"You do this every time. Such a slow learner. Not even Sephiroth himself could escape those bonds."
Zack felt the warm comfort of an Esuna spell wash over him. He inhaled, feeling the last remnants of strong sleep magic drift away.
Behind his closed eyelids, the world was blood red. Zack opened his eyes, still waking slowly, blinking. The red vanished into the overwhelming glare of bright overhead lights. He vaguely recognized them as surgical lights, the circular kind he'd seen on medical television shows. The blazing light bleached out everything, and even when he turned his head he couldn't see anything beyond them but shadows.
Shadows of bulky, hulking shapes, of monster claws, of jagged arms with glittering lights like eyes. They all surrounded him, motionless but looming. Threatening, ready to cut, to tear and maim.
The air smelled rotten: faintly of lubricant and metal, rubber and plastic and warm electronics. Of cooking meat, of excrement, urine, the iron tang of blood, and old, rancid sweat.
Panic filled him. He should know what was going on; part of him did on some level, but sudden, inexplicable panic blotted out the details. Why panic? Why couldn't he remember? Zack tried to sit up, but something restrained him. He couldn't move his arms or legs. The hard surface beneath him was cold as ice.
He craned his head, managing to lift it and looked at himself. "What the hell?" he gasped out. He was naked, strapped down onto a metal table. He couldn't get a great view, but he plainly saw the strap crossing his chest and shoulders, and by his sides were shorter ones at his elbows and wrists. He couldn't see the bonds at his hips, knees, and ankles, but when he tried to move they made their presence known. Circular data sensors dotted his body.
The sense of panic grew, this time with good reason.
"Fuck this," he growled and struggled hard. Properly motivated, any SOLDIER could break even hardened steel manacles. Zack was definitely motivated, but the restraints held so firm and rigid he could barely twitch. With every abortive yank, he felt them bruising and cutting into his flesh. Whoever had done this to him was going to suffer, he promised himself.
He felt his heart racing, his breaths coming fast and shallow, and experienced a weird awareness that this wasn't the first time this had happened to him.
Unnameable but familiar terror raked him with knives of burning ice, his body shook with recognition, but he couldn't remember! Why couldn't he remember? He should remember!
Someone else did remember, someone he knew, a familiar presence with him, beside him, all around him, and in his mind. Somehow.
It looked out through Zack's eyes, with its own eyes. It struggled against its fate with Zack's body, with its own body. It knew agony and violation approached, and so Zack knew, as well.
Zack struggled harder and harder, frantic and desperate, but escape was impossible. The presence was in a state of horror, of absolute terror, but kept the fear hidden, putting on a show of false strength.
"You might as well stop wasting your energy, Specimen A," a strangely familiar man's voice stated coldly. He sounded slightly muffled. "You're going to need every bit of it for this session." Unnerving, hissing laughter sounded from somewhere to the side. A shadowy form resolved, outlined in glaring light, wearing a white, full-body spacesuit of some kind.
An air hose ran out the suit's back. The spacesuit was made of loose, rubbery material that crinkled as the man moved, and a pair of shining spectacles obscured his eyes through the clear facial visor.
Everytime he saw his captors in those spacesuits...
Not spacesuits, but air-supplied, positive pressure suits. Zack hadn't known that, but the unseen presence had learned it from contemptuous lectures and painful experiences. The suits completely encased the scientists and provided them with purified, filtered air. The positive pressure guaranteed that if the suit got damaged, the airflow would be forced out, not in, protecting the scientists from external contamination.
The suits were part of Level Five biohazard containment protocols. For them. For him.
The scientists feared him. They feared his blood, his very cells. They feared him as they worked on him with their machines, and feared him even more when they used their own hands.
Zack wondered, was it better to have humans working on him during these sessions, or to be all alone with only robot arms and machinery performing the torture? Humans would talk, but that might be worse. Machines were cold, impersonal, and didn't utter taunts or insults. Which scenario would make things...not easier—no, never that, the things done to him were too extreme—but less horrifying?
The presence within him didn't answer, but Zack sensed that both scenarios were common. He struggled harder against his restraints. He couldn't help it.
The man sneered at him, "Stubborn fool. You do this every time. Such a slow learner. Not even Sephiroth himself could escape those bonds."
The man moved closer, coming into the light, and Zack—
Zack woke up.
He sat up, tangled in the blankets and sheets. He mindlessly tore the restraining bedclothes away as he stared around the dim room, his enhanced vision flitting with near hysteria over his own body, his bed. When he had tucked himself in after Sephiroth had relieved him of his watch, the bed had felt so comfortable, the mattress so soft, the bedclothes so cozy. Not at all like a cold metal table set with unescapable restraints and lit by harsh, blinding lights. No torture machines loomed over him, no sadistic monster cackled and gloated.
His gaze shifted to Angeal's container. It hummed softly, and the circulating liquid gurgled.
Zack rubbed his arms, his wrists. He ran hands along his waist and hips, and then down his legs and ankles. Everything was intact, everything was still there, nothing hurt, everything was fine.
Why had he worried that he might be injured, that he might even be missing some of his limbs? Nothing drastic had happened in the dream... But as for what might have come next? Zack knew, and he hated that he knew.
Specimen A, that nightmare had called him.
Zack pushed his fingers into his shorn hair, still distressed, and lifted his head.
Then he gasped when a pair of gleaming green eyes caught his.
He pressed a hand to his chest and caught his breath. "Oh, Sephiroth. It's only you."
"Yes, it's only me," Sephiroth said, quietly, knowingly. "Did you have a bad dream, Zack?" He was seated on his bed, fully dressed in an old sweatshirt and jeans.
"A doozy." Zack had to work to calm his breathing, his racing pulse. Neither slowed down. He felt sweat prickling on his skin.
Nothing horrible had happened in that dream, yet even now, even wide awake, he was acting as though his very life had been endangered, as though his body had braced itself for unavoidable pain and suffering, as though...as though...
He stopped those terrible thoughts. Specimen A, he recalled again. He looked at Angeal's face, quiescent in the specimen container.
No.
No, Zack had no way of knowing what exactly had happened to Angeal in Hojo's laboratory of horrors. He had a vivid imagination, though. His subconscious had created a scenario that might very well be accurate, even though it was nothing more than a surreal enactment of his own, private fears.
But that dream scenario was probably pretty damn close to reality, considering the state in which they'd found Angeal in Hojo's lair. Angeal had been dismembered and vivisected, just a torso and head, really, and impossibly alive, the tortured remains kept in a container of fluid. Wings, limbs, and organs had been on display in other containers not unlike the one Angeal's head currently occupied.
"I sympathize. I'm very familiar with bad dreams these days," Sephiroth said. He tugged a lock of his shoulder-length, brown-dyed hair. It was an unnatural gesture from him; he never fidgeted with his hair.
Distracted, Zack managed to regain a semblance of calm. His lungs finally slowed. He took in a deep breath, held it for a count of ten then let it out again. His heart settled. Instead of feeling better, though, he experienced a sudden urge to throw up. He overmastered it by drawing in and exhaling another long breath.
"I suppose I was due for a really bad one," Zack muttered. It was true. He'd had nightmares since they'd escaped from Shin-Ra, but nothing like this one. No wonder Sephiroth seemed off-kilter, if he experienced these kinds of dreams often. He was probably compensating for too many restless nights.
Zack asked, "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."
"I wasn't sleeping. It was my watch," Sephiroth said.
Right. Zack knew he should have remembered, but the dream...
"You were tossing in your sleep," Sephiroth continued, "but I wasn't certain if I should wake you or not."
"Please do if it happens again," Zack requested. "I'm really glad I woke up when I did." The way that dream had been going...
I'm sorry, Angeal, Zack thought, glancing at the specimen container. I hope it wasn't like that, but I think it probably was. I can't bear another dream like that. I can't bear to live through what Hojo might have done to you. Not even if it's not really real.
"Next time, then," Sephiroth promised.
That simple statement triggered an alarm bell in Zack, implying as it did that Sephiroth believed Zack would have more such dreams.
While Zack pondered that disturbing idea, Sephiroth stood up. He stretched his arms and cracked his spine. "It's almost sunrise. I suppose we could get an early start." He cast Zack a peculiar glance, full of understanding and unfathomable knowledge. "You probably don't want to go back to sleep."
"No, absolutely not," Zack said fervently. He also stood. "There's no way I'll get back to sleep now."
"The front desk won't open until seven, so we can't check out for a couple hours yet. I believe the kitchen opens at six for early risers, though," Sephiroth said. "Why don't you get a shower and shave before breakfast? It'll help take the edge off."
That sounded like the voice of experience. How had Sephiroth managed to "take the edge off" while they'd been camping? Just by dunking himself in the icy waters of wild streams? Zack shivered a little, remembering washing in that same cold running water. He was so grateful Sephiroth had agreed they could stay in crummy, out-of-the-way little inns while on the Western Continent. Inns had soft beds, and hot, tasty food, and showers. Especially showers.
Zack headed straight for the bathroom and set the shower temperature for "boil."
As the hot water sluiced the sweat from his body, Zack realized that Sephiroth hadn't asked him about the content of the nightmare. Not a single "what was it about?" or "do you want to talk about it?"
He had the uncomfortable idea that Sephiroth knew exactly what Zack had dreamed about.
Zack again thought of the way he'd heard Angeal's laughter in the truck, and then in the room his voice dispensing practical advice.
"It's not possible. You're strung out and imagining things, you idiot," he growled at himself, and lathered shampoo into his short-cropped hair.