Aeris
"200 Gil."
The shop keeper peers suspiciously at me over the counter. He's a middle-aged man by the name of Leonard, or so I've gathered from his interaction with other customers.
"The tag reads 100," I object with a light-hearted smile that I hope is not reading as thin as it feels.
"It's mislabelled, that's a hybrid," he gestures to the multi coloured flowers, "rarer."
100 already seemed steep to me but I'm not sure I'm in a position to haggle.
I check over what remains of the money Tseng left me with. Perhaps this ought to be my last trip into town for a while. Funds aside, I'm sure small towns talk as much as small neighbourhoods do and, unlike the slums, here I'm disarmed by the need to keep a low profile.
Does Leonard have children? I wonder, as I place the money on the counter. A wife? I'll bet he does, his grumpy old man routine seems reserved for strangers staying in mansions with dubious histories. I clip all impulsive buds of small talk as he counts.
Once outside I inhale, relishing the fresh mountain air as I begin my purposely slow amble 'home'.
The outdoors feel a refuge of sorts, a place not insistent on reminding me that I don't entirely belong. The dirt roads are mostly empty. I spot some children playing, one of them looks over at me as I pass, curiosity rather than suspicion colouring his open expression. I smile at him from beneath the hood of the professor's dull, oversized cloak as I pass.
The mansion itself welcomes no one, so full of it's own ghosts there's simply not the space. So I don't take it personally as thick atmosphere assaults me for ascending the stairs to my sanctuary.
I exhale, placing the new edition onto one of the conservatory shelves, removing its brown paper wrapping from the outside of the pot as I contemplate it in situ.
Why am I here? The petition drains from me as I stand before this improvised alter. What should I do? I know I'm in the right place, yet my place within it is far from obvious to me.
My Father—even he seems to exist behind the veil of this place, intermittently corporealising and melting away, whether into his research or the many worries he's reluctant to share. Despite his, albeit coerced, invitations that I involve myself—I'm no scientist, mechanistic thinking is at odds with the way in which I understand the world. Yet, he and my Mother—she helped him, how did that work? Is it a question of patience, of time?
The planet is quiet, leaving me to doldrums of my thoughts. I jolt at the feel of my fingers brushing above the elbow of my left arm, quickly clenching the hand instead, forcing my mind elsewhere, anywhere. My focus alights on my new plant.
It needs watering.
I'll brew some tea since I'm headed to the kitchen, I should probably check in on the professor. He won't be pleased if he discovers I've been into town again, but, the intensity with which he throws himself into his work makes it unlikely to occur to him to ask.
What would it have been like, I wonder, setting the watering can on the side as I watch the kettle continue to boil, to grow up with him as a parent? Elmyra had been formidable, if not always able to pre-empt me. But my father... I would have run wild.
The kettle whistles and I portion the tea leaves into the strainer, my small, conflicted smile melting away, my whimsy sobering.
Mother. There is no one—is there. No one who could have—
The kettle screams, interrupting the thought as if indulging my desire not to have had it.
It only takes a moment to complete my obligations to my little garden, so it's not long before I'm hesitating at the door to the master bedroom. I avoid looking too closely at my surroundings as I hasten through. The position of this room feels territorial, incidentally or otherwise.
This isn't the first time I've made this trip with a hot beverage, so I navigate the stairs with what I am confident to assert is some level of grace, even as unwanted thoughts I've been trying to hold off finally lay claim to me, clinging from the wake of my passage.
He knows what Hojo did.
I try to tell myself that I'm being silly, imagining things that weren't there, but there was no mistaking the way he'd looked at me—at my arm. Somehow, he knows. He can sense Jenova, and that's exactly what he did. Is it within me somewhere, still to emerge? My mind flows through the familiar loop.
Ask, it completes, curiosity rising like bile in my throat.
Ask. Ask him? He could give me any answer he liked and I still wouldn't know if it were truth. And what if he doesn't know? Asking would be telling. I'd have to be indirect somehow, how would that even work? There is no resolution to be had, yet every time my thoughts circle to similar torment.
I pause as I enter the lab, my eyes lingering over the Mako chambers.
It's not right, I'll never quite get used to passing them by.
My father is in his predictable place at the library desk. I clear my throat as I place the mug before him. He looks up, like I've momentarily woken him from a dream, manifesting a smile for me and muttering his thanks before re-submerging.
Not having any real reason to interrupt I instead peruse the shelves seeking a title that might catch my comprehension. As usual, none do, almost all seem identified only with dates or codes of some kind. On impulse I decide to just pick one at random, flicking it open.
It's full of tables of some kind, not even the labels of which mean much to me. With an absent sigh I replace it on the shelf to repeat the process with another, and another.
I'm considering moving on again, still unable to gain any foothold, only to find that the odd sentence jumps out at me every several pages in the sea of jargon and numbers.
...Mako treatment log IX...
...former limit revised...
...subject continues to exhibit high tolerance to exposure...
...former limit revised...
...precocious cognitive development...comparative maturity lag...
...former limit revised...
...structural and disciplinary adjustments under review...
What I can understand of it is all the more disconcerting for its fragmentation, like observing parts of some terrible creature in darkness. The book is heavy in my hands, my mind going eerily quiet as something raw churns my stomach.
My eyes find my father across the study and he appears momentarily less familiar in the light of such scrambled details—incomplete sentences in the pages of merely one book in a library bloated with the unknown and the impenetrable.
It's clear at least, as nothing else here is, that the weight of it is crushing him.
"You should rest."
He looks up again, startled by my voice and by my hand on his shoulder.
"What time is it?" He asks distractedly.
"Mid-afternoon" I tilt my head at him, "but I can't see how that matters since you haven't left this place since yesterday."
His eyes pass between me and his work in several quick flickers before closing. He exhales and reaches up, his hand briefly covering mine. It's colder than it should be, yet the warmth of it travels quickly through me as the simple gesture trusts me with his exhaustion and gratitude.
He takes a moment to clean his glasses, gathering his diary and a few stray papers. I tut at him quietly and he smiles absently in return. I watch him make his way towards the lab for a moment before turning back towards me in question.
I remain frozen for half a second. The muscles of my hand seem to have seized around the book. As soon as I notice, they relax and I replace it on the shelf.
As we exit, the empty Mako chambers in the lab snag my attention once more. I should do something, can do something, for them at least. My mind casts back to the flowers I purchased earlier in the day. It's a start, at least for two of the ghosts haunting this house.
It's still early as I return to the lab. I feel strangely glad to be alone here for once.
Kneeling before the chambers I unfold the tear of brown paper revealing the flowers, unblemished by their careful transportation. I place them individually before the two tanks and stand, brushing at my knees and bringing a hand over my heart.
It's not much, but it's good-bye.
My second hand joins the other, my mind quieting, opening to acknowledge.
...
"You knew them."
The voice cuts through my reverie like a cold blade, my body twisting in a jolt, responding before my mind can properly catch up. His voice? Why? He isn't supposed to be back yet, he can't be—What does he want? Why does he—
I regain my balance, in a way not as dignified as I would like, before quickly sweeping a hand down my dress, buying another moment to collect myself as I continue to pulse with unpleasant adrenaline.
"You surprised me," I state the obvious. He doesn't blink, and I compulsively fill the silence. "I thought I would be alone."
"I returned early."
I've dealt with my share of quiet types, but he's the first to be so perfectly without shame, leaving me to squirm in awkwardness alone. Refusing to stay on the back foot, I intertwine my fingers behind my back and mirror his stare. With any luck he'll leave me be, he's arrogant and probably doesn't care much for my company anyway—
He steps forward. My heart sinks.
Mercifully, his sharp eyes drift behind me. "Zack," he states pensively, "One of them would have been," he pauses for half a beat, recollecting, "Zack Fair."
"You—" I utter before I can think, feeling myself stiffen. He knew Zack?
Of course. Of course he did.
He looks at me, closer now.
"A promising SOLDIER," his eyes flicker behind me again, his face unreadable, "with his head in the clouds."
My palms tingle, thoughts a little dizzied. The contrast between the accuracy of this minimalistic character sketch and the coldness of it's framing only adds to my uncanny unease.
"The other must have been one of the troops." He glances back at me.
"Does it matter to you?" I ask quietly. Cloud... I don't want, in any way, to draw attention to him.
"I suppose not." So cold.
"You were their leader," they looked up to you.
"I've lost many men."
I feel as if I'm being humoured as I recall that the source of his infamy is of course—war. Abruptly, I wonder if I could ever really hope to understand him. The silence threatens to stretch again so I glance away, looking to the tiny flowers I'd placed so carefully.
"It matters to you," he observes blankly, seeming to have followed my line of attention.
"No one should be subjected to such things." I reply, deflecting the topic from becoming too personal. Somehow, it backfires and he turns towards me fully, appearing as if he were contemplating some significance unknown to me.
"Mako treatment is often required of SOLDIERS, once they reach a certain level."
SOLDIERS like you? Those cryptic lines from the book conjure from recent memory—and from what age, for how long, and how much—
I look away, feeling as if I may blush for perhaps having read such things about him without his knowledge or invitation.
I see him move in my peripheral vision as he turns away. Is he finished with me? I look up, observing him go, the surrealism of our entire exchange washing over me. He looks somehow different without his armour, as if dressed, for once, in a person costume.
Wait, I think recklessly, impulsivity surging through me, fingers reaching for my left elbow. No, Don't—
"Sephiroth—" I manage to blurt his name before the words stick in my throat.
He turns, rare touches of surprise and interest visible through his reserve. I shouldn't have used his name, why did I use his name? It was too familiar of me, but I needed to call him something, what else—I suppress a wince. Well, it's certainly too late now.
"Can you—did you—" I look down, quickly releasing my arm as I realise I still have hold of it.
A low chuckle reaches my ears and I jerk my gaze back up, catching a glimpse of his teeth as he waves a hand in negation.
"I read your records."
He... What?
He looks across at me with wintery patience.
My records...
Shinra.
He was at the Head Quarters.
"You..."
I feel my face heat with fierce indignation. Of course he did, psychopath that he is. To think that I was feeling guilty—
A deeper sense of dread seeps in, catching up with my flash of anger.
He knows everything.
My stubborn maintenance of eye contact takes on a perverse quality as the realisation sinks through me, my stomach flip flopping as I'm immersed in involuntary intimacy.
"I thought you might be relieved," he states, sounding vaguely curious.
Relieved? I—Perhaps I would be if—
"Should I have removed them without knowing if I could confirm to your Father whether you were alive or dead?" he begins again, polite but firm.
I'm being humoured again. I'm not sure I've ever met a more infuriating person.
"Read mine, if it appeases you." He lifts his arms, his shoulders reverberating with controlled amusement.
A tinge of embarrassment mingles with my angry flush.
"Such things hardly matter after the fact," he adds, contemplative.
Hardly matter...?
"Why don't you tell him," he says plainly, I feel rather than hear the hint of rebuke. "He wants nothing more than to help you."
My father? I want to tell him it's none of his business.
"Will you tell him?" I ask flatly. He watches me for a moment and his eyes are somehow softer if no less intense, immersive rather than penetrating.
"No."
For once I'm glad of his seemingly unyielding nature.
He moves towards me and it's so unexpected that I take several involuntary steps backwards.
He pauses, considering me, before blinking languidly, making his way instead to the laboratory table from which he pulls out a stool, angling it towards me and taking a seat.
"May I see?" he asks smoothly, arm extending slowly.
I stare mutely across at him.
"Your arm," he clarifies patiently.
What does he—He doesn't mean for me to—
It was one thing to ask, but this is different, his offer unexpected and frightening. I clasp my left wrist in my right hand, anchoring myself as I swing between repellence and compulsion...
"I'm not going to hurt you," he shakes his head, and the irritation I feel at his gracious condescension is enough to tip me.
I begin to move, approaching as slowly as my pride will allow, fixing him with an unflinching stare. He's less intimidating while not towering over me. No doubt that's purposeful on his part. I look down at him as I come to a stop, and strange as that feels, the top of his head still reaches my nose, a few inches or so and I'd be looking directly in his eyes. I push away an unhelpful spike of regret.
I feel as if I've barely begun to raise my arm before his hand takes hold of my elbow. Expected or not, his touch remains alarming. He tugs lightly and I only just manage to save myself from stumbling rather than stepping closer after instinctively resisting him. I remain perfectly still as I scrutinise his face with spooked apprehension.
I've always been good at reading people, enjoyed reading people, took comfort from it, but a fog surrounds this one, ominous and alien. He's looking down, eyelashes veiling his eyes as he examines my arm with such clinical calm that I almost feel myself relax a touch through observing it—relieved for any mental distance that can offset our awkward closeness.
Why does it have to be him—of all people—to know those things about me? Whatever his reasons I'm not sure I can forgive him for his knowing. It's more of a disturbing and confusing twist than a comfort that he should be in a position to so fully understand.
—"Such things hardly matter after the fact."—
I take a moment to attempt to make sense of the tiny fragment of his own experience that he'd offered. Is it acceptance? Is he trying to move on? Yet that wasn't my impression as he'd spoken. It felt contemptuous somehow, like it couldn't touch him, nothing could—Inhuman.
The warmth of his hand contradicts the thought as he presses gently at the soft flesh of my under arm.
A subtle tensing of his eyebrows catches my attention, I may not have noticed it if I weren't so close. I feel my own knit together in response. "How does it work?" I ask on impulse.
He looks up and I regret opening my mouth as his curious attention cuts into me, the mental distance between us shattering.
"It isn't easy to explain," the words seem to fall with slow deliberation from his mouth and my heart skips uncomfortably in a sting of abrupt familiarity. I look down at his hand to break eye contact, not put at ease by how small my arm looks. He releases his grip, fingers trailing my skin with the inertia of my arm dropping away.
"Is it gone?" I exhale.
"Yes," I hear him begin "and no," he completes frankly. My breath sticks in my throat.
He stands, slowly, but the effect is fairly startling nevertheless. I remain frozen as my eyes dart up at him, building a haphazard guard about myself.
"There's something—more of a fingerprint than a remnant," he continues. "I can monitor it."
My hand closes over the phantom tracks on my arm as the fallout of his verdict settles over me. I certainly don't trust him, but his continued offer of help is unanticipated. I'm not sure what I expected—what I expect of him, but—
Before I can properly think, he stalks to the back of the lab where a small sink is built into the wall along with various other ephemera for which I have no understanding. He reaches to one of the shelves and I hear liquid sounds and glass clinking as he pours out two different solutions dropping several items in both. One begins to fizz violently.
I watch him in reactive silence as the seconds tick by.
"I suspect you won't like this," his words slice through the thickening atmosphere as he drains the solution and rinses some of the materials the sink. Turning slightly I can see that he's holding two syringes in his hand, he takes turns expelling the remaining solution from them. Before turning back towards me fully.
"It might help, if I could take a blood sample as a control."
I recoil. "I don't—"
"You may take mine first, if it reassures you." he interrupts, turning one of the needles over in his hand so that the tip points away from me.
I gape at him. "I don't know how," I say, for lack of knowing how else to respond to that—only to lament it as he gathers his materials and begins to move towards me again.
Setting the tray of items on the table he pulls over the stool retaking a seat in front of me. He taps a tube, inserting it into the needle's holder before he offers it to me once more.
"I will direct you."
Even feeling certain that he is intentionally lulling me—it somewhat works, a strange impression of bewildered intrigue overtakes me as I consider him.
"...I would like to do both, if any," I say carefully, unsure.
"As you wish." The persistence of his courteousness is beginning to ware down my suspicion—the irritable side of it at least.
—"I can be well mannered enough, when I'm in the mood."—
I wonder to myself about his mood as I continue to try and get a measure of him. I was always fascinated by the glow I'd once seen in Zack's eyes. Cloud was the same—touched by Mako. There was almost a sadness to it, something that rendered them apart.
Sephiroth's are scorched. Mako itself.
It's disconcerting to note that their opaque nature is somewhat magnetic in the strange and transient light of my own mood.
He is why we're here—why my father can barely sleep and wishes to send me away, why Hojo may be metamorphosing into something somehow more twisted than he was previously, why the planet hasn't a whisper for me. Yet here he sits, ostensibly offering his help. I can hear the wind hissing it's call beyond the doldrums, it's warning. I reach forward, carful not to touch him as I take the syringe.