Sephiroth
"You need to disinfect."
She retrieves a cotton ball, her concentration evident. She'll be familiar with this process even if she's never considered it from this vantage point.
"Which is the... ?"
I gesture towards the alcohol and she dutifully retrieves it, soaking the cotton before pausing once more, eyeing my exposed arm warily before beginning to brush it across my skin with awkward precision.
It's been quite easy to coax her, to lead her by her wilful nature, her need for control. But interestingly, she seems somehow aware of it, consciously allowing it even. I reflect that it was, in fact, her, that initiated.
She discards the cotton ball and hesitates.
"Now find a vein," I instruct, turning my hand into a fist for her.
"Maybe I should just—I don't need to—" She shakes her head, starting to pull back. Calmly, I capture her eyes with mine.
"You should practice," I assure. It's the truth, but more importantly if I allow her to deviate she's more likely to spook. I note with absent humour that dealing with her has not been entirely dissimilar to the taming of a rare chocobo.
"Is it... safe?"
It takes me a second to comprehend the absurdity of her concern.
"My blood is human blood," I chuckle, "more or less." She furrows her eyebrows. "I will show you when it's done," I dismiss, gesturing around us with my free hand.
Her eyes probe mine, her boldness continuing to prove something of a novelty. Looking into them is not unpleasant—such a natural green, perhaps it's the generous depth of the colour.
I smile lightly, watching for her reaction.
She might have seemed indifferent were it not for the blood tinting her cheeks. I speculate an interplay of intransigence, mistrust, annoyance, and embarrassment.
She nods, quickly lowering her gaze.
Her touch is light, and slightly halting. I continue to watch her with curiosity, idly evaluating whether I should find it odd to be enjoying this.
She pauses, having done what I asked. "Tap to dilate it," I direct.
I suppose it's only natural to find her interesting, given what she is.
Having complied, she looks at me again, this time in question, but she knows what comes next—she remembers. I nod.
Slowly, she places her left hand below my elbow pulling the skin with her thumb. Not taut enough. I cover her hand with mine, pressing her thumb down more firmly. She stiffens but keeps the pressure as I move my hand away again.
I watch her lips part in a silent exhale as she readies the needle. She's fortunate, finding success on the first try. I remove the tourniquet from my arm as the tube fills and she glances at me in confusion, the sight of my rushing blood causing her concentration to break. I retrieve a cotton ball myself so that when she removes the needle, only a few drops spill before I stem the flow.
"Sorry," she breaths, watching them roll down my arm.
"You did fine," I sooth blandly, brushing the tips of her fingers with mine as I take hold of the syringe. Obediently, she speedily releases it.
As expected, she struggles to repeat the process on herself. Not only are her veins smaller, she only has one hand to work with. I'd pulled over a second stool from the start and merely waited for her to poke her arm full of holes before reluctantly accepting my assistance.
I ruminate further on her squeamishness as I feel for her shy blood vessels, avoiding her bruising skin. I cannot recall a time when such things had not been routine for me. Yet, despite being well acquainted herself, everything about her seems to shrink away from this. It's misguided to act as if she could somehow hide from her experiences—I press my thumb into her soft muscle, feeling the tell-tale shape below—even so, I will keep those secrets for her. It's quite amusing, in it's way, that they should be mine to keep.
I tap at the vein and she swallows discretely, shifting a little and staring intently to her side, her pulse renewing it's more fevered agitation as I pull her skin taut. I smile vaguely as I align the needle, amused by her irrationality and distracted from the strange certainty that I possess no real desire to begrudge her dealing with her past captivity as she chooses.
Inexplicably, she seems to relax, closing her eyes as blood begins to flow. She doesn't flinch or open them again, even as I remove the tourniquet. I continue to examine her unguarded face for a second or two longer than it takes for the tube to fill.
How peaceful she looks.
My legs sprawl at her sides, I effectively surround her.
Irritably, I discard an impolitic urge to touch her—to purposefully startle her. I won't risk the accord I've built. I press a cotton ball to her elbow as I withdraw the needle.
Her eyes flutter open, scrutinising me.
"Will you show me now?" she asks, her voice strangely quiet.
"They look very similar," she murmurs, peering through the microscope. She cannot expect to tell the difference between my blood and her own with little more than the base knowledge I've imparted to her.
"At this magnification they are, mostly," I reply, gazing across at her as she leans over, her mysterious Materia reflecting up at me from it's place nestled in her hair. "In biology what constitutes a small difference is usually contextual." I recite, watching it.
"...I thought you were a general," She turns to look sideways at me in question, snatching it from my gaze, "not a scientist." Her voice has a removed quality as if she were deep in thought despite addressing me directly.
I smile, meticulously polite. "I've been living with Professor Gast for three years now."
Your father.
What would he think I wonder? Could he truly repudiate my actions given the risk to his daughter? What an unexpected conundrum for him.
"The Professor," she begins again after a moment, her words careful, "he said that my mother... described Jenova as a virus."
I continue to watch her, feeling beginnings of the combined irritation and intrigue that it seems she's so adept at inspiring. I weigh my response diplomatically. "An incomplete analogy, though it certainly seems as if Jenova may behave in such a way much more so for those of Cetra heritage."
"How did it behave in your case?" she asks slowly.
Perhaps her curiosity shouldn't surprise me, but it does. I've had no occasion to discuss such things with anyone other than the Professor himself, and he could hardly be accused of curiosity in that regard. I recall her earlier question, what was it? ...She asked about my ability to sense Jenova. I'd assumed that she was simply nervous...
She's looking sideways at me along the table, one hand returned to the focus of the microscope. Her expression is veiled but it's hardly difficult to pick up on her intent.
I'm being studied.
"I'm told that I'm something of a chance occurrence," I say, intrigue winning out, "that my creation has proved unrepeatable."
"They thought they were creating an Ancient," she says, swallowing softly in a way that betrays her calm.
"They did," I nod, observing her intently. What must you think of that I wonder. Surely you find the idea to be as absurd as it is... and does it offend you, little girl? "Instead they produced a unique genetic blueprint sculpted by the being we call Jenova."
"Then what... ?" she trails off, suddenly looking down, as if through the floor.
"What am I?" I laugh, taking a few steps towards the library as I indulge in my amusement, both at her bluntness and her unwillingness to follow through on it.
It's a succinct question in fairness.
"No one seems to know," I answer flippantly, turning back to her, my shoulders still quaking.
It seems I am unnerving her again. No more than is necessary to desensitise her. I stare, until she meets my eyes.
"But I do," I add as she blinks up at me, her eyebrows tensed in question.
"I am a weapon."
Despite her apparent nervousness her eyes continue to bore into my own. How typically contradictory of her.
"What kind of weapon?" she asks.
"A weapon is a weapon," I dismiss, "It's ethic is dependent on the nature of who wields it." She looks down for a moment, signs of discomfort melting away into contemplation as she tucks a hand near her heart.
"You were Shinra's weapon..." she looks back up, gaze strangely penetrating, "and now... ?"
"Now I am free," I reply with finality, my good humour sobering as I pick up on the direction of her question.
"And what is it," she continues with quiet disregard, "that you want?"
I think of the crater—of the strange beauty of the planet—of the call I'd felt—of the feeling of completeness as I explored the limits of my abilities. But I'm finished with answering—my thoughts have excited a question of my own.
I step closer and she stills, her searching eyes widening ever so slightly.
"Tell me." I pause looking down at her—several feet away and trapped by the table behind her. "Aeris." We are on a first name basis after all. In fact, we're quite well acquainted, acquainted enough to ask all manner of things.
"What is it like, to speak with the planet?"
"It... " she starts in surprise, " ...It isn't easy to explain."
I recognise my own words, my irritation flickering.
"Try," I command smoothly. Her demeanor chills and I chuckle apologetically for my habitually militaristic address. "Please," I add with a tersely courteous smile.
Her fingers twitch where they rest on the table behind her, her eyes flashing with uncharacteristic sharpness. She'll be feeling cornered. I keep my expression relaxed—pleasant—to confuse her defensiveness.
She looks away, stubbornly retreating inside herself.
"Happy to ask, but not to answer?" I chuckle.
"It's always been there..." Her voice is barely more than a whisper.
I concentrate, listening.
"My mother..." she shakes her head, "I used to think..." she shakes her head again. " I used not to..." She swallows, briefly closing her eyes as if bracing herself before opening them again.
"The voice of the planet—it's everywhere—a part of everything—in everything." She pauses, her eyes glazing. "It's even in people, we are all part of the planet... in a way."
She jolts a little, looking up, I've moved another step closer while she was speaking. Perhaps I shouldn't have, it's obvious how on-guard my relentless nudging has left her.
"You're so far..." she whispers, nonsensical—barely audible—her faint voice carrying a pensiveness that contradicts the acute anxiety of her body language.
I stare down at her in confused fascination. Far from what?
Abruptly, she turns away, obscuring her face.
Again I am assaulted with the impulse to touch her—to physically return her eyes to mine—to demand that she say what it is she means. The strength of it is entirely unfamiliar and I weather the following silence with forced patience, the cryptic glint of her Materia teasing at my fouling temper as I hold it carefully at bay.
In contrast, she appears to find that source of absolute calm which exists within her somewhere. "It really is hard to explain," she says, her voice soft and certain. "No one taught me..."
My irritation flares as the prospect of an explanation slips away, but her words prompt a new consideration—I search my memory for her age when her mother died—A similar age as myself when—
"You had to learn to understand on your own," I state aloud, the realisation arresting my interest. I pace a few steps to ease whatever disorderly catharsis is trying to escape from me, perplexingly unable to fully comprehend the capriciousness of my own reactions. I cover my face with a hand, feeling a smile break through my lips as I laugh at a thought as absurd to me as it is intriguing.
I turn to look at her, pleased when I see that she has done the same.
"We are not entirely dissimilar," I tell her.
Her focus is intense as as she stares back at me. It almost reminds me of the frozen looks of soldiers as they teeter between flight and fight.
"Sensing Jenova is like a muscle I didn't know that I had, one I've had to train for myself," I confide equitably. I think of my current dilemma, of my reliance on the lifestream, my curiosity continuing to bloom. "How does Mako interact with your abilities?"
"You read my records," she replies, softly deflecting me. "Surely you already have whatever answer you desire."
Still a sore subject I see.
"I did," I nod unapologetically, "but I was asking about your experience, not Hojo's impoverished ravings."
To my unanticipated pleasure her guarded demeanor slips, as if partially coming undone. She blinks up at me, her eyes teeming with an unknown reactivity.
Perhaps I should forgo attempting to predict you, I muse facetiously, watching her lips part and hover in hesitation.
"...Maintenance was never good in the slums, and the pipes..." she begins, her voice, though distant, has a strangely raw quality. "There were leaks..." She shakes her head, swallowing discreetly. "I used to watch them sometimes—when I found them."
She looks up, her eyes drifting closed.
"Like peering into a world within a world. More than words. Beautiful," she continues her voice quieting, "but also sad."
She opens her eyes and looks at me. "Unnatural."
"Not always," I return, considering her.
When I commune with Jenova it is like a kinaesthetic high, a thrum of potential—of power. I may be able to channel the planet's energy, but it does not speak to me. I am as blind as all the others.
I turn away, pacing a few more steps and staring down at my empty sword hand as I turn it—palm up and palm down—an alien sensation traveling through me, sharp and gnawing. She has the ability to experience what I can only sense the shadow of in the full presence of the planet's glory. It doesn't seem to matter how irrational it is—how completely uncharacteristic—
I want it.
"What do you mean?" Her voice drifts through my awareness.
"Mako is not always unnatural at the surface." I don't look back at her. She will see it in my eyes. "There is a Mako fountain in the mountains."
"A Mako fountain?"
She doesn't know. It's not surprising. Such phenomena are rare and she's been grown in a slum—a box of metal and concrete. A travesty really.
I close my eyes turning back to her before opening them slowly.
"A miracle of nature," I tell her. "I can show you if you like."
She startles at my suggestion, gazing across at me in surprise, she turns her head but I can still see the satisfying tint of her cheeks through the earthy curtain of her hair.
After a moment she turns back, carefully. "I don't think my father would like that."
"Would you?" I return simply.
I want to take her—to see it through her eyes.
I hear her inhale. "I should check on him," she says, stepping back. "Thank you..." she adds at length, tensely polite, trailing off, her hand brushing her arm. She doesn't meet my eyes, hastily turning to exit.
I don't know whether I desire for her to stay or go. Something about her antagonises me, even as it draws me in.
She pauses at the door, snagged in spite of herself, glancing back at me. She sighs, as if frustrated, turning towards me fully. Her hands find each other behind her back and she smiles, her body language morphing. I recognise the mannerism as meaning that she's up to something.
"Since we're exchanging questions... might I ask one more?"
I raise my eyebrows incrementally, blinking indulgently as I nod.
She looks down before she speaks and I get the impression that whatever she's about to ask has been on her mind for a while.
"What was he like? The professor—when you were young? I mean—" She looks up at me and I feel myself still, staring back into her resolute, plaintive eyes.
Before he left to have you?
I look away as I contemplate my response, recalling the childish desire to be his apprentice when I was very young—Funny. I suppose I did finally get that chance, if certainly not the way that I'd wanted. No. Now everything is different. Now it is need. A need to understand.
I glance back at her.
Do you feel it too? That need? Is it part of why you've lingered here... Perhaps that shared need echoes that of your parents whose studies were so intoxicating.
Perhaps I should steal you from him.
Perhaps it would be fair.
I shake my head lightly, dispersing the thoughts that would presume such preposterous suggestions.
"Kind," I state simply, knowing it's the sort of thing she'd want to hear, my voice cold.
"Oh..." she says, watching me. "That's good to hear." Her tone convinces me that she is aware of how unforthcoming my answer was, but she doesn't press me.
She begins to turn again.
"Aeris."
She stops.
"I always leave before seven," I tell her, leaving it to her discretion. She nods curtly, turning quickly enough to rob me of her reaction as she finally completes her escape.
I continue to watch the door for a moment before closing my eyes, collecting my thoughts. It is good that she has left. Her blood will only last around a month, even if I find a way to properly store it. I need to do the relevant tests, note the relevant observations, sooner rather than later... Still, something continues to nag at me in her wake—An impression—faintly familiar—from the moment I'd held her arm in my hand—the mark left there by Jenova—as if almost possessive.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, expelling the thoughts I do not wish to think. The ones that have begun to question where it ends and I to question where it ends and I begin.