Chapter 55 - Blood & Gristle

1992-1993

Rafi stops responding to texts slowly.

She drifts away. At first the selfies and the texts come normally. Then Trevor appears in the corner with his blonde hair and normal eyes. She starts talking about their trips, about their coffee shop dates, about a life that seems so remote that can't exist when all Sephiroth does is end people's lives. The complaints disappear. The way she can carry the conversation when he cannot dries up.

He usually never sends unprompted texts but they start to pile up like a hope. He even adds a selfie. His own face looks grim in the photo. He can't smile for it.

A short response comes back two days late.

Later an apology comes for being absent but no promise to try to be better.

Sephiroth texts that he understands.

A smiling selfie that shows a hickey arrives as a response.

He doesn't respond back and he hopes something else will come that he can respond to.

And then she disappears entirely.

His phone dies in significance. He automatically checks for messages that don't come. The notifications stay at zero. He starts to forget to look. It's bitter and sour in him.

It's not that Rafi has Trevor. It's an odd thought but not entirely unwelcome. She's always been a good friend to him. It's more that she's disappeared and left him to deal with the silences in his mind. That the quiet moments have started to stretch out longer and become more painful.

She's moved on from their friendship, intentionally or not.

Or maybe it is him. He's too polished. His face is plastered all over Midgar and the surrounding area. He's a killer, a murderer, a SOLDIER. He's a general in the Shinra army. He deals in blood and lives as easily as he breathes. He ends people as real as her everyday. She could have been afraid of him and lied out of fear. The reasons for her to put a facade on and lie to him stack up so high that he stops looking and tries to move on.

Then war comes for him.

It takes a rusty knife and starts to carve piece after bloody piece out of him. Things that used to matter don't anymore. His life strains under pressure. His memory starts to falter. Something starts to form under his heart. He doesn't have the strength to care. He wants to move on. He wants to forget.

The next battle hurts more than he imagines.

First, Dinand is in the corner of his eye.

They don't talk. Sephiroth tries to not be in the same room as him but Shinra is pushing them closer.

Orlin's eyes darken whenever he sees Dinand. The SOLDIERs talk under their breath. They can't know but Sephiroth feels the embarrassment and shame anyways. The transfer papers for Dinand to go back to his own base are halted. Sephiroth finds that a higher up is holding them in limbo.

Several SOLDIERs whisper what it will be like to have both of them on the battlefield at once. Dinand hears them too. Sephiroth is sure of that. They stand on opposite sides of the training fields. His ex-mentor's smile sends Sephiroth's weight shifting on his feet.

The possessive aggression is not hidden. It's projected and wholly unnerving.

Sephiroth and Dinand get assigned to the same battle for the first time.

The attack is short lived. Sephiroth takes the left wing. Dinand heads to the right. This is what they are told to do. The enemies fall as easily as before. Several of the enemies make him falter a second. Their eyes throw him back to Orlin. He can't help to see the similarities. Orlin mentions it simply, "Kill them. Get it over with. Make it as painless as you can." So the thick sword drives into their hearts and the lights flicker out.

He forgot how killing fills him and how it erases everything.

The field quiets from screams to moans. He stands in the middle listening to the blood singing in his ears. His lungs pump smoothly under his chest. Everything around him is in beautiful clarity. The medication works. The strength rolls through him like waves. The relief is even sweeter. At least, through all the confusion, he can still do this. The blade wipes on his pant leg. Most of the bodies are far away. He reaches for the healing materia in his pocket.

Dinand's eyes catch his. The man jerks back his sword arm. The weakly moving body drops off the blade. If the dying man caught any of Dinand's attention, he didn't show it. He's staring at Sephiroth. The look is like iron on his arms. His fingers drop the materia back in his pocket.

Sephiroth's breath catches against his ribs.

A fear he hasn't felt in a long time wakes up in him.

And he hates it.

That's when he starts to notice it. A deep ache that creeps up his spine in a way that can't be stopped.

Midgar calls him back more often.

"The battlefield makes boys into men," Sephiroth recites to the microphone, "The pride of what you will do never leaves you."

The confident smile hurts as he tells this to the high schoolers crowded into the gym. Sephiroth curls a hand around the podium until he hears it crack. The body count is too high. They are running out of men. A draft is becoming close to a reality.

A kid near the front smiles at him. He's got a poster rolled in his hand for the signing afterward. The thinness in his limbs are alien to Sephiroth. Bedhead crops up the back of his head.

"The strength of SOLDIER is yours for the taking." He clips off the supposed grandeur of the statement by looking down at his notes. He will get corrected on it. A neat typed email of the things that PR won't want to see again. When he looks up, the kid's smile has doubled in size and his eyes are cloudy with Shinra's poison.

The podium crackles under his hand.

The ache starts to spread, tracing over his lungs and his stomach, to turn everything numb.

Food starts to look like the organs he has spilled. He cuts back as much as he can.

It simply won't stay down.

Orlin keeps pulling him aside and asking him if he is okay.

Lying shouldn't hurt Sephiroth.

But it does.

"Halt," Sephiroth doesn't have to raise his voice. He doesn't have to.

The SOLDIERS freeze on the practice field. Ice cracks under his boots as he walks to the troublesome Third. The snow is coming down hard. Wutai hasn't stopped attempting to build defenses so Shinra isn't able to slow for the winter. Most of the men are shivering on the field despite practicing magic.

Sephiroth used to hope that they would get a break.

Another foolish dream. It's best to not think about an endless war. Sometimes, he tries to not think at all.

The SOLDIER shuffles his feet and stands at attention when he realizes that Sephiroth is coming to him. The fire he had cast had fizzled strangely at the target, almost tangential. His black coat is dotted white as Sephiroth puts out his hand for the man's weapon. The grip is heavy and cold.

Closing his eyes, he feels the materia and sends it out. It sputters through him and it takes twice the amount of energy to make it the smooth stroke that dives neatly into the target's heart. Defective materia is a possibility but highly unlikely. The usual suspect is possible.

"Hmm." He glances down and sees what he is looking for. The orange orb clicks fully into place when he pushes on it with his thumb. The SOLDIER's breath sucks in. Probably it is a case of numb fingers and an exhausted mind. Wordlessly, Sephiroth hands the weapon back and gives him a knowing look.

"Yes sir, thank you sir, never again sir."

Sephiroth hears a snort far behind him.

Dinand is watching him from across the field.

He's quietly laughing at him. Sephiroth bites the inside of his mouth as he turns away. He won't teach these men how Dinand taught him.

There is a better way.

Those eyes mock him all the way across the field and another crack forms in what is left of him. The transfer papers are still in limbo. Dinand haunts the corner of his eyes. He tries his best to ignore the curl of frustration. He's not supposed to be like this. Dinand is not supposed to be in his life. He's supposed to be free.

He rewrites the transfer paperwork and sends it to HQ again. It is as close to begging as Sephiroth can get.

"Sir?"

Sephiroth blinks at the white document in front of him. How did he get here? In his office? How long has he been here? The clock shows that it is well into the night. He rubs a hand through his hair and looks at the door. His stomach growls.

"Yes?" His voice hurts. Perhaps someone is delivering dinner to his room.

The door opens and to his surprise, a Second walks in. How did he get in here? Sephiroth turns in his chair but doesn't get up. If this is a Wutai trick, he doesn't need a weapon to take down a single man. The SOLDIER stops as soon as he can and strangely enough, drops to one knee. The helmet comes off and is tucked under one arm. Red hair falls forward over his face.

"Yes?" Sephiroth blinks. Repeating the question is the only option that he can think of at this strange sight.

"I-" The SOLDIER cuts himself off, wavering and unsure, and then he bends over even further. "I wanted to say thank you, sir."

The man raises his head and things fall into place.

Sephiroth leans back against the chair. "You aren't supposed to know."

"I know," Genesis says softly, "but my friend saw and I owe you my life. This is the first chance, sir, that I've managed to find you."

His face is too honest for his own good, too earnest. It feels like worship. Sephiroth shifts uncomfortably and covers it by standing up. Genesis remains kneeling on the floor although his eyes follow him up.

"Get up."

The SOLDIER is awkward. He gets up but all the moves seem to be done in the wrong order. Sephiroth wants to run his hand through his hair. He doesn't owe his life to him. That lie weighs on him harder than the strangeness of what is happening here.

"Why are you here?" Sephiroth asks.

"I want to swear my life and sword to you." Genesis' smile is brave and young. "I want to work under you specifically if you'd have me."

From the outside, Sephiroth remains impassive. On the inside, he shrivels at the words. The numbness compacts. This man doesn't understand him. He doesn't know who he is.

"I cannot accept. You don't know me. You don't know what you are committing to."

"But-"

"I'm doing my job for Shinra. As are you. Now all I ask is that you try not to end up in that situation again."

Something close to a glint of a challenge shows in those blue mako eyes. "Fine. Then I swear that I will become a worthy comrade at your side. You'll see me as a First, right next to you soon. Just watch."

Another bow and then he is gone through the door.

Sephiroth holds his breath. What does Genesis see in him? Dinand gave him the skills to slaughter. Shinra shaped him into something that men will follow blindly. He barely recognizes himself in the mirror.

Sephiroth sits on his bed. His hands rub against eyes. He tries to let it go.

"What the fuck is this?"

Orlin shakes his phone in the edges of Sephiroth's vision. He can't look at him. He trains his eyes on the carrots on his plate.

"Transfer orders." His voice is dead. His fork nudges the cut circles into a line.

"I know what they are. Why am I being sent away?"

Sephiroth swallows, sets down his fork, looks Orlin straight in the eyes and lies. "I don't know. Orders from above."

It's frustration that he sees play most powerfully across his face. "If this happens, I can't help you. I can't come back on my own."

"I don't need help."

"Kid-"

"I'm not a kid anymore." It comes out sharp. Anger leaks from every part of his life into those five words.

Orlin sucks in a breath, steps back and disappears.

Sephiroth closes his eyes. He didn't expect to feel the loss. Everything is too much. Sending Orlin away to somewhere safe meant that he didn't have to see this slow fall. He could live through this terrible war. He could forget about Sephiroth. He would be removed from drowning.

It is Sephiroth's gift to him.

He does it because he cares about him.

The plane drones loud in his ears. The cabin lights are off but Sephiroth can see the wine slosh against the plastic cup. There has always been alcohol aboard the "red eye" trips across the planet. He usually ignores it. The smell is sweet and sour.

Sephiroth tries to remember what day it is. He can't. He can't even check. His phone is left in his overnight bag. Sometimes now he completely forgets that he has it.

He couldn't even count the amount of times he had sat in this seat going back and forth to Midgar.

Everything has wound tight. His back is straight against the easy recline of his chair. Hojo's coos still echo in his head as those long scarred fingers were allowed to slither down to his stomach to brush the new red incision. His warm breath had left moisture on his neck. Hojo probably thought the sedative was still strong in his blood. For what reason would anyone think that the great general would pretend to "play dead"?

He can't tell if it is pain or shame that stabs deep in his gut. R&D didn't explain the procedure entirely. The puckered red line will disappear. He can still trace the lines across his body that the scientist had carved into him even after the scars vanished. He hopes the memory of it will fade with time.

How many more scars will be on him before he dies?

The wine makes another circle around the glass.

He drinks it down.

It tastes so good to forget.

The remaining threads of his life are so fragile.

And they are starting to snap.

Orlin's texts stack up unread.

Mariella can't look him in the eyes anymore.

Why?

The airplane cabin is empty.

He's alone. He's always isolated. Lost from the world that he used to be part of. How did that happen? How did he not notice before?

He reaches for the bottle and refills the glass.

The wine in his hands seems to be the only answer.

There is a new First, a man with will, a strong smile and the ability to raise the chins of the men under him with pride and honor. It's good.

Sephiroth can't give anything like that.

Not anymore.

His memory, his feelings, the only people he trusts, they are falling through his fingers. His hands have started to shake. The numbness throbs.

He keeps drinking, hoping it solves his problem. Memories blur. Sometimes he doesn't understand what is happening. It doesn't erase the pain. It's still there as a void, black and untouchable. The alcohol only makes him more fragile.

After a long battle, Sephiroth sees himself killing, slaughtering, desperately fighting men who don't deserve this.

Their bodies drop.

A scream catches his attention.

He is side by side with Dinand. A soldier writhes on his long blade.

It's too much.

Sephiroth sees exactly what he is doing.

He is fighting next to the man who abused him. They are working together. He is defending Dinand.

It is all translucent. Every remaining part of him freezes. The light cuts through him. It's all pointless.

Dinand smiles at him as he shoves off the corpse.

Sephiroth's life falls and shatters into pieces on a floor.

It's all incomprehensible.

All that is left is the ache.

"Report, general."

Sephiroth feels a shock in his stomach. He's standing in front of the Board. A report in his hands is unread and tactless. The old faces look at him in a range of amusement to annoyance. He swallows the bad perfume and looks down at the graph. The letters and numbers don't form into anything that helps him. One of the board members stifles a yawn. Lazard digs into him from his seat. Is he trying to guess how much weight Sephiroth has lost?

Sephiroth opens his mouth to say anything. The stiff collar of his shirt tickles his chin.

"Feeling well?" A voice drawls over his words, young and careless.

Sephiroth looks to the left. The VP sits at the end of the table, his head propped up on his chin. His eyes are gleaming, laughing at him in a knowing way that lights a fire in his gut. He doesn't understand. How could he know what his life is like when he lives on a cushion and is spoonfed by the Turks? It jerks him back to his place in his report. He won't let Rufus Shinra mock him that easily.

"I feel fine," Sephiroth says solidly, takes a drink of water and looks down at the report, "Excuse me, now back to preventive tactics against further theft of our weaponry."

The VP's chest rumbles in a suppressed laugh. Sephiroth ignores it. He starts to recite the ways to make this war last even longer.

Shinra's eyes never leave his neck with dark intent.

"Good."

The one word throws Sephiroth for a spin that he can't comprehend.

Dinand had walked by him after a battle, his shirt soaked through and unintelligible strips of flesh hanging off his sword. Half the bodies on the battlefield died on that blade today. The other half died by Sephiroth's. The SOLDIERs surrounding them seem like only distractions at this point. Sephiroth hates himself for learning to work with this man.

He's helpless to it. The papers are still waiting to be approved.

"Very good," Dinand had muttered under his breath as he passed by.

What does that mean? His mind breaks the word, carving out everything he's done in the battle that Dinand could be talking about. Even then, why would the man he's thrown the weight of Shinra against be praising him? Why did Sephiroth feel himself respond positively? He shouldn't. Sephiroth makes his feet move in the opposite direction. He needs space. He needs this to go away.

It's simply not going away.

He's a raw nerve now. There is no future or past. There is only this hellish present.

Whispers are coming down the chain of command. Things he doesn't want to hear.

It takes black spots appearing in his vision to start breathing again.

Sephiroth. What's happening?

Sephiroth wakes up in his bed to a text from Orlin. He groans and rolls in his sheets. The murkiness in his mind tells him what he did last night. If that isn't enough, the wine bottles throw beautiful colors on his floor in the morning light. The mako took care of most of the aftereffects but his fingers are slow to open his phone.

Another set of messages jump onto his screen as he navigates to his texts.

Sorry, I was sleeping.

His hair sticks to his face unpleasantly. He needs to scrub last night off of him. He hopes he didn't leave the room. Fragments come to him and he tries not to touch them. Every one of them is gummed in confusion and loss. How did he get here?

Do you need to talk?

A headache keeps him laying down. He raises the phone and scans back through his conversation. A wall of a one sided conversation makes him swallow. What had he done last night? He scrolls to the top, afraid of what he will find there.

I don't know how I can continue this.

His own words hit him like a slap. The phone is slick in his fingers.

Everything is wrong.

I don't know anymore where it all ends and where it begins.

I murder people for a profession.

But everything is wrong.

I'm so alone.

I'm drunk.

I drank too much and it all hurts. It all hurts too much. I thought wine is supposed to make it all go away?

Isn't that how it works for you?

I miss Midgar.

I miss when I didn't know what I was doing.

The war won't end.

Dinand has been assigned to my base. They say we "work well together". I can't stand him. I won't stand him. Don't they understand?

Why are they doing this to me?

I think it is Hojo.

The VP looks at me.

I can't leave all of this.

I'm sick. I need medication. Shinra produces it for me. I'll die without it. I can't leave.

What do I do?

I'm drunk.

The texts cut off as Orlin's call comes through. Sephiroth won't answer. He sent him away so he didn't have to experience this.

He lets it ring in his hand. The screen locks and notifies him of a missed call. Eventually he puts his phone to charge and peels out of bed. His stomach is in knots.

Orlin applies to transfer back.

It is denied. Repeatedly.

Sephiroth starts to wish for an endless battle.

The coward's way out but he can't be bothered. Everything has stacked up so high above him. Every problem is insurmountable and unsolvable.

On the field, everything melts away into a beautiful simplicity. He doesn't have to be haunted by the faces of the high schoolers that leave their parents to become another of the statistical dead in his reports. The numbers mean nothing to the Board. They are almost a footnote in the miles gained or the general view of the public.

He wants to kill for the ease of it.

It is his life or the Wutai against him. Over and over again. The complications are temporary barriers. It is the clearest goal. Kill the man in front of him. The ones in the rest of his life haunt him until he blasts them away with bloodlust or drink. He hates that is what has become of him but he is locked in his own labyrinth.

He's standing over a pile of bodies, not seeing them. He sees everything in his life like pieces all over the floor. How is he supposed to put everything back together? It is impossible. It's too much. He takes a step. Even though the field is quiet, he hopes that he can find someone else to fight.

"You know," Dinand whispers in his ear directly behind him, "I'm proud of you."

Sephiroth spins so quickly that pain fires up his neck. His sword leads naturally, the only object that can solve the hurt. Their blades clash together, the normal one stopped short of the thinness of the other. Dinand's face sickens into a smile.

"What is the matter?" Dinand pushes gently back. "You became everything that I trained you to be."

The edges screech against each other. Sephiroth's mind processes the words without thought. It feels awful.

Sephiroth lashes out with a shout. The sword digs forward with blunt force. Dinand deflects it downward. The tip digs into the ground. Sephiroth strikes with his right hand. A simple punch to the gut, anything to inflict an ounce of this pain back at him. He needs to hurt him. Dinand steps back. The fist moves through the air.

The smile is knowing as he continues to back up, to put space in between them.

"You don't get to say that. You don't get to define me. Not after everything," Sephiroth says.

Dinand says nothing. He shrugs and walks away from him. Sephiroth seethes. His emotions barely hold themselves back. He needs a solution. This cannot continue. Everything in him is broken, clashing against each other. Pain rolls up through him, solidifying everything left inside him.

Dinand turns his back.

Sephiroth's fingers tighten around his sword.

There is a solution.

And it might fix something.