Shaken awake by a robotic female voice alerting the passengers that they'd arrived at Midgar's topmost level, Sephiroth gathered his wits as easily as ever and strode out, taking off his glasses and hat. The people could stare all they wanted, now- all he wanted was them to get the hell out of his way. He was hungry.
A phone call distracted him from his breakfast as he sat at a café close to where the ceremony would take place, hoping to spend a bit of time to think about what was about to take place, and while he was at it, to spare a thought for the bizarre night he'd just spent. Sighing, he took a huge bite in his bun before barking a muffled answer into the phone, clearly showing his interlocutor that they were disturbing one of his rare moments of peace.
"Hey, man. What the hell are you up to? I would've thought I'd see you as soon as I get in the building, pacing around the office and muttering your speech as you usually do. What are you doing? Eating, still?"
Sephiroth sighed again, trying to bottle his irritation. "These are the best fucking bagels in all of Midgar, so you'd better have a reason for calling. I have everything under control, so if you're still intent on nagging me about something, out with it."
"Is your speech any good?"
"My speech is always good."
"Good enough to fool anyone?"
The General smirked. "Of course not."
"Directly afterwards I'm summoning you to the briefing room."
"I hope the coffee machine isn't still broken in there."
"I don't know about that. But don't forget."
"You know me."
"I suppose so. And what about the press?"
"That's supposed to be your job."
"Don't you start whining, General. I'm giving you a direct order to get your ass up here and take care of the flock I can see pressing their faces up against the windows." There was a sadistic chuckle. "Come up and be amused, sir."
Staring down longingly at his half-eaten, raisin-studded, sugar-coated bun, Sephiroth heaved another sigh, damning his superior for having the right to control even his mornings.
"I suppose I must. See you there."
Lazard Deusericus hadn't been lying when he'd mentioned a flock. It was practically a menagerie of journalists running around trying to get their microphones into cracks in the walls, pouncing on any official who appeared- the SOLDIERs who were lining up in the huge empty parking lot before the ShinRa headquarters and the streets beyond were being assaulted by cameras, too. A lot of the blue-clad warriors held dainty women by the hand, their heavy gear clashing with the light, wind-swept skirts of their companions. Trying to savour their last couple of minutes, Sephiroth mused, affording the SOLDIERs and their families an indifferent glance as he boldly headed towards the main entrance.
The journalists became completely frenzied as they saw him plunging into their curious, wide-eyed crowd. Immediately they were all simultaneously screeching rhetorical questions into his extra-sensitive ears, microphones pressing up against his chest and armpits and throat and practically everywhere else – after a few minutes of this blind debauchery the General turned around and threw his arms up, sending one or two cameras flying. Their attention caught, the journalists stared up at him.
"I'm almost late, ladies and gentlemen, so would you please refrain from touching me."
"The general's late? What were you doing last night, sir?" The stupid questions fired up again. "Enjoying your last moments with your troops? Girlfriend?"
Sighing irritably, the General practically nose-dived into the ShinRa headquarters, forcing the automatic glass doors shut so that their systems fizzled out and sparked angrily at him. Then he turned around and met the next crowd- the one that would supposedly assist him.
As he strode towards the elevators, he listened and nodded to the technicians who spoke to him about the audio and lighting configuration that they'd chosen; to the professional ShinRa journalists who informed him of the situation they were in, the SOLDIERs conditions, the number that was out there and those that were yet to arrive; to the ShinRa captains and overseers who would flank him on the high balcony, telling him of how things would go about when the speech was over, how they would organize the troops and get them to the tanks and ships… a few followed him up a few levels, but once he'd reached the required floor, there were only the captains and one journalist left.
The doors slid open to reveal Lazard, the blond SOLDIER executive who looked at him slightly teasingly through his glasses.
"Had a nice morning?"
Sephiroth scowled at him.
"Actually it looked good at first- five minutes ago I was still at the Condor, enjoying a coffee and thinking things would go slow as they usually do."
"Well, my friend, it's a bit understandable that ShinRa didn't choose to slow down when they're about to send their entire force halfway across the Planet," Lazard grinned at the General, putting out an arm and leading the silver-haired legend out of the cramped elevator. The procession strode towards the double-doors that lead to the wide balcony where the speech would take place. The entire room was filled with desks and people slaving away at complicated programs on even more complicated computers.
President ShinRa and son were waiting with Heidegger and Scarlet. The president would start with a few clichés and fake encouragements, and then leave Sephiroth to handle his troops.
"Ah, he finally arrives," Scarlet purred, a slender nylon-clad leg very conspicuous through the slit in her trademark red dress. It wasn't difficult to imagine such a woman with a sadistic weapon fetish- which was probably why being head of the weapons department suited her so well. "We've been discussing the situation, General; everything is perfectly well organized and ready. All that's left is to give the soldiers and journalists a few words to chew on, and then you're out of here."
"If that's alright with everyone… starting now!" the President called to the technicians, holding up a hand, before heading toward the balcony with his son tagging along behind him, eager to lap up his father's politics.
There was a roar of applause that the double doors muted as they slid shut, and Sephiroth was free to mull over what he'd say. His captains had already given him ample information to work with- he bowed his head, beginning to pace as was his habit.
"So I was right," Lazard laughed as he watched his friend, "You're not prepared at all."
"That can be an advantage," Sephiroth countered. Then all of a sudden he noticed the journalist's existence- he stopped in his tracks, giving her a quizzical look. "Why are you still here?"
She was tall and slim, sharp red strands of hair hanging stylishly around her face- there was some kind of endless energy floating around her, as though she never slept and infused her veins with caffeine. She was looking at him with an eager spark in her eye, a notepad wedged between her arm and chest.
"I'm Ren, one of the top ShinRa journalists, having covered more missions than even the elder jou- "
"Yes, yes, maybe, but what are you doing up here with us? This area is restricted to people of importance."
Ren didn't even lose her bold countenance. "I know. I just have a few things to go over with you once you're done so I decided to wait up here."
"That's impossible," Sephiroth said, growing impatient, "Tell the captains what you know and they'll go over it with me."
"Begging your pardon but what I have to say is confidential, sir. My department won't let me spread the news without verification of what I've witnessed."
She stared at him straight in the eye with those pale blue eyes, irises encircled by dark rings as if to stop the ghastly blue colour from spilling out.
"Get out of here," Sephiroth snapped at her, not fazed in the slightest as he returned to his pacing. He had to think. He had to think… mother, the entire corporation seemed to be set on aggravating him this morning.
•
The screen was blurred and multi-coloured as the transmission struggled to seep down to the slums. The man known as Joey kept knocking the side of the poor old machine to try and get a better signal – the image kept haring off to the side and then sliding back into view.
"Is the President really green?" some kid piped up, and his parents cooed fondly at him- the rest of the people who had sat down on the carpet and furniture were talking between themselves, staring up at the screen every now and again and exchanging thoughts on what the president was babbling about.
"He's not even worth listening to," Elmyra said angrily, fingers tapping her crossed arms. "There he is, talking about the brilliant future and the money and all that- what does that mean to us? He's speaking to a fifth of Midgar's entire population, and he still thinks he knows how to control crowds."
"He certainly doesn't control us," a scruffy-looking man spoke, sitting close to Aeris, who was on the buffet swinging her legs to and fro. "If we surged up against him he'd be completely drowned."
"I don't know about that," another man spoke up, "We may have the numbers, but he's still got some pretty heavy security surrounding him, even with his major forces gone."
"What are you talking about? Rebellion?" Aeris caught herself answering them with a huff. "We'd be splattered. We're not healthy, or well-armed, or anything."
The first man glanced over at her. "We have stealth. We have all the knowledge of Midgar's darkest, dirtiest places that they'll never have."
"Looks like you've been giving this some thought," Aeris said off-handedly, eyebrows raising- then she gave the man a mischievous grin. "So we'll gather our homemade junk, hide under their beds and throw Molotov cocktails around to distract them while another stealth unit wires something deadly into Mr President's pyjamas. Sounds good to me."
"Damn. There's an idea," the first man approved with a dead serious expression, which made her laugh – Elmyra looked over at her daughter and touched her shoulder.
"Aeris." She knew slum dwellers were supposed to stick together, but this kind of talk was wholly inappropriate.
"Look! It's the General!" the little boy piped up again. Most of the people stopped talking in order to listen to what he had to say. The faulty screen was tainting him in all sorts of interesting colours- his face went from violet to yellow to bright white. Then Joey slapped the TV, and the colours stayed that way- ridiculously white, so that it looked like some congress in Heaven.
Aeris stared as the cameras zoomed in on the General's face. She hadn't had the chance to really look at him; he'd been too close to her, too enigmatic and lingering out of her reach for her to have a proper look at him – but now his status was quite clear as he stood before thousands of men, flanked by ShinRa executives and captains.
"Pretty impressive flock, aren't they, the ShinRa heads?" someone ventured.
"Bah! All they do is piss where the president tells 'em to piss," barked a man, waving an angry arm at the screen. "They only act to pile up their own wealth, sitting in their corners and doing as they're told."
"The general ain't like that," a brave guy just out of his teens spoke up. "I've heard about him. He's pretty good."
"He's got superiors just like the others have, lad. One toe out of line and out you go."
"ShinRa would be nothing without people obeying their orders," Aeris said before she could stop herself, "In a way the superiors need their workers just as much. I don't think ShinRa could afford to fire most of the people who work under him- and if the ShinRa heads are clever enough to use that to their advantage, they'll know how to impose their own conditions."
"We've got a perfect little politician down here, it looks like," a man laughed as several heads turned to the Cetra.
"Quieten down, folks, hear what this one has to say if he's as brilliant as you make him."
•
His eyes traveled over the sea of soldiers, sunlight catching off countless shoulder-pads and helmets, heads upturned. The cameras swayed around on their long electric arms, the wind disturbing their precise recording – he could smell the soldiers' cold sweat as the breeze lifted up to brush against him, throwing his trenchcoat into leathery waves, silver strands dancing across his face, catching on his lips.
"What do you think you're throwing yourselves into, soldiers?" he yelled, hearing the frightful echo rebounding across the streets, curling around the buildings, offending the sky. "The smell of ash, of burning, the lives you hold at gunpoint. You are all used to this. You have been trained. Trained to become hounds of war. But even though Bloodlust has seduced you, even though you have taken her as your mistress, you must learn to treat her with proper manners, gents. Else how will you know when to stop? How will you know when to have mercy?" He stopped. "Will you have mercy?"
The soldiers threw up their arms, yelling a bestial cry of a million voices that chilled the captains at Sephiroth's sides.
"You'd better," the General shouted, his throat raw, "else you will leave behind you the ounce of humanity that you still have."
The army jested. "Brothers! You will savour the flesh of that beautiful country before tactfully bending it to your will, just as respectfully as with any woman. This I ask of you, and I must beg you to safeguard your minds, for I will need them. I cannot possibly lead a pack of raging berserkers."
The soldiers yelled joyously again. The captains eyed the General, intrigued; this certainly sounded like an improvisation. One or two of them were grinning; others, shaking their heads.
"There will be fear. There will be pain. There will be darkness and blood, and earth, and panic. You will doubt mercy; you will doubt your self-control. But I trust you. I have trusted you all during the years that I have spent with you, be it in failure or success, and I trust you now. I just hope you trust in the sincerity of my words as much as in the sincerity of your revenues." At this the soldiers jeered again. "My friends, I wish you all the best of luck."
It was the best he could do after a night of confusion and insomnia. Sephiroth abandoned the balcony to worthier men, retiring to the long corridors of the ShinRa building, heading toward the briefing room. He rubbed at his temples as he walked, chasing away the thumping headache that had somehow pounced on him during the speech. He barely even acknowledged those who nodded their heads at him as he passed.
The soldiers really had no idea what they were up against. They would be battling with themselves, crushing an enemy so much weaker than them that their own sense of morality would plunge into a whirling darkness. What to do when you engage into such vehemence against a population that doesn't rightly deserve what is about to be dealt against them? What do you do with yourself, when you are told to hate without reason; what does killing really require, after all? Sanity? Hate? What if the soldiers had none to spare? Money, then. Money for a thousand lives.
Sephiroth heard footsteps behind him as he hurried up the stairs, wanting to stretch his tireless legs a little. He slowed, hearing the false echoes of his own steps slowing to match him. Smirking, he continued up the stairs at a pace that would surely render any normal person breathless. As he reached the desired the level, he slowed, hearing spastic lungs trying to control their outbursts as the spy tried to move soundlessly up the stairs.
Slipping through the door, the General wondered what on the Planet this little redhead creature had to tell him that was so important; or perhaps she was simply stalking him for the fun of it. It would certainly not be the first time someone had decided to be a smartass and try to trick him.
The lights in this corridor were faulty – as the aseptic tiles sank into darkness the General pressed his back against the wall, drawing on his inborn capacities (or rather, intrauterine modifications) to let him blend into the darkness; it had served him well for situations far more dire than this one. Though, there was no knowing just how dire this little redhead would turn out to be, he thought, half-smirking to himself though the irritation was starting to dangerously inflate as he watched her shadow flit past the door, almost melting into the tiles as her slim body ran across the wall as smoothly as water. If he'd been normal, he wouldn't have heard those slightly trembling footfalls- he wouldn't have been able to distinguish the detail of her parted lips and the tiny curve of her lashes in the shadows.
What are you up to, little fox? He watched with only mild amusement as she leaned her head forward a little, risking a glance at the corridor- she could no longer see him. Hm. Poor thing. She probably realized what an abysmal spy she'd make.
In half a second, before she could even realize what was happening, the air stirred violently as a heavy torso imprinted itself over her own – he'd spun around and taken up her wrists as efficiently as though he were the solid steel trap and she the mouse.
Hands pinned above her head and a masterpiece of musculature compressing her lungs till she could hardly breathe, the journalist-spy gave a strangled yelp of utter surprise ; she hadn't even known he'd been there.
"Lab rat from age 0 to age 27," Sephiroth hissed at her, "You'd think it would know its way around the maze by now."
She was too dazed to understand what he was on about; she was looking down at the floor, her head bowed to avoid his face, even though she couldn't see it. She could hear his breaths, which was enough to terrify her at such proximity.
"If you think you're good at this, if you think you can get away with anything, especially when your pathetic little missions concern me, then you might just want to think twice, darling."
"I- I- "
"Now then," Sephiroth interrupted with a mock-seductive, breathy tone of voice, "Why is a pretty young woman like yourself insisting on following people of exceedingly high rank, exceedingly important business, and exceedingly little patience, like myself, around?"
His voice was deliciously vengeful, though he kept it low and intimate.
"I wanted… to tell you… what I said I'd tell you," she said between gasps.
"Of course you did," Sephiroth smirked, toying with her for the fun of it; "It wouldn't do to just call my secretary, or shout out to get my attention. You had to slink along behind me and hope that the whole theory about legends still being men underneath is true."
"You would never give me your attention if I asked for it," she managed to say.
"Stop stating the obvious," Sephiroth scowled, "You have nothing to tell me. That's just your cover-up. You were following me to the briefing to gather a little intel-" She yelped as he tightened his grip on her wrists. "- weren't you?"
"There's a price if one wants to climb in the ranks as a journalist," Ren admitted in a growl, knowing she was caught. "And the so-called 'cover-up' is real information. If you let go of me I might just tell you."
Sephiroth let out an unpleasant bark of laughter. This cocky little thief certainly had all the wrong qualities when it came to his type of likeable colleagues.
"Sure thing," he sneered at her, before letting go of her. "I'd better not catch you again, or I can promise you it'll get nasty."
"Let me at least tell y-" she started eagerly, but his sharp intake of breath dissuaded her.
"One more word – one more move – and I swear you'll be jobless and hitting Midgar's slimy pit."
He moved away swiftly, hoping against hope that she'd finally gotten the damn message; he could've sworn that journalists have to first pass boot camp before getting a job just to see if their level of obstinacy was high enough to get them through. But it didn't really surprise him when he heard a movement behind him – what caught him off-guard was the blinding flash that illuminated the entire corridor for half a second.
He whirled around, an animalistic expression on his face. He was going to kill her.
"You-" He couldn't even squeeze out anything else- like a hunger-crazed wolf he leapt at her, knocking her flat on the floor and wrapping his hands around her throat, her camera flying.
"You've just earned yourself misery, my dear," he growled at her as she struggled- he was straddling her, and she was completely at his mercy – fire ran through his veins as he lifted a fist, previsualising how those peachy cheeks would turn an elegant shade of blue -
"REBELS," she gasped out frantically, nails scraping at his knuckles, "Rebels under the plate! Secret meetings and illogically abundant war intelligence."
"There have always been rebels under the plate," Sephiroth snapped before thinking, but just as he allowed his mind to start functioning normally again, he found that his fist stayed suspended as he calculated the meaning of what she'd just said. She had her wide eyes on his fist.
He reconsidered her, regaining a coolly professional expression. "What do you mean."
She coughed as she regained the use of her crushed larynx, glaring up at him. "I thought a man of your intelligence would take the opportunity to grasp this untouched information and do with it what he saw fit. I've noticed unusual activity in the slums lately; it's too quiet, and people have a more solemn and witty look about them. It's like something's being planned. I'm sure someone is using their numbers and their poor conditions to lure them into some strategic trap."
Sephiroth considered her, an eyebrow raised. "You think. You've noticed. Do you have any real proof to back your words?"
"No, sir, which is why I'd like someone to take my warning into consideration. Some spy or other is polluting the minds of the most gullible forces in the slums, and it could quite possibly affect the war."
"Do you know what you're implying, Ren? Do you know how important you're making this?" Sephiroth was looking very serious now. "If you're wrong, you will have had created a commotion for nothing."
"I haven't. You're the only one who knows."
He watched her, eyes intense as he considered what she'd told him.
"Ah, so this is why you're late."
Lazard stood in the corridor, eyeing this strange couple with a very amused glint in his eye. Sephiroth looked up at him, practically sitting up on a very embarrassed journalist.
"Excuse me," he said with a careless look about him, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. Getting up, he took Ren by the forearm to help her up just like he'd help up any SOLDIER. "It's honestly not what it looked like," he added to Lazard before looking down at the redhead with more authority than mocking condescendence in his gaze. He lowered his voice. "Meet me in the lobby after the briefing."
•
The man shivered, drawing his filthy trench coat tighter over his chest, his breaths seeping out in white coils, disturbing in the cold, still air. There was no wind down here; neither sun nor moon, and sounds seemed to echo in the cubic alleyways like trapped fiends, hitting barriers wherever they tried to escape.
Exhaling sharply to get the dark strands out of his face, the man let his eyes trail along the dirt road he was taking. Everyone was still by their radios and rare televisions, discussing what they'd just witnessed- the war, the speeches, the big shiny upper world crammed in a 30x30 square, or slithering through the grate of old-fashioned radios.
He smirked to himself behind his long, disheveled hair. How attached they were to their heroes, the slum dwellers- how very touching it was to see them flocking around any scrap that the otherworldly would chuck down the drains. It was scandalous to see such human forces put to waste down here, unused and too miserable to band together- the streets, the landscape, if he could permit himself such an elegy, were so wretched that the misery of the stacked metal scraps, the overhanging wires, the bleak concrete walls seemed to infuse its inhabitants with the same precarious stability, the same raw quality and sharp edges.
It was a good thing he'd be taking these unfortunates out of their blind submission; the thought of these thickset, grim-faced slum dwellers marching across the upper world bourgeoisie while their precious SOLDIERs were occupied elsewhere made his lungs expand with some kind of awe-filled anticipation. But this wasn't some mission that had been given to him out of compassion for the Midgarian injustices. He scoffed as he thought of himself as some kind of good Samaritan; of course, he wouldn't be around when the lower world assaulted the ones living above. And he knew very well that the pure rage of these bulky unfortunates didn't stand a chance against the men with the glowing eyes.
His head was filled with these dark thoughts as he strode on, his overly ripped trousers hanging from his legs as he quickened his pace. He'd told himself he wouldn't lift his eyes again if it was to take in such a saddening spectacle of broken pavements and smashed windows and lurching, unhinged things swaying in the windless alleys- but a sudden smell seemed to rip apart the slum stench and seep up into his nostrils, almost making him cough. The sweetness burned him, now that he'd grown accustomed to this atmosphere of oil, sweat, metal, and the heady perfume that the girls wore to supposedly dissipate the stench.
This was completely new. For a moment he thought that somehow there had been a glitch in Time, and he was back in the rolling hills of Wutai, the long grass swaying in the wind, rippling as though the wind was combing through the fur of a gigantic feline, curled up in the midst of an endless blue realm.
He lifted his eyes, only half-expecting to see something other than some sort of hallucination. And then he actually saw it; the church spire pointing upward to the gash in the upper plate, wide and gaping and leaking rainwater- hanging wires were draped around the actual spire, giving it some kind of rigid black mane. And the sunlight- it poured down, tainting the roof tiles a magnificent white colour that blinded the eyes; it shone through the stained glass windows, offered reds and blues resulting from the marriage of sun and glass, instead of it being the usual neons and artifice.
The man allowed his chin to rise, allowed the light to warm his eyelids, to make his cheeks and neck glow- it had been weeks (or months? He'd lost track) since he'd tasted the sun, since he'd marveled at a little piece of sky. And now he stepped forward as though hypnotized, forgetting what had been so important just seconds before – his eyes on the stones of the church that seemed to bear the streaks of celestial tears on their gritty flanks, he advanced till he came to the front of the church.
The double-doors were open.
He allowed himself the liberty of walking right in, thick soles making the worn floorboards creak. He didn't even have to ask himself just what this church had been built to honour; the divinity in question was sweetening the air, brightening the obscurity, and, astonishingly… allowing life to flourish. His eyes were on the illuminated patch of ground beyond the church pews – there was a straggle of plants dragging themselves out of the soil, straining up for the sunlight like hands of many colours – some of them were brown with age, others pale and glowing softly atop their lank stems.
It was far from the wild, vibrant beauties of Wutai; to each territory its flowers, was his guess. The sprawling splashes of colour from his country illustrated the magnificent ferocity of life that eased up from the fertile Wutain soil. But here, the flowers were so fragile; they were in a mess, each smothering the other to reach the light, holding their rivals down by the roots, it seemed, and coiling around their neighbours in an attempt to be carried up into the sun…
He crouched down and touched the withered specks that littered the ground, hidden under the leaves of the others. An indefinable smile touched his lips, and then he brought his face upward into the light again, his throat extended, eyes closed, reveling in the peaceful illusion.
And there he remained, a hunched black figure sitting in the forbidden light.
•
The woman in the black suit remained hidden in a crevice inside a jungle of twisted steel pillars, closely observing the dark haired stranger as he entered the church.
"The target just entered the church near the sector six gate," she spoke into the small receiver pinned to her collar. "Requesting for orders."
"Continue with covert surveillance," was the static-crackled reply. She looked around the building, searching for an alternate entrance into the church.
She crawled up the rubble toward the ceiling of the church and found a small opening in the back, and with cat-like grace she jumped down silently onto a wooden beam at the back of the church. She tiptoed her way toward the wall separating the cathedral and the back room, and peered through a small crack.
"Target is stationary," she whispered.
The black-clad woman remained there, watching as the man, oblivious to her presence, admired the interior of the church.
After a long moment, the front door opened and a girl in a white dress appeared.
"Subject Aeris Gainsborough has now entered the building," she reported. She pulled out a microphone from her pocket and slid it through the crack in the wall, holding the wire in her hand to keep the mic from falling.
The man spun around in surprise, staring straight at Aeris.
"Hello," Aeris said hesitantly, "can I help you?"
• •