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3. Chosen
Everything hurt. His arms and legs ached. His spine throbbed. His ribcage pulsed with agony when he inhaled and melted into white-hot mush when he exhaled. Even the roots of his hair were sore.
Zack prised his eyes open. They felt gummy, the eyeballs beneath swollen and dry by comparison. Someone had turned his eyelashes inwards. That had to be it. Why else would blinking cause such scraping agony? No, wait, he wasn't blinking. His eyes remained open. That was light stabbing his retinas like a thousand needles. It hurt so much that actual sight was just a pipe-dream. All his senses were muted, his muscles watery and slow to respond.
"Werewolves don't exist."
His hearing returned first, but still slowly. The voice was soft but recognisable. He opened his eyes again, squinting until the brilliance hurt less. His mind was only half awake. It accepted things it should have disputed – like the fact he was floating in glowing liquid; like being plastered in sensors and wires like the most fucked up Christmas tree in the world; like headgear clamped over his skull like a motorcycle helmet. Earphones built into the helmet allowed him to hear a tinny replay of what was going on outside. He didn't have the acumen to figure out why. He was still working on 'what' and 'how', with a little 'when' swirling around the edges of his thoughts.
A ratty face stared up at him through the liquid. Behind it hung a long ponytail, and since it wasn't floating, Zack's mind could surmise it wasn't in liquid too. It was just him. His sluggish arm lifted and met resistance: glass. It had to be reinforced. Either that or he had been reduced from super-soldier to the strength of a new-born kitten. He was inside a large cylinder on some sort of platform. He tilted his head to look up and instantly wished he hadn't. Nausea rolled through him. He hadn't felt this bad since … since …
Jungle. Pain. White light. So bright. Blinding. Bodies disappear in the flare. Angeal. Genesis. So much pain. Flies buzzing. All around. Smell of rotting meat. Heat haze. Stinking country. Angeal! Dead. Dead meat. Me? No! Come back! Angeal, please, come back!
"You should not exist." The man's tinny voice snapped Zack back to the present. "How are you even possible?"
Notpossible, Zack thought foggily. Impossible.Shouldn'tbealive.Should'vedied.Somanytimes.Should'vediedbutnever … quite … did …
He drifted. Consciousness was difficult to hold onto.
In the back of his head, something growled.
"Prep him for surgery," whined the earphones.
"Yes, Professor Hojo."
The gorge outside town was the absolute best. The fact it was off-limits only added extra allure. Adults were always worrying about stupid stuff like rocks dropping on your head, or the ground collapsing if you stepped on the wrong spot. The edge was pretty thin, sure, but it was fine if you knew the safe places to tread. He had been sneaking out there as long as he had been told it was forbidden, so he knew them all.
He told his parents he was going out to play. They were fine with that. They trusted him. He was halfway to the gorge when someone stepped out from behind a banyan tree and blocked his path. Smaller than him, and chewing on one blonde pigtail, he groaned as he recognised who it was.
Susie, a girl four years his junior who still liked playing with dolls, pointed her finger and bounced from foot to foot. "I know where you're going!" Susie's favourite pastime after dolls was tattling. She loved making others squirm, and loved watching them get in trouble even more. No kids wanted to hang out with her. Since there were no other kids down their way, it was expected he and she would play together, even though they had nothing in common and he had secrets she would only use to make his life miserable. How could you learn to be a hero when the only available damsel was a pain-in-the-butt tattle-tale?
He stepped around her. Maybe it he just ignored her, she would disappear.
No such luck.
"I know, and I'm telling! You're gonna get in so much trouble!"
"Only if you tell on me," he retorted.
"Maybe I will. Unless …"
"Unless what?"
"Unless you make it worth my while not to tell them." Ten years old and already an expert in blackmail and bribery. What had he done to deserve this?
"And maybe I'll tell them about the apple pie you took from my mom's windowsill last week."
Her eyes widened. She had thought nobody saw her. Too bad for her he had been working on his stealth skills that day. A flowerbed with just one tree wasn't an ideal place to practise hiding, but he had done a good enough job to fool her. He propped his wooden sword on his shoulder and grinned.
"You're mean," she snapped. "I'm gonna tell my mom that you broke Dolly."
He eyeballed the doll in the crook of her arm. She carted one everywhere. It made adults think she was cute and innocent. Even his own mom thought she was a 'sweet girl', not some hell-spawn in a frilly dress. "That ugly thing?"
She gave the doll a sharp tug, popping its head off. "I'm gonna make sure you get in trouble. Nobody'll believe you if you say I did bad stuff. They'll think you're just making up lies to cover up what a bully you are to me." She sniffed artfully, producing tears that made her eyes shine and seem twice as big.
He squared his shoulders. "Go ahead. See if I care."
She ran off.
He wasn't worried. He liked sneaking off to the gorge, but other than that he was a good kid and everyone knew it. He stood up against bullies, pitched in when the village had a project like repairing roofs or cleaning up the water supply, and was generally respected and liked. Nobody would believe her story of him randomly destroying her plaything or lying. All she would achieve was a ruined toy she couldn't play with anymore.
He loved practising with his sword. His father had made it for him out of the wood from a tree that fell on into their house during a big storm when he was a baby. It had destroyed several rooms and trapped him under his crib for six hours until the other villagers dug him out. His father had said it was a sign and used the wood from the tree to rebuild the house. What was leftover he had made into the sword and kept until his son was big enough to use it.
These days the sword was pockmarked from training. His skills were a hodgepodge, mostly picked up from travelling mercenaries in exchange for food. The village didn't welcome interlopers, but as long as they stayed on the edge of town and helped out against the vampire threat during their stay, they were tolerated. He pocketed his own meals whenever one came along, since he felt bad about taking from the larder and food was a universal language. The only continuous teacher he had ever had was a guy who lived in a shack away from everyone else, who claimed he was once optioned for a job in Shinra, but had turned them down.
Asif.Hecouldn'timagineanyoneturningdownShinra.Besides, everybodyknewShinraonlytookthebest.Theguywascrazierthanafoamingdog,buthewasusefulanddidn'tthinkkidsshouldjuststayhometwiddlingtheirthumbsandplayingwithtoysallday.Plus,hecouldmoveprettyfastforanold-timerwithonewoodenlegandaneyepatch.Skillslikethatwereworthlearningifsomeonewaswillingtoteachthem.
His mother and father would have been horrified at the things he had learned. On some level they may have understood why he wanted to learn to fight, but they hated the idea of him being in danger. They would have forbidden the lessons he had already gone through, much less the stuff he knew lay ahead if he was really going to make a difference with his life. They wouldn't understand why he had gone ahead and started turning himself into a fighter when they thought he was busy thinking about girls and homework. Until he was old enough to go to Midgar and achieve his dreams, he needed to be able to keep him home safe.
The gorge provided privacy and no chance of awkward questions. His mother wanted him to pick a nice, safe job, but he had his heart set on Shinra. To him, Shinra represented everything he had ever wanted. More than anything, it meant freedom.
He didn't hate Gongaga, but he had been born with itchy feet and a desire for morethan small-town life. He wanted to see the world. He wanted to visit distant lands, and do some good while he was at it. Shinra's SOLDIER programme seemed ideal. Since they only took the best, he had to become the best, and the only way that would happen was with practise.
He picked a spot where plenty of roots stuck out of the ground. Sliding his sword into his belt, he clambered down the nearly sheer side of the gorge. He skidded the last couple of feet, but nobody was around to notice him fumble his landing.
Immediately he went to work, going through kata and repeating the basic moves of swordplay until they were fast but still perfect. Combat moves tended to deteriorate the faster you went. He showed a kind of patience that would have made his mother marvel, not changing from one move until it was flawless. By the time an hour had passed, he was soaked with more sweat than even a tropical climate warranted. His arm muscles trembled. He smiled at a job well done and moved on to sparring against invisible opponents.
When he reached the two hour mark he decided enough was enough. It was nearly dinnertime and he would be missed soon. Once against sticking the sword in his belt, he scaled the wall using roots, outcroppings and whatever else came to hand.
He should have waited until his muscles had recovered beyond the trembly stage. He was halfway up when disaster struck. A rock came loose in his hand in a shower of scree. He windmilled backwards, hooking his left foot in an exposed tree root to stop himself falling twenty feet to the gorge bottom. He still arced backwards, but instead of falling he slammed upside down and bounced against the wall. Stars exploded across his vision. He reached blindly for another handhold but couldn't find one. Pain blossomed, starting in his ankle and moving rapidly up his shin and into the meat of his leg.
"Aaaahh!"
His foot slipped out and he rolled the rest of the way. The holds that had helped him on the way up now became obstacles that jabbed and cut on the way down. He instinctively tried to protect his head and neck. When he finally came to a stop it was all he could do to curl into a foetal ball as a thousand hurts rippled through him.
He must have blacked out. The next thing he knew, it was dark and the sky was speckled with stars. He had decided to go home at dinner time. How many hours had passed since then? His parents would be worried.
He cried out when he tried to get up. His ankle was molten with agony. Maybe he passed out again. Maybe he was just hallucinating from a combination of pain and a concussion. A lump the size of a dragon's egg sat on the back of his skull. Sand coated his teeth and hair, making him long for a drink.
A pair of eyes glittered at him from the gloom.
He was in big trouble.
Yet the eyes didn't advance. They blinked. He stared right back. What else could he do? He couldn't move and his sword wasn't in his belt. He considered calling for help, but he had come to the gorge because people rarely came near.
Swell choice, genius, he thought acidly. Now you're gonna be dinner for something clawed and toothy. Some hero.
He felt woozy and sick. His head was heavy. His neck suddenly seemed like a wet noodle. He blinked rapidly and squinted, regulating his breathing out of panic territory. He had to stay conscious and calm. He was done for if he couldn't keep a clear head. His ears buzzed. It was hard to think clearly through the shifting pictures and sounds his mind threw out. He seemed to fade in and out of dreams and reality, until he couldn't tell one from the other.
He remembered lying back and the eyes approaching. He was scared. He didn't want to die – he especially didn't want to be eaten alive by some animal. Out here alone, nobody would find him for days. He struck at the creature, but missed.
The eyes flashed.
"Mom!"
Then suddenly he was running. His ankle was no longer a problem. His chest tingled, as from the aftereffects of a punch, but it was a good sort of pain. His lungs burned with exercise and exhilaration. He was strong. He was fast. He could run, jump, swim, climb – do anything he wanted! The eyes got closer and closer, but it didn't matter. He could just run away.
Except that he couldn't. He was lame. He was sickly. He was … prey? He held out his hands, trying to fend off the predator. That was what the eyes belonged to; some huge predator with a taste for blood. His blood. Was it … a vampire?
"Dad! Help me!"
Something wet and cold touched his palm. He yelped and tried to scramble away. His ankle detonated. His stomach convulsed. He wasn't strong or fast; he was weak and shameful. The world greyed out. He felt his wooden sword hilt under his palm and brandished it in a pathetic defence, not questioning where it had come from. He may be weak, but he would still go out fighting.
A sound almost like laughter surrounded him.
Brave. Good.
His head pounded, and then … his whole body felt weightless.
Strong. Better.
Was he dead?
Survivor. Best.
He floated away on a sea of stillness and light.
Chosen.
He woke to voices calling his name. What had happened? His sword was jammed into the dirt next to him. He was alone. Still woozy, he propped himself on one elbow and swayed. Had he dreamed the whole thing?
"There you are!"
He looked up. "Dad…" His throat felt like it was lined with wet cement. He coughed. "'Mm … sorry, I dint … meanta …"
His father cursed. Someone else ran up behind him. They exchanged a few words, several of which were 'poison' and 'lucky to be alive'.
"Rock dragon," said the other man. "Nasty little buggers. He must've disturbed it when he tried to climb out of this place. See there on his ankle? Bite marks."
"We have to get him home," said his father. "He needs to see a doctor."
"I can walk …" he tried to protest as he was gathered up and strapped to a wide, strong back. They took off his belt and cinched it around his wrists, looping his arms around his father's neck so he wouldn't fall off as they scaled the side of the gorge.
"Hold on tight," his father commanded.
He could barely hold on at all. "But –"
"We'll talk when we get home."
"My little Susie said you broke her doll and ran off," said the second man. He must have been their neighbour. The face was too fuzzy to tell. "And something about a pie you stole?"
He made a vague noise of protest, before sinking once more into unconsciousness.
To Be Continued ...