Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[ μ ] – εуλ 0105

A consciousness flows through the Lifestream.

The souls of the redeemed and unreconciled alike shy away from it like water from oil. It forgot long ago who it once was, that it once believed it was a man, a loyal warrior who killed for his masters and stayed his hand for his friends. Even a mother's legacy is faded and all but gone. All of it forgotten through the ordeal of its death and the corrosive power of Time within the Lifestream - a power forged to purify all tainted souls, enabling them to merge with Gaia once again.

But this soul is different.

Dark and seething, it shuns everything but itself. Only one emotion permeates its existence: hatred. Hatred so black and pure it has tainted Gaia's veins. The nature of this emotion preventing it dissolvment back into the Lifestream’s collective existence. It holds a single-minded purpose to reach the planet's surface, to seek out one person: A human still alive, the anchor of its self-awareness.

This human is all that the tainted soul knows of. It is a man, once its puppet, once a warrior hailed as hero but gradually forgotten as Time sucked his youth away. He is the one who fought the taint as it surfaced, who defied its will, who brought about its death. Its entire purpose is centred around this man. Its desirer; for him to hurt, to cry, to bleed, to wail, to scream, to whimper, to choke, to suffer. Yes, suffer, like no one has suffered. Like no one else can ever suffer. To suffer by its doing, to make him hate it back. Take everything away from him. His cries of grief unleashing such pleasure, fuelling its eternal fire of hate to burn hotter and consume more. This man's name is the only name it still recalls, the only name that matters. Cradled within the consciousness, bundled up in a shroud of hatred, it is protected from the corrosive power within the Lifestream. The name, Cloud, echoes throughout its existence. Every fibre of its being revolves around this man. It cares for nothing else.

Then, one day, Cloud dies.

One hundred and three years after it was first killed by this man, Cloud dies. He drops a coin and bends down to pick it up. Rights himself too quickly causing dizziness and falls over backwards. He jars his head against a doorframe, breaking his neck and dies shortly after. Once such a fall could never have killed him, but time and old wounds have taken their toll. A stupid, careless, banal, avoidable and utterly painless and pointless death.

Stunned, for the first time in over a century the tainted soul is lost in the Lifestream. Collecting itself in a desperate attempt to keep itself together, it sweeps through the Lifestream in search of Cloud's soul. It finds nothing. After a lifetime of torment Cloud seeks only forgiveness and is quick to accept Gaia's soothing embrace.

Its Cloud is gone.

What was it all for? Its one focal point has disappeared so meaninglessly. Why did it even hate Cloud? Why was this one human so important? How had it all started? A vague sense emerges from its consciousness. Mother. What was that? But even as it comes it flows away, taken by the corrosion of Time.

Time.

How much has it taken from this soul? A relentless predator constantly snapping up any morsels it could whittle away.

What presumptuousness! Though it has long forgotten what it is, it will not be preyed upon. With renewed purpose it gathers itself and latches onto Time. With a screech and a groan, the ever-flowing Lifestream grinds to a halt. All is silent. The constant hum of the planet is gone.

Experimentally it pulls, and with an ungodly noise, like machinery forced to move against itself, time flows backwards taking the Lifestream with it.

And then the consciousness feels Cloud, alive on the planet as time slips through its grasp and flows again. Hatred seething through the planet's veins - it surges towards the man. Only to watch him fall and die once again, leaving the soul at a loss, without a purpose.

How did it all start? Where had it all begun?

Turning its attention to Time, the consciousness grips it as a new purpose forms. In the silence of a frozen planet, the tainted soul purifies itself, its hatred cleanses and transforms into a defined will. This soul will not be preyed on by the Lifestream again and Time is no longer its predator. With a wrench Time flows backwards, jerking the lifestream with it and the planet screams. Uncaring for its plight, another pull keeps Time flowing backward as the driven soul reaches for its goal.

It will go to where it all started - to find the meaning it has lost.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1979 (December)

In the dead of winter, humans count the minutes for the turn of the new year known to them as 1980. A muffled groan slips from behind a closed door as a man in a blue suit walks along the darkened corridors of a silent mansion. Red eyes flicker to the bedroom door. He is alone with his two charges in the desolate building, the rest of his fellow employees celebrating the coming year with alcohol and the strange people of Nibelheim. All of them at the Inn in the quaint mountain town, the only place that serves such beverages. Eyes, suppressing simmering emotion, flicker away and he continues his rounds.

With another groan the man in the bedroom climaxes for the second time this night. Rolling off of the woman beneath him he idly trails his hand along her belly. As the woman winds down from the haze of lovemaking, her mind wanders to an older red eyed man. Conflicting feelings soon reawaken, her guilt only growing stronger. Her troubled mind holds nothing, however, to the man's beside her. His relentless thoughts leave him no rest even in the throws of passion. His inquisitive mind races to explain the mysteries of the Cetra, of Jenova, and the qualities they have in common. The secrets and inexplicable knowledge that mako holds... All the while these musings twist and weave alongside thoughts and feelings for the woman beside him, his colleagues and superiors and their place in the Jenova project.

It is at this moment that a sperm fertilizes an egg in the woman's belly. The miracle of life occurs and the stream of life flowing through her begins to differentiate. When its call for a new life echoes through the Lifestream a certain consciousness releases its hold of Time. It flows into the egg where it gathers and settles, pushing away all other souls and claiming this life for itself. In doing so, it creates and individual like none other. This moment is unprecedented throughout Gaia's memory. Though this new life form is merely a single cell, with no faculties for complex thought or physical power, the soul within is driven by a purpose and a will capable of commanding Time itself.

Chapter Text

[ μ ] – εуλ 1980 (June)

It is a strange epiphany.

'What have I done?' For once, only a single thread of thought runs through his mind along with a suppressed sense of trepidation. Though the people in the room mill around him in a controlled frenzy, he might as well be alone with one other. His world is silent from the pressure of an unuttered premonition which bears down on the walls of his sanity. 'What have I created?' He does not register his colleagues calling out to him, nor the sight of his rival prepping the new-born. 'What have I brought into this world?' At this moment he is blind and deaf, all of his senses saturated by one presence - frozen like a chick before a grown predator. Slit-pupils pull at his mind, warping the world, turning everything he knows and believes upside-down and inside-out. For it is the father that stands paralyzed before his new-born son.

It is a strange pregnancy.

They attribute it to the treatments. Perhaps the mothers distress as well, considering the fiasco with Valentine, for what else could it be? However, in a deep recess of his mind, one he refused to acknowledge his entire adult life, he knows differently. He knew from the moment he laid eyes on the first results. It is everyone's belief that they are the ones who orchestrated this birth. That it is the mystical powers of the Cetra that led to this miraculous outcome. Jenova cells are certainly intriguing enough to explain it away, for what else could they believe? But once again that apprehension oozes through his mind as impossible green eyes study him. He knows better than anyone - how corpses of the deities are used to play power games and attempt control over the world. He does it himself, after all. But that treacherous corner in his mind chides him for his folly. It is the Gods that play with them, and the pregnancy has never been under their control.

It is a strange birth.

It is too early, yet all of the signs say it is too late. He recalls a cryptic line Lucrecia uttered two months ago. At the time he brushed it aside, as he had all of her farfetched hypotheses, his scientific mind automatically rejecting it. But it comes to him once again while he gazes upon something that shouldn't just have come from a woman's womb. She is in the room as well, sedated as a doctor fusses over her. He recalls her introspective look as she confessed her inarticulate fears to him. "If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you". In denial his mind falls back on its own knowledge but finds no comfort: New born children can only distinguish between light and dark, and can only focus on things that are 20 to 30 centimeters away. This is a fact; the eyes have not finished developing until at least four months after it's birth. Yet this one's eyes opened as soon as it was out, watching the people move, as well as the prone woman that birthed it. 'Did you know what was inside of you? Did you know things I had not dared consider?' Standing across the room from where Gast holds the baby, even as the assistants move between them, he locks eyes with his son. In this moment his rational mind is forced to acquiesce to the part it shuns. This new-born baby - is too old.

It is a strange baby.

But then that is what they want, is it not? A Cetra child, the legacy of an extinct mythical race. But he cannot help but doubt as he watches the silver-haired child. Fact: up to the age of 2, babies are only capable of delta brain waves. The equivalent of deep sleep in an adult, though it allows for an infant to observe its surroundings it is incapable of consciously engaging with anything. It is effectively in a hypnotic state. Observe, this baby does. Watching the adults tower above it, even though it should not be capable of perceiving them, let alone consider its company. Is this really a Cetra? Is this even a child? Does a healer of worlds glance upon others with disdain? Does a child look upon its father with distaste? What baby holds itself as if the world is beneath it? In that moment something inside of his mind breaks. Something that should never break in a human. Yet again his conscious mind concedes to the exiled awareness stretching experimentally from its broken, subconscious confinement. This is not a baby.

----

He snaps out of his stupor as an assistant taps him. "Professor Hojo? It's been about a minute since the caesarean… the assistant breaks off as wide eyes turn to her. Then his mind kick starts and he is back in his element, only stronger and more confident then ever.

"Start the preparations for the EEG. You! Bring out the equipment for the optical tests. I want it for the full range." While he rattles out orders he catches the glance Gast sends him. He is overstepping. After all, it is Gast who is the project leader and his superior.

"But professor Hojo! The equipment for those tests haven't arrived yet and isn't due from –". Exasperated he interrupts the assistant. "Improvise! We need to record the baselines as soon as possible!"

He snatches a box of electrodes from someone and speedily starts applying them on the specimen's scalp. Yes, specimen, that's what it is. A perfect specimen, for it is undoubtedly unique – the only one of its kind.

Glancing at Gast again he sees the conflict in his eyes. He does not yet believe, does not want to believe, though he understands the significance of Hojo's intervention. After all, Gast is an exceptional and experienced scientist. He returns his attention to the task at hand. 'This is why you are no longer my superior. Not even my equal.' He thinks triumphantly to himself.

…

6 hours later finds professors Gast and Hojo diligently filling out notes together. The data needing to be organized and put together for the initial draft of the report, tables and diagrams are scattered everywhere. Coffee cups strewn across the table... Gast lets out a sigh putting down his pen. His gaze turns thoughtfully to where the new-born is being fed.

"The pregnancy lasted just over 27 weeks." Hojo doesn't comment, they both know the significance of that fact. Hesitantly Gast turns to him, stumbling on his question, unsure of how to broach it. "What is the… specimens name?

Hojo's eyes drift over to a certain corner of the room where they are instantly caught by vivid green. With a shuddering breath and a trembling hand, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Desperately trying to disassociate himself. He breaks the gaze and his eyes drift to where Lucrecia was carted away hours ago.

With a soft voice he repeats the words she whispered to him a month into her pregnancy. "His name... is Sephiroth." Turning back to his notes Hojo silently curses himself for his weakness.

Chapter Text

[ μ ] – εуλ 1980 (March)

Dear Grimoire

I am distressed, so I find myself writing to a dead man. Though this letter will never reach you, I feel the need to confide in you once again. I suppose I seek comfort. And perhaps forgiveness.

Your son is dead. He was assigned to protect Dr. Crescent, whom you were so fond of, myself and a few other scientists. You were right when you said his job would kill him, but could you have imagined in what way? He opposed Dr. Crescent taking part in the project with her unborn son, but backed off after confronting professor Hojo and Dr. Crescent about it. Hojo is a young, intelligent and ambitious man as well as the father... Two months into the pregnancy Dr. Crescent experienced strange pains, bouts of weakness as well as hallucinations. At first we thought it was the treatments, but we now think it was the abnormal development of the fetus. He approached me about his reservations. I think he saw her pain...

He confronted Hojo and was shot. A week has gone by since then. I don't know the details. Apparently Dr. Crescent walked in on the scene. I was shocked, everyone was. But what truly causes me distress is Shinra's response. We were told that the company was aware of your son's potential liability to the project. All key figures in the project were instructed to defend themselves if they were threatened. I recall receiving instructions of such a nature, but I never thought they were about him. I have seen his body… I… I suspect…

Oh Grimoire, what would you say if you saw me now?

[ μ ] – εуλ 1980 (Jully)

"Sephiroth." That is what they call him. Though many refer to him as ‘the specimen’ as well. But Sephiroth sounds right. It sounds familiar. It sounds like his name.

The woman who called his name walks over. Ignoring her he examines the back of his hand intently, idly stroking a thumb over it. This is his body.

The woman crouches in front of him and waves a hand in his face. With annoyance he glances disinterestedly at her. He feels nothing but disdain. She is an utter bore to look at, and there is no tug from his soul. Not like from the sound of those footsteps by the door.

A shiver runs through his spine and his soul cringes in disgust as he hears that voice. Dispassionately Sephiroth turns his head too look at the man. A young, smooth adult face. Black hair. Hazel eyes. Lab coat. The man falters as he meets Sephiroth's gaze. Hurriedly he pushes his round glasses up his noes.

"Professor Hojo." The woman calls out to him. What a disgustingly familiar name.

It is time for more tests. He can not understand their words yet, but recognises the context. He does not mind them so much. Some of them are a bit interesting, though most are boring. But more than anything, Professor Gast might be there. The only one with a mark of approval from his soul.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1980 (Jully)

Dear Grimoire

It's been two weeks since Sephiroth was born. I cannot begin to describe him, other than he's nothing like what I've ever seen or known of before. I had never fathomed that the Cetra would be like this! He seems to be a healthy boy, and I am glad. I felt so lost during the pregnancy. Things were happening that were so foreign and strange both with the child and Dr. Crescent, nothing like a normal pregnancy. Not even the data from Project G was comparable. It felt like we were fumbling at every turn to find the proper care for the mother and her child. It was a difficult decision to go through with the caesarean. After all, six months is too early. There could be countless complications; sight, hearing, CP… And with the company's stakes in the project… But Dr Crescent was at great risk and the sonograms showed the child was far ahead in it's development. Fortunately, it turned out better than what I had ever imagined. In fact, I still cannot believe it… and I confess, I do not understand…

Yet in the midst of the hype of my success, I find my mind is conflicted. Lucrecia has not been allowed to see her son. It tears me apart to hear her cry for him, but our instructions are from the President and they are explicit. Dr. Crescent is to make no contact whatsoever with her child. She is deemed unstable and a poor influence on Sephiroth's development if they are to meet. I can understand the reasoning to a certain extent… But to take a mother's child… her reaction strikes me as normal. And Sephiroth is denied a mother, even though she is nearby! He doesn't know her, has never met her, never felt her embrace...

Dr. Crescent recovered swiftly from her pregnancy and she spends most of her time in her lab. Just as she did shortly after your son's death. I have not seen much of her, and have not had much opportunity to do so. After all, here in Shinra, it is an unspoken rule not to enter someone's lab unless invited. But professor Hojo has been visiting her regularly. They are such an ill-fated family...

This whole affaire unsettles me.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1981 (October)

He is ecstatic.

Someone said it! Someone finally said it! Cloud!

He tugs franticly on the male assistant Clarksson's pant leg, not caring that he is perhaps tugging them too hard. Mr. Clarksson yelps, pulling his trousers back up and holding on to them for dear life.

"Cloud! Who is Cloud? Where is Cloud? Embarrassed and bewildered the assistant stares down at Sephiroth. His female colleague, Mortar, stares at them both with wide eyes and hand held over her mouth.

"What is happening?" A tug of familiarity, Professor Gast will know.

Quickly abandoning the incompetent pair, Sephiroth runs over to the Professor to repeat his question. "Who is Cloud? Where is Cloud?"

Surprised Professor Gast crouches down in front of Sephiroth. He glances quickly at the two assistants. "A cloud?" He questions looking back.

In an attempt to convey his urgency, Sephiroth nods emphatically.

With a smile Professor Gast offers his hand. "I will show you". Without hesitation Sephiroth grasps two familiar chubby fingers and follows the man to a window.

Professor Gast picks him up and points out the window. "See those fluffy white things in the sky? Those are clouds." Sephiroth stares long and hard, but there is no reaction from his soul. He feels nothing for any of these clouds.

With a slow disappointed pout, he resigns himself. "My Cloud isn't there…" He looks up into familiar warm brown eyes.

After a long moment Gast slowly turns his head to look out the window. The sky reflecting in his square glasses. "In your life, you will come across many clouds. Perhaps one day you will find the cloud you are looking for."

Sephiroth's eyes sharpen with renewed determination. "One day... I will find Cloud." From that day on Sephiroth regularly watched the clouds from the windows.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1980 (November)

Dear Grimoire

Dr. Crescent disappeared. She has been missing for about five days now. They are looking but have yet to find her, or so they say. I hope…By Gaia, I hope she left and that they never find her! I've been having doubts. About my work. About Shinra. I keep thinking of your son and what he said to me. I realize now that in spite of his work your son knew where to draw the line. His morals may have been different from yours, Grimoire, but they were where they needed to be. I hope you're proud, for he knew what was important when I did not.

I've been a biologist for 37 years and a full fledged researcher for 29. I barely remember those first 11 years where I worked and studied independently. You and I worked together much more, back then. You were older and more experienced, you advised me on how to scrape by. I… respected you, looked up to you. But I confess that I was a little jealous. Your family… You had so many assets. Then Shinra Manufacturing came along, and I joined them. The resources in Shinra were incomparable. No more worrying about the dwindling supply of petri dishes and test tubes, when the sterilizer would give out on me, where I'd get my next sample and if I could survive the journey. I could wholeheartedly throw myself into my research, not even having to clean up after myself. I was dazzled! You were against it though, but I couldn't understand.

I'm embarrassed now by my behavior… my jealousy… I blamed it on your wealth. But then 16 years ago there was that fire, and you lost everything. Even your son, you lost to Shinra. You would disappear for months, then reappear again with some new clue, some new discovery. Sometimes you would partner up with a Shinra scientist like you did with Dr. Crescent, but you were always independent from them. I thought it was your grief. But I wonder now…

Ten years ago I became head of the Shinra Science Department after my discovery of Jenova. I was so proud of myself and happy for the recognition I received. Now I have but to ask and most anything will appear shortly in front of me. I have so much power… I'm ashamed to say that I fell prey to that power. I learned what words would gain the President's favor. What to do in the board room to increase our budget for this or that project. For the safety, power and wealth of the company. Those are the magic words. It is what I receive from Shinra, and it is what Shinra values. I… I used the Promised Land to justify continued research on Jenova. I'm so ashamed… to deliberately mislead like that… Grimoire, I fear the repercussions of my actions.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1981 (February)

Sephiroth watches professor Gast. He likes him. His soul hums warmly when he is around, even with professor Hojo nearby.

Professor Hojo does not like professor Gast, especially when Sephiroth talks to him. The Black haired man reserves a special dirty look for professor Gast's back on such occasions. Sephiroth doesn't like that look, he likes it even less then the man himself.

But today he watches Professor Gast work alone. He looks troubled as he squints at some documents. Sephiroth uncurls himself and makes his way to the larger man, where he clambers up on his lap.

A deep chuckle hums through professor Gast chest as a hand steadies the child, but his eyes still hold a worried gleam. "Why the long face?" asks Sephiroth.

A fond smile warms professor Gast's features. It is the first thing he usually asks Sephiroth after a long session with Professor Hojo.

Then he sighs and looks back at his documents, trailing a finger thoughtfully along its lines. Sephiroth knows he will tell him, Professor Gast always tells him what he can. "You are growing very fast. I am worried it is bad for you." The Professor says finally.

Sephiroth thinks on this. Perhaps professor Gast is talking about the Time inside of his consciousness going faster than the time in the Lifestream. Maybe he should let it catch up. With that thought he let go of Time within him, and it slows down ever so slightly. Sealed as it is from the Lifestream it will be a while before it goes at the same pace. Perhaps it might even continue to slow down and tually come to stop. It doesn't matter to Sephiroth, his consciousness flows separately from the Time within him. He is its master after all.

With a smile Sephiroth pulls at professor Gast's mustache. "Don't worry, Professor Gast, it will turn out all right."

The older man huffs a laugh, his eyes softening and his smile growing wider. "I hope so." He says softly as he strokes the child's silver hair.

./.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1981 (June)

"Happy birthday Sephiroth!" Nonplused the boy stares at a smiling Gast with a strange colorful cone-hat on his head. The two other assistants, Mr. Clarksson and Miss Mortar, as well as Professor Hojo also sit around the table with similarly adorned heads.

"Birthday?" Sephiroth enquirers. His eyes trail along the ugly white elastic band digging into sagging soft skin.

"It's been a year since your birth. You are one year old. Why don't you come over? We have a surprise for you!" Professor Gast kindly explains to him. Curious Sephiroth runs to the lone empty chair, forgoing professor Gast lap since professor Hojo is present. Said man is currently lifting a tee-towel off of a long rectangular metal box. A strange enticing smell reaches his nostrils.

Seeing the boys inquisitive gaze, the professor continues to explain. "It's a carrot Cake, a local treat. Professor Hojo specially went to town to get it." With surprise Sephiroth glances at said man who promptly looks away from him. Sephiroth's mood immediately sours. A sad expression crosses the older mans eyes at the sight of Sephiroth's reaction. "Why the long face? It's a gift from your… A gift to make you happy. Why don't you try a piece?" He coaxes gently.

Miss Mortar cuts into the cake and fishes out a piece that she dishes out on a small plate. Mr. Clarksson passed the plate to him along with a fork. Sephiroth eyes the cake suspiciously, not quite knowing what he expects will happen, but that it must be something bad. But unable to resist the aromatic temptation, his suspicion is overridden and a piece makes its way into his mouth. Tentatively he chews whereupon a big smile graces his face while his eyes light up in appreciation.

Unbeknownst to Sephiroth a small but genuine smile appears on an unlikely mans face at the sight of his delight. With more enthusiasm and a knowing smile Professor Gast continues his coaxing. "Would you like to try some tea? Apparently it's customary in these parts to eat carrot cake with fennel tea. Professor Hojo was also the one to get it." A cup of the steaming, aromatic beverage is offered to the boy in a coffee cup.

"Not coffee?" He scrunches his noes in distaste, eyeing the cup distrustfully, vividly remembering the horrid drink. Professor Gast shakes his head in silent amusement. With far les suspicion this time, Sephiroth curiously sips the hot drink. The taste is distinct and unfamiliar, but not all together unpleasant.

"They are meant to be appreciated together in friendly company. All who share the meal become equals in their enjoyment, or that is at least what the locals say. So enjoy this occasion Sephiroth." Professor Gast's soothing voice quietly flows into the boy's ears though his attention is elsewhere as he and the rest of the table begin to enjoy this birthday gift.

...

After the birthday meal, Mr. Clarksson and Miss Mortar start to clear away the tableware. "Professor Gast?" The clattering of tableware stops. It is rare for Sephiroth to be so talkative in their company. "If I am one year old, how old are you?"

Professor Gast smiles "I turned sixty-two last Winter." Curiously the adult audience look on as Sephiroth absorbs this information.

"Sixty… two… Sixty…" Sephiroth gasps in realization. "You are so much older than me!" Professor Gast laughes good-naturedly. "How old are you?" This time the boy directs his question to the rest of his audience.

Professor Hojo is the first to answer "I will be turning twenty-nine shortly." Sephiroth's mood immediately soures. "I am Twenty-six" says Mr. Clarksson, followed by Miss Mortar. "And I, twenty-seven".

"You are all older than me!" exclaims Sephiroth dissatisfied.

Professor Hojo scoffs, pushing up his glasses. "Of course we are older. We are all adults and you are but a one-year-old child." Sephiroths expression starts too cool as the familiar curl of distaste returns with a vengeance after having been strangely absent during the meal.

He feels a warm hand on his shoulder. "The older you get, the more younger people you will meet. One day you might be so old you will find it hard to meet anyone who is older than you." says professor Gast kindly.

Sephiroth stares at him "Younger…" he repeats, and the word resonates quietly within him.

"It's someone whom you are older than. Now, I have work to do so if you will excuse me." Professor Hojo explains as he stands from the table before striding off.

"Younger…" Sephiroth tests the word in his mouth. Again his soul resonates. It's a clue, he realises and decides to watch out for people who are younger than him. If he doesn't find them now then, as professor Gast says, in time he will. The following days Sephiroth runs around the Shinra mansion asking every resident employee he can find about their age.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1981 (December)

Dear Grimoire

Sephiroth is almost two years old now. He is extremely bright and also physically strong, it is easy to forget his age. But I worry for him. The development of his mind and body are like nothing I have ever seen, read or heard about. I still recall the base line results right after his birth. President Shinra was very pleased. I can not help but worry though. Just as he was born a baby too old, will he die an old man too young? However, recent results have indicated a slight slowing in his growth and hopefully this trend will continue.

I have my doubts on Jenova. I thought she was a Cetra but… the more I study her, the less I think she is. And then there's Sephiroth. I can not help but be surprised by him time and time again. Especially by his intellect. I have told him of the Lifestream and the Legends of the Cetra, and I think he understands more than he should. But I just do not believe that he is a Cetra. He is so different from what I had imagined them to be. It is like I said before, he is unlike anything I've seen, read or heard about. I spoke to the president of this and I believe the Jenova project has been repurposed. The promised Land has been put on hold and I hear more and more talk about SOLDIER. I fear the consequences… for the world… and for Sephiroth.

Thinking back, much has changed in Shinra. Yet it is also the same. How could I have been so blind? How did I stray so far from my path? I lost sight of what truly mattered to me, Grimoire. I used to pursue Wisdom with such devotion. It was my passion, it was what kindled my flame, my desires! But wisdom is not valued in Shinra. I suppose I was pulled into its flow, fooled to dance to its script and play by its rules. Just like everyone else who is seduced by Shinra.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1982 (March)

There is a door that never opens. No one goes into it and no one comes out. Though it's rather discrete, Sephiroth passes it every day on his way to and from the labs. He tries the door. It is locked.

"What are you doing Sephiroth?" Mr. Clarksson sharp voice echoes through the passage. With the usual disdain Sephiroth turns towards the assistant but stays put.

"Mr. Clarksson, what is behind this door?" He asks.

The Assistant hesitates. "It's… There's nothing. Now come along Sephiroth." Green eyes narrow. He is hiding something from him. A shiver of anger runs through his soul. He does not like when people hide things from him. He follows Mr. Clarksson, but he is not done with that door.

./.

A ring of keys lies abandoned on a table. Green eyes scan the room from the tables edge. He is alone. Not one to miss this opportunity, he swipes them off the table and slinks off to the underground passage.

A few moments later the assistant Mr. Clarksson finds Sephiroth fitting keys into a certain innocent-looking door. "Sephiroth, leave that door alone! You’re not allowed in there!" He strides over and grabs Sephiroth's hand. Slowly Sephiroth turns to him, eye's narrowing slightly. This man is hiding something. His soul trembles with quiet anger, he does not like when people hide things from him.

At this moment the poor assistant, Mr. Clarksson, is frozen by a slit-pupil stare. An instinctual fear rushes through his being and his knees weaken beneath him. With an unexpectedly forceful tug, he is jerked down after his arm. Half way to the floor Mr. Clarksson's head connects in an odd angle with the door frame. With the momentum of his fall, Sephiroth's pull and the unyielding force of the door, his head twists.

A loud snap echoes in the cool passage.

Curiously Sephiroth studies the silent man on the ground. He crouches down and pokes the head.

It flops to the side in a way he has never seen a head flop before. But there is something familiar about this situation…

An idea forms in his mind and his nimble fingers explore Mr. Clarksson's neck, looking for where the man is broken. Sephiroth closes his eyes and and with his consciousness probes the man. He expects resistance but encounters none and enters unhindered into the Stream of Life within Mr. Clarksson. He is still alive, but his channels are trembling and the seals to the Lifestream are slowly coming undone. Sephiroth experimentally probes one of the seals that shudders on contact. With a decisive mental shove he breaks it, happily helping Mr. Clarksson on his way to the Lifestream.

Carefully Sephiroth retreats back into himself and contemplates the life fading quickly before him. "Sephiroth?" looking up he sees Professor Gast. The older man seems shocked. A blue suited woman detaches herself from the shadows and rushes toward him. Mr. Clarksson is, however, but a corpse by the time she reaches him.

A gentle hand touches his shoulder and Sephiroth looks away from the woman's inspection of the scene. "Come with me." He hears Gast say and follows him up the stairs to the Shinra mansion.

...

Professor Gast leads him to the greenhouse on the second floor of the west wing. It is quiet and no one will disturb them there. Professor Gast sits down on a wooden box and Sephiroth silently climbs up on his lap. "Will you tell me what happened?" He asks softly.

"I was trying to open the door. Then Mr. Clarksson came, he shouted at me and grabbed my hand. I was angry and I pulled. Mr. Clarksson fell over and hit his head against the door."

Professor Gast let out a sigh. "I see, what an unfortunate accident."

But Sephiroth shakes his head. Though this event was unforeseen, Mr. Clarksson's death was definitely deliberate. "It was on purpose."

Professor Gast stares at Sephiroth "Do you know what happened to Mr. Clarksson?" He asks slowly.

It is with certainty that Sephiroth answers. "He returned to the Lifestream." He had seen him off himself after all.

A long silence stretches between them.

"Why?" Professor Gast asks finally, trying to understand.

"He was hiding things from me. He was in my way."

The eyes of the old man widen. "You… What… How…" He stutters horrified. Then a sudden realization darkens the Professors face and his eyes drift toward the windows sadly. "How… Shinra of you…"

A silence settles once again amidst the green leaves of the circular room.

"Professor Gast, what is in that room?" Sephiroth finally cannot help but ask. He must know.

A slow frown deepens the wrinkles of the old mans face. "I do not know for sure… But… but I believe that it is a closet where Shinra keeps its skeletons."

Sephiroth stares thoughtfully into space. "So there are people like Mr. Clarksson in there?"

The Professor cannot help but give a small sad smile in dark humour at Sephiroth's analogy. "Yes, I think that might be a very accurate description."

"Oh" is Sephiroth's only reply as he loses all interest he had in the room.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1982 (July)

Dear Grimoire

Those times when you disappeared… Were you tip-toeing around Shinra? I have been thinking, perhaps it is time for me to do the same. My influence is waning. Professor Hojo has been working very hard as of late, and it has not been on any experiment. I suspect he has the president's ear, and has had for quite a while now. I don't think I am wanted here anymore. And Gaia knows I do not want to stay…

I worry for Sephiroth though. I can say for sure that he dislikes Hojo, who does little to make him think otherwise. He doesn't act like a parent in front of him, yet sometimes I see the father within him. I do not even think Sephiroth knows who his father is. Sephiroth's parentage is confidential and I am forbidden from telling him. Sephiroth doesn't seem to like most people's company. He approaches me though, and for that I feel honored. But more than that, I am concerned for his mental health. I realize now, as I watch a child raised by Shinra, what an unhealthy environment it is. At times, I think back on Dr. Crescent's hallucinations. Sephiroth… he… he is still a child yet…

We have received the go-ahead to a new batch of tests for Sephiroth. professor Hojo proposed them for the SOLDIER program. When I wrote that report on Mako all those years ago, I had not fully imagined what it would involve… I have done enough harm to this child so I refused to participate in them.

All of this makes me feel so much more guilty for what I am about to do. I feel like I will be abandoning him... betraying him. Leaving him to be alone among a crowd he neither likes nor trusts. I hope he finds people he will be capable of calling friends. As much as I want to be one of them within Shinra, I cannot stay.

Grimoire, though we exchanged letters we were never all that close, but I like to think now that we were. I feel lost and alone in this new journey and find myself in need of a wise friend… Even though, I have never been a good one myself...

Your friend,

Gast Faremis

[ μ ] – εуλ 1982 (September)

Light feet hurry up the stairs of the Shinra Mansion. Professor Gast asked to see him in the greenhouse after his tests. He has not seen much of the old man as of late. He stopped coming to most of the tests ever since they changed after his second birthday. They are much more uncomfortable than before but Sephiroth doesn't mind them too much.

Abruptly he comes to a stop at the sight of a suitcase at the top of the stairs. A jolt runs through his soul and his mood sobers.

Calmly Sephiroth lets the emotions of shock and sadness wash over him. The feelings from his soul have become a lot clearer and sharper ever since the new tests started.

Heavy steps direct him to the green house at the far end of the mansion.

Professor Gast is sadly slumped on his box, familiar brown eyes framed by square glasses turn towards Sephiroth.

"You are leaving." The toddler states it with certainty. His consciousness has vaguely known this would happen from the first moment he laid eyes on him.

The silence stretches between them.

"Would you like to sit on my lap one more time?" The old mans voice is soft and wavers uncertainly. Without a word Sephiroth moves from the doorway and straddles Professor Gast's legs, burying his face in the older mans chest. He listens to the old man's heartbeat as a large hand runs through his silver hair, the other resting on his back.

A long moment passes until finally Gast speaks, his voice breaking slightly at the end. "I must leave. I'm sorry." Slowly Sephiroth looks up at Professor Gast's moistening eyes. The old man leans down and places a soft kiss on the young boy's forehead. "Thank you" The choked whisper hangs in the air like the rustle of leaves in the quiet room.

Professor Gast clears his throat before continuing in a horse voice. "I'll send you letters from time to time. Hopefully you will be able to read them on your own by then."

"And I will write letters to you too, Professor Gast." Sephiroth replies in turn, but a strange sense of loss creeps into his gut.

A small smile squeezes itself onto the old mans lips. "No more Professor. Just call me Gast."

Dilated, bright green eyes stare up into glistening soft brown ones. Slowly Sephiroth reaches up with his left hand and places it on the mans cheek. "Within every living being is a current, much like the Lifestream" Sephiroth says thoughtfully.

He knows letters won't be enough. "Prof... Gast…" The older man stares wondering back at the boy.

Suddenly the child’s fingers dig into the older man’s tender skin, the small nail’s easily breaking the skin and dragging small drops of blod. Professor Gast jerks away, surprised.

Sephiroth reaches up with his other hand holding the man's face between his palms, fingers placed over the gashes with a gentleness contrasting the previous force. He draws himself up onto his feet, balancing on the elder’s knees. Piercing green eyes lock with soft brown ones. "Prof… Gast, do you trust me?

The old man is silent for a moment, confusion and surprise provoked by the boy's actions. A long moment passes and the emotions settle revealing a familiar warmth. When he finally opens his mouth, only truth slips from between his lips. "…Yes. I do."

With that confirmation Sephiroth closes his eyes and sends a sliver of his consciousness through the breached skin. At first he encounters some resistance, but it quickly lets him pass. Slowly and quietly the fragment of his consciousness hides away within Gast's inner Channels.

Opening his eyes Sephiroth smiles. "Before the end, I will be with you."

…

An old truck stands outside of the Shinra mansion. Professor Gast's suitcases are already loaded and he is bidding farewell to his fellow Shinra employees. Letter of resignation read and approved by the President himself, apparently.

Last of all Professor Gast turns to Sephiroth. Though he supposes it is Gast now. The man looks strange without his lab coat. He kneels down and Sephiroth accepts his embrace. "Goodbye." He whispers in Sephiroth's ears.

"Goodbye" whispers Sephiroth back, trying to imprint the memory of this man within him. He knows it will be a long time before he hears from him again.

Suddenly Gast's arms tighten around him and he whispers urgently. "Beware of Shinra. If you can, do not let them know what you are capable of."

Sephiroth gently pushes away from him. "We will meet again one day" he promises.

His gaze follows Gast's movements long after the truck has driven away and he is pulled back into the mansion. When the sliver of consciousness within Gast fades from Sephiroth's awareness completely, his eyes slide close.

"Goodbye… friend."

Chapter Text

[ μ ] – εуλ 1982 (October)

Sephiroth twists awkwardly in his seat to get a final good look at the snowy mountain town. In his short life, this is the first time he has left the Shinra Mansion grounds. He has never met any of the townspeople nor felt the desire to.

The sight of the water tower surrounded by quaint little houses sends an echo of memory through his soul. But he feels little attachment to this place - none since Gast left. His memories of the old man are the only ones worth remembering to Sephiroth. With that thought he turns around and looks out into the distance.

Midgar… His soul tugs at him. It is a familiar name. He can almost see it in front of him. It is where he must go. It is there his future lies.

As the little mountain town is swallowed in the horizon, it does not occur to the boy to even ask for its name.

./.

He stands next to professor Hojo in front of a long table with the backdrop of the Shinra tower's construction through the floor to ceiling windows. A group of men sit around it, all of them contemplating them. Or rather contemplating him, by the way they crane their necks to see him above the table. Though many a calculating glance is spared for the professor as well.

"So this is the one - the future of SOLDIER?" The deep gravelly voice breaks the silence. It is a big man with short black hair and beard who speaks. His face is angular and deeply lined though he doesn't seem old. A distinct sense of contempt comes over Sephiroth.

His attention is quickly drawn away, however, by a cultured voice coming from the man at the head of the table. A strong dislike creeps up Sephiroth's spine this emotion much more potent than for the first. "Come around the table so I can see you, little one."

Sephiroth obeys. The executives turn in their chairs for a better look at him as he walks by. "What an exotic look!" pipes one of the executives. Sephiroth glances at him; a man in a dirt-coloured suit, has a distinctly round shape. The big smile on his face doesn't strike Sephiroth as genuine. A rush of familiarity comes to him but he feels nothing other than the usual disdain and indifference.

"What a beautiful boy." This time it is another executive he passes. The man's girth is also a bit larger than what Sephiroth is used to. He is much taller and looks older, wearing a striped purple suit. His eyes evaluate Sephiroth as he walks by. This time there is no tug of familiarity from his soul and he mentally dismisses him.

Coming to a stop before the head of the table, he studies the man before him just as the man examines him. This man's body is also a few circles wider than usual and he wears another odd coloured suit. Sephiroth cannot quite place the colour which is between a purple and deep red. Though he has never seen it before, it is very familiar. Familiar, just like the blond hair and moustache as well as the smoky smell that wafts around him. "Tell me, boy, what is your name" The icy blue eyes study him critically.

"Sephiroth." he answers simply. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realises it is the first time he has spoken his name himself. It sounds strange coming from his mouth. Everyone that matters, and their flunkies, know who Sephiroth is.

"Hmm…" The man takes a long suck from his cigar. "Then, Sephiroth, do you know who I am?" His soul knows very well who this man is, it knows it so well it is on the tip of his tongue.

But he doesn't know it, not yet.

perhaps he could figure it out, however. He was not told the purpose of this visit. Only that they were going to Midgar where the new Shinra HQ is located. He knows where he is, he saw it on the ground where they landed the helicopter that brought them part way over the ocean.

A sign so achingly familiar to his soul. The first symbol he learned to recognise, the mark for its influence, power and property. Shinra. And this man, sits on that power. It is almost visible; the way he holds himself, the way the others defer to him even though they are confident people in their own right.

"You are the president of Shinra." The moment the words slip from his mouth he knows he is right.

The cunning man eyes the boy in front of him for a long moment. Suddenly a laugh comes bubbling out of the blond and he is soon accompanied by the Executives who laugh along with him. As abruptly as he started, he stops and the others are quick to break off themselves. Sephiroth privately thinks that whole scene was a totally pointless gesture.

The President leans forwards towards him. "Aren't you a smart boy? Yes, I am President Shinra. But do you know what that means, Sephiroth? It means that I am your master. What ever happens to you, it is because I have decided it. Whatever you do, it is because I have told you to do so. Do you understand?" The two lock gazes. Sephiroth is not surprised. This concept is familiar to his soul, though it rankles.

'Beware of Shinra. If you can, do not let them know what you are capable of.' Gast's last words come to him and Sephiroth nods once. and President Shinra leans back in his chair, pleased but contemplative. 'For now' Sephiroth silently promises to himself.

The big man turns to Professor Hojo and waves him over. "He looks much older than three, he looks almost as old as my son Rufus. Tell me, how are the new results from the SOLDIER treatments going?"

The professor nudges up his glasses. "They are going well, as I said in my report, there is a marked improvement in physical strength and reaction time as well as regeneration. Unfortunately, the child is too young still to use Materia without risk for his well being. So we are unable to establish the baseline on his ability. There have been no significant lasting side-effects that we could establish other than what we dub the 'Mako shine' in the eyes. Though it is like I suggested that Sephiroth reacts particularly well to Mako, I think that we should soon be able to establish a proper formula that would work on normal human specimens. We should be ready within a month to start such experiments – with your permission of course."

President Shinra leans back in his chair with a satisfied smirk on his face. "Your work for this company has been very promising, professor Hojo." The professor comes to attention at this. "I expect much from you in these coming months. You have my permission to start experimenting for the SOLDIER program as soon as your formula is complete. If you do well I might just make you head of the Shinra Science research department instead of Professor Hollander. The current temporary replacement for Professor Gast has proven herself quite incompetent."

A smile graces the face of Professor Hojo. "You are dismissed. I expect you to get to work immediately." He waves a hand towards the door and Hojo hurriedly thanks the President and ushers Sephiroth out through the door.

./.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1983 (January)

Under the stark white lights of the lab, Sephiroth watches Professor Hojo. His face is emaciated, his clothes hang too large on his body, his skin is pale and dry and his hair is matted and greasy. He has changed so much. He looks like a different man. He's been working hard ever since he came to Midgar.

Not many people like Professor Hojo here. Not many people liked him before either. In fact, the only one that seems to care for him, give him the benefit of the doubt, and go out of the way to protect him when Sephiroth expresses his disdain, is Gast. What irony that the only man who ever defended Professor Hojo is also the one that he dislikes the most.

Sephiroth’s attention drifts over to a glass of water - one of the assistants brought it for the boy. On a whim, he idly slides it over the table towards Professor Hojo. Curiously, Sephiroth watches the mans attention shift to the glass. Slowly, almost disbelievingly, they lift to meet Sephiroth's slit-pupils.

A flicker of emotions passes over Hojo's face. His pupils dilate and his breathing quickens slightly. Experimentally Sephiroth sniffs the air exploring the capabilities of his new enhanced senses. The smell in the air has changed, sharper and heavier. He sifts through his memory. Anxiety? Fear?

With a slight tremble in his hand the Professor nudges his glasses up his noes and returns back to his papers. He ignores the glass of water in spite of his parched lips.

After a moment of thoughtful staring, Sephiroth slips off the chair and walks away.

Does Hojo dislike people who treat him well?

…

Green eye's stare through a glass. It has been emptied of it's contents while Sephiroth was away. Idly he observes the lip prints on it's edge, definitely not those of a child's. Professor Hojo is still hard at work, his lips no longer as parched. He studiously ignores Sephiroth though he seems slightly uncomfortable with the tiny boy’s presence beside him.

Sephiroth studies him carefully as he climbs onto a chair and retrieves the empty glass. He slides off the chair and turns away with amusement, revelling in the man's discomfort. What power such a small gesture holds over this man.

A smirk slinks onto Sephiroth's face as he hears Professor Hojo exhale behind him. Who knew showing care to a tormentor would be such fun?

./.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1983 (february)

A current of ice cold heat pierces into him. His soul hums at the sensation's familiarity. His stomach churns and the world spins and tilts around him. He gathers his awareness into his consciousness, watching detachedly at the world warping.

Every now and then he snatches something from the foreign lifestream-like substance snaking through his body. Something he recognises as lost echoes from his soul - a feeling, an emotion or a fragmented idea. Sometimes it's almost enough to form a blurry image or a word, tantalising him with promise of answers, but never delivering.

It is tormenting, painful and nauseating, but he doesn't mind it too much. It takes his attention away from the tedious nature of his company.

./.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1983 (June)

Sephiroth stares at a pastry. An almost round shape with it's bottom part encased in some kind of paper. On top is a carefully sculpted white… blob of toothpaste?

It is a gift from Professor Hojo. One that he shoved into Sephiroth's hands before hurrying off to continue his work, muttering a short "Happy third birthday." The smell is slightly reminiscent of the Carrot cake he ate with Professor Gast, but mostly of something else.

He takes a small bite and chews tentatively. It is cold and tastes very different. It's much sweeter and has a hint of something unfamiliar; mellow and bitter. The white thing just tastes sweet. He takes another bigger bite. His eyes widen as something cold and slimy enters his mouth. Some kind of cream fills the centre. It has an odd yellowy tinge to it dotted with tiny black specks. It too, is sweet though that mellow bitter taste is much stronger.

He looks up, there is no one in the room only stacks of papers and glowing monitors. The walls are whitewashed and stark from the neon lights. There are no windows. He is alone.

Sephiroth shuffles over to the nearest bin and tosses the half-eaten cake in. He doesn't mind the taste, but he doesn't want it.

He stares a moment into the wastepaper bin. Reaching down, he carefully picks out a small card board box. Applying his knew reading skills he enunciates the big print scrawled over the box. "Love-less De-li-ca-cy".

Loveless, it sends a shock through his soul. He can almost hear someone speaking. A man, he thinks, but then it's gone. He keeps soul-searching for a moment longer, but when there's nothing more to be had, he returns to his investigation.

He squints at a small handwritten label "Van-ill-a cr-eam muff-in". No tugs from his soul.

Curiosity satisfied, Sephiroth reunites the cardboard-box with its previous contents in the wastepaper bin and walks of in search of a window.

…

The clouds in Midgar are different. They cover the sky in a perpetual grey dome. At night they glow a pale green-blue from the Mako Reactors. They are achingly familiar to his soul, but not in the right way. They are not his Cloud.

The clearing of a throat sounds behind him. Disinterestedly, Sephiroth turns around and sees a janitor watching him. He has seen this particular one before, but like most people whom his soul doesn't recognize, he has ignored him.

The Janitor beckons to the toddler. This is different.

Curiously Sephiroth walks over to him giving the man a second look. He is old, his hair is thin and sparse on his head and his fair skin looks wrinkly and somehow worn out.

Without a word the man turns and walks away; pulling his cart along with him. Sephiroth follows.

The man stops a floor down along a branching and poorly lit corridor. He opens an inconspicuous door with a 'Private' sign on it. Flicking a switch, he walks into the room leaving the door open.

Curiously Sephiroth follows him into the doorway. It is a tiny room filled mostly up by a cot, a low table and some backpacks stacked upon each other. A single light-bulb dangling from the ceiling lights the room.

Moving to the table, the janitor fishes out some paper cups from one of the backpacks. Sitting down on the cot next to the low table he unscrews the lid of a thermos and pours the steaming liquid into one of the cups. Putting down the thermos he holds it out to the boy.

Enticed, Sephiroth enters the room and takes the cup. A familiar smell reaches his nostrils. Familiar, not to his soul but to him. "Fennel tea." he states, somehow surprised.

The man pours himself a cup of tea and gestures to the cot for Sephiroth to sit. He speaks for the first time in a strange melodic accent. "Sorry. No carrot cake." Sephiroth sits next to the janitor sipping the aromatic drink. The man pays him no mind while he savours his tea.

Restless and dissatisfied: that was what he had been all day. Yet those emotions are now absent and he feels inexplicably content. 'They are meant to be appreciated together in friendly company. All who share the meal become equals in their enjoyment.' Gast's words comes to him again in this moment as janitor and something more than a child sit together. 

During the blessed time it took to drink a cup of tea; they sat in silent appreciation.

…

"Why do this?" Why does this man go out of his way to drink tea with a stranger? Not for work and not for friendship. Why does he care? Sephiroth doesn't know.

The janitor sets down his cup on the table calmly. He does not look at Sephiroth when he speaks. "Heard it was your birthday. Saw you alone." He stands up and moves toward the door. Sephiroth hears the last words as he grabs his cart and walks off. "No child should celebrate this day alone."

Chapter Text

[ μ ] – εуλ 1983 (August)

Dear Sephiroth

I am sorry it has taken me so long to write back to you. During this past year, I have been scouring the Western continent's countryside in search for old acquaintances from way back before I joined Shinra. I tracked down a few who still live in the wilderness studying local fauna and flora (monsters and plants). The things they told me were very interesting, if concerning. It would seem the monster activity has been increasing slightly over the course of the years and doesn't show any sign of changing. Many of my acquaintances believe they might grow to become threat to the small villages as they are becoming more aggressive and fierce. I understand Shinra deals with monster threats in the Eastern continent, but there is no such influence here.

But aside from that I was touched by their generosity, welcoming me into their homes and sharing all of their findings with me. I ended up staying at every place far longer than what I originally intended. It saddens me though to discover that a number of acquaintances have died while pursuing their work. Many people look down on scientists today, but for those who do not work for Shinra, it can be a dangerous and poorly paid job. We have to fend off monsters and sometimes the places we go to are so isolated and hazardous that monsters are the least of our worries. I used to be quite the fighter in my day, but I have grown soft during my years of work in Shinra. But I can still fend off a monster or two and I have hired escorts to protect me, so do not worry for me Sephiroth. I am lucky that I can afford my own protection. Shinra paid me well for my work and I have quite the pension saved up!

I have arrived in the Village of Wutai on the Wutai continent. I plan to travel it and learn about the people and their beliefs. It is my first time here, and I am excited about what I may learn. I will be staying on this continent for a while, so if you would like to send me a letter, send it to the Village of Wutai.

I often wonder how you are doing. It's been almost a year since I last saw you. Are you well? Have you met anyone you like? I hope Professor Hojo isn't annoying you too much. I'm sure he only want's the best for you, though he might be bad at showing it.

Yours truly

Gast Faremis

Finally, the promised letter from Gast arrives! It is professor Hojo who hands the folded paper to him and Sephiroth promptly runs off to read it undisturbed.

He swallows every word of the letter avidly, feeling great satisfaction just from finding out what his friend has been up to as well as all the knew elements.

He reads it a second time to enquire deeper into his soul's reactions. Monsters are new to him. He doesn't recall anyone talking to him about them before, but it is familiar. His soul feels a sort of thrill he has only felt before with his anger towards Clarksson and in his new past-time of unsettling Professor Hojo. Additionally, there is a kind of indifferent appreciation that he sometimes feels toward good food. Sephiroth suddenly finds that he looks forward to seeing these monsters.

At the mention of fighters, he feels another surge of thrill and appreciation, only much stronger. He wonders what a fighter is and resolves to ask professor Hojo about it later.

His soul's reaction to Wutai, however, is much more mixed. Again, that thrill… distaste… Sorrow? And that feeling of emptiness… loss. What is Wutai to him? But he feels no tug to go there like he did for Midgar. He has no doubt that the time will come when he finds out.

After his inner enquiry he re-reads the letter repeatedly, finding the activity unreasonably entertaining. But for every time he scans the words a growing sense of suspicion comes over Sephiroth. The letter is definitely from Gast, it smells of him, but it feels like he left out some things… Or not fully explaining them. It is almost like he is hiding something. But Gast does not hide things from Sephiroth. He always tells Sephiroth what he can. This is not like Gast at all.

After being unable to come to a conclusion, Sephiroth setts his suspicions aside for the moment and turns instead his attentions to composing his own letter.

…

It is with great enthusiasm that Sephiroth tracks Professor Hojo down and hands him his folded note. "This is my letter to Gast. It must be sent to Wutai Village." Sephiroth tells him energetically.

It is with equally great consternation that Sephiroth watches Professor Hojo casually unfold his letter and read through it as if it is the most natural thing in the world. He observes the professor’s expression souring after reading a certain passage, no doubt the one about him.

Somehow Sephiroth feels violated. That letter is meant for Gast, Professor Hojo has no right to read it. It is… It is…

But Sephiroth is incapable of explaining his feelings. Dejectedly he walks off unable to justify why the professor shouldn't read his letter.

./.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1983 (October)

After asking Professor Hojo about monsters, fighters and Wutai, it was decided that it was time to start his education and Sephiroth tutoring began.

The new information is an eye-opener for Sephiroth. There are so many things he had never questioned and it had not occurred for him to ask. He learns about the continents, about the organisms living on Gaia. The flora and fauna as Gast called it in his letter.

It is interesting, yet much of it is familiar to him through his soul. He also learns about human society; about occupations, urban settlements and hierarchy. He has heard about some of these things in passing before, but never did he realize how much it was that he didn't know until someone actually took the time to tell him about it.

As Sephiroth walks the corridors of the temporary Shinra HQ, he wonders what else he doesn't realize to ask about. He thinks of his letter to Gast again, it is still on his mind and he cannot help but brood on it.

He sees the old janitor, whom he passes regularly in the halls. The Janitor's only acknowledgment of his passing is a slight twitch of the corner of his eye. Sephiroth continues to walk by, his mind returning to the letter.

If Gast were here, he would ask him about it. He has no friends in Shinra. Gast seems to suspect as much judging by his last sentences. Sephiroth had replied… His mind suddenly snaps to the janitor and he stops in his tracks.

Maybe, it doesn't have to be a friend. He turns to look at the janitors back.

Just someone he doesn't mind talking to.

He walks back to the old man and tugs at his pant-leg. The man stills then turns around, glancing down at Sephiroth. "I want to talk to you." Sephiroth says. The janitor stares at him for a long moment. Sephiroth start to feel oddly fidgety, it hadn't occurred to him that the man might decline, his request seems not to be as straightforward as he first thought.

The Janitor glances down the corridors. Sephiroth knows there is no one there, he would hear them. The old man puts away his gear on his carts and walks off pulling it after him. Sephiroth hesitates a moment, then follows him.

…

He is lead to that same tiny room. The old man walks in and sits on the cot with a sigh, but doesn't look at Sephiroth. The boy follows him in but doesn't sit. He watches the man, rethinking weather he should go through with this. But the man's seeming disinterest sooths Sephiroth. He is surrounded by people who are interested in him for one reason or another, constantly watching him. This man, however acts like what he truly is, a stranger. This ultimately leads to Sephiroth making his decision.

"I wrote a letter to a friend. Professor Hojo read it, and I didn't like it." Sephiroth goes to the heart of the matter. His question is vague, and unspoken, but the boy hopes it will be enough to lead him to his answer.

The janitor glances at him briefly. "You don't like that another read your friends letter?" He says in his dry sing-song voice.

"I don't know why I don't like it." That is it, what really bothers Sephiroth. He feels he should know but doesn't.

The old man thinks for a while and silence falls once again in the tiny room. The little boy stares patiently at the man on the cot. "The sign on my door. What does it say?" The man replies slowly still looking at the wall in front of him.

The word flashes before Sephiroth's eyes and his reply is immediate. "Private." The Janitor turns to Sephiroth and looks at him apathetically. Sephiroth waits expectantly, but when he is met only with a blank look, he starts to think. "What does Private mean?" he asks finally.

The man looks back at the wall. "This is my room. It is where I have all my personal belongings. It is where I go to be in peace. It is no one's business to be in here, unless I invite them in. The sign tells them that I do not want them in here."

Sephiroth thinks carefully on this. Private means it is personal and that other people shouldn't intrude. It makes sense to him, though he realises it has never been a part of his life. He always feels watched. In the offices, in the labs, in the bedroom. Always. Except… those times with Gast in the green house.

A sudden epiphany comes upon Sephiroth. Gast had only taken him to that greenhouse on two occasions. Two very specific occasions. He didn't think on it at the time, but he hadn't felt watched. Those had been his only truly private moments. No… That wasn't entirely true either. There was another time, with a paper cup of fennel tea.

Sephiroth looks at the janitor again, another question comes to him. "If you don't want people to come in here, why don't you lock the door?" That was what had been done with that door in the basement. Shinra's closet of skeletons, as Gast had called it.

The man gives the boy a brief glance, a smile ghosting over his lips. "The people who would want to come in here would not be stopped by a lock on my door. The sign is enough for most people."

Sephiroth thinks back on that door. The lock certainly hadn't stopped him from trying to open it. If anything he had wanted to open it even more. "I see." Sephiroth smiles at the man, turns and walks out the door. Feeling lighter and freer after his new found understanding.

…

Standing by the tall windows gazing at the darkening clouds as the shadows of the day lengthen, the toddler reflects on his conversation with the janitor on privacy. His memory skitters back to the missing pieces in Gast’s letters and Professor Hojo’s blatant behaviour. His correspondence with Gast seems even less private than a normal conversation spoken carelessly in the open. Gast must know this already, which is why his letter struck Sephiroth as odd.

As evening darkens the city and the bright lights of the indoors obscures the the sky outside, the reflection of the boy’s eyes glow with the light of disappointment. But then, he had known back then in the green house that letters would not be enough. Or rather, his soul had.

./.

[ μ ] – εуλ 1984 (february)

Professor Hojo hands him the folded letter. Sephiroth is glad, it has been half a year since the last one.

But this time he examines the man as he receives the folded note. He seems upset. His sent is mixed, his emotions turbulent. Sephiroth still isn't very skilled at determining emotions from sent. Especially since they vary slightly from person to person. But of all the people he is around Professor Hojo the most. This mans emotion often fluctuate as well making it easier to identify the different varieties. This mixed feeling… anger… anxiety… and that strange emotion that Professor Hojo shows only when looking at him.

Green eyes narrow as Sephiroth turns on his heels. He suspects Professor Hojo has read all of his letters. Sephiroth walks off to find a quiet spot to read in peace, miffed but unsurprised.

Dear Sephiroth

I am impressed by your letter, you write so well! I'm glad you are doing alright, but don't let Hojo's behavior put you off too much. Right now he must be working very hard to become head of the Shinra's Science Research department. I know what it is like to be head of that department and it is a lot of work. It is even harder to get the position than it is to keep it. I'm sure he is doing the best he can, even if he doesn't meet your standards.

I'm happy to hear you found someone to spend your birthday with. They must be from the west part of the western continent, the part in which I was traveling in. It is an uncommon tea that isn't drunk any where else as far as I know. What a coincidence that you should meet them.

You asked me to tell you more about monsters and fighters. Perhaps someone has already told you about them, but I can offer you my own explanation. To put it simply, ‘monster’ is a term to describe a being that's behavior is considered cruel and ruthless. There are many beasts in this world that have over the years been feared for their fierce nature and aggressive behavior towards humans, and so have come to be known under the universal name of 'monsters'. It is such beasts that I was referring to when I wrote about monsters. Usually they stay away from human settlements and only attack when people intrude on their territory, however they are known to stray when their is a famine or drought. On occasion a creature will mutate and become stronger and some times more aggressive. In such cases local powers will often send out fighters to kill them.

Fighters are people trained in combat who have survived many battles. They tend to appear on this planet as mercenaries or soldiers. The difference being the first is self-employed and the second under the employ of another, though soldiers may go under other names as well depending on their specific tasks. Shinra is at present the company with the most fighters under their employ. Though the Wutai government have vastly more under their command since all citizens are obliged to fight for there country should war erupt. 

Wutai is a nation on a mountainous island. I have spent the last few months walking from village to village nestled in the valleys or mountain sides. They worship the old god's, especially Leviathan and his symbol is everywhere. On Pictures, on clothing, on buildings, on housewares and on small trinkets. Their stile is very particular and different from what I have seen before. They also live entirely without Mako energy. It is surprising for me to realise how used to it I am. Mako energy wasn't at all common in my youth. But it has made a huge difference in terms of living standards. Instead of heating water and have it hauled off to complete whatever tasks we merely need to turn a tap. Washing clothes, that used to require enormous effort, simply needs a washing machine with Mako power. The people work very hard here to complete tasks that have become so simple to so many.

The Wutai culture is very different and some aspects strike me as strange. They value their honor greatly and I've heard that if someone is too badly dishonored they will even take their own life! I might be butchering this fact a little, since I have a hard time understanding many of their concepts. But people seem very polite and generous, to me and to each other. although they find me and my attempts at understanding their ways very amusing.

They are devoted to all arts. Every art they pursue they study deeply. Over the years they have created whole philosophies around them. There are even philosophies for every art of fighting! Most people know how to fight here, both women and men. Many civilians use tiny handguns. But they have a great variety of other strange weapons many of which can be used both in close quarters and in long-ranged since a lot of the bladed weapons are combined with firearms. Some of their weapons I would never have imagined could be used in such a way. Like a fan or a pin wheel. Both of them can be found made out of paper on the streets, fans are used to chase off the heat, and pin wheels are given to children as entertainment and turn like a wheel in the wind. I have yet to see them used as weapons though…

There are other aspects of their arts that I just cannot wrap my head around. Take their medicine, for example. They say that the human’s soul resides in the stomach and that there are energy channels that exist throughout the body. Though the concept of the soul is widespread and there are old theories that say it comes from and returns to the Lifestream after death, it’s existence has never really been confirmed through scientific means. I wonder on what basis they say it resides in the stomach? I would have guessed it resided in the brain, it is the organ that makes us who we are after all. As for energy channels, well as far as we know, there are none. I have studied many organisms before, and have never seen anything of that description.

I plan on going to Cosmo Canyon next to visit a well known scientist who has an observatory there. I do not know him very well, but we used to have a friend in common. After that I will travel to the neighboring villages in search of more learned people. If you want to send me a letter send it to Corel. I should have reached it by the time it arrives.

Yours truly

Gast Faremis

Reading Gast's letter makes Sephiroth happy again.

Like Gast had guessed a lab assistant had briefly told him of monsters and fighters. Essentially saying they were evil beasts and fighters were the ones that killed them. It goes without saying that Gast’s description is much more thorough. But once again he finds that there is something lacking or not fully explained. Unable to put his finger on it he moves on. Perhaps with time he will know…

The Wutai culture interests him and he finds Gast's descriptions of weapons fascinating, and his soul hums in anticipation. The matter of living conditions baffles the boy, however, having been unaware of what happened to his clothes when they were removed from his presence. He find’s himself confronted by his ignorance on a matter that Gast seems to find self-evident. His soul had not reacted to the phenomenon so he had not questioned it.

The description of their medical sciences, however quickly draw Sephiroth’s attention. It is familiar, not to his soul, but to Sephiroth. The energetic channels sound a lot like the channels within himself. The ones that stretch throughout his body, to every cell within his organism, separating the soul from the harsh currents of the Lifestream. The ones that he briefly explored within that lab assistant, Clarksson, and Gast. Do others not know of it? Can they not sense it within themselves? Gast words seem to suggest they do not.

Gast had told him about the Lifestream, the Cetra and the old stories about the cycle of reincarnation, so it comes as a surprise to read about the mans doubts of the soul’s existence. To Sephiroth it’s presence within him is undeniable, the knowledge inherent and innate. It is as evident as breathing to the silver haired boy.

As for the Soul’s location, it does not interact with space the same way that the body does, just as the Lifestream is only loosely connected with the location of Mako. But if it were said to reside anywhere it is obviously the inner channels. It amuses Sephiroth how, even when all the pieces are gathered, they attribute it to some random body-part that is only a small part of the whole. The bodies mechanics resides in the realm of the physical. It is a fine thread indeed that connects it to the spiritual.

‘…do not let them know what you are capable of.’ Gast’s last warning echoes in his mind as he contemplates the seeming wide spread ignorance on such an evident matter. It would seem that this too is something he should keep to himself.

He isn't at all surprised by what Gast has to say about Professor Hojo. It also explains Professor Hojo's reaction to the letter if he read it like Sephiroth suspects.

What surprises Sephiroth, though, is Gast's interest in the janitor. Up to the present Sephiroth has had little interest in the man. His soul doesn't recognise him, so Sephiroth feels mostly indifference towards him. The two time's he followed him into his room were merely on whims. Those experiences may have been surprisingly appreciated, but Sephiroth takes them for what they are, anomalies in his every day life. But it seems Professor Gast thinks there is more too this man. The boy cannot fathom what.

Looking for the janitor along the customary routes in a quest to unravel the mystery behind Gast’s interest, Sephiroth is unable to find him. Stopping to consider, a ‘Private’ sign flashes before his eyes and he decides to visit the old man's closet.

…

Sephiroth is just about to open the door and walk right in when his eyes flicker to the sign far above his head. Private. He recalls the conversation he held with the man on privacy. Prior to this it was always the old man that led him in. He realises that he may have been one of the invited, and it had therefor been alright for him to entre. But the man is in his room now and Sephiroth is outside of it without an invitation. He knows because he can hear rustling from inside. Perhaps he can draw the mans attention. A memory flashes through Sephiroth's mind. The boy raises his hand, and for the first time in his short life, he knocks.

The rustling from behind the door stops. More rustling, then two steps and the door swings open. The janitor leans out from his room, one arm braced against the doorframe, looking down the hallway. Without a word, Sephiroth stares at him curiously trying to see what is special about him. Not seeing anyone the man leans back into his room drawing the door close with him. His eyes slide down to the door handle, then jerks and turns toward Sephiroth. Several moments of quiet staring ensue. Then the man releases the door and withdraws into the room in silent invitation. Sephiroth steps in.

The janitor sits back on his cot, briefly looking at Sephiroth before staring at the bare wall in front of him.

Sephiroth takes this time to examine him. Fair complexion, faded blue eyes, wrinkled and weathered skin, thinning white hair with faded traces of a blond colour. His janitor's uniform; big and baggy, somehow making him appear small and fragile. But his movements are lithe and decisive, unlike many others Sephiroth has seen around. More specifically, scientists under Shinra's protection, as Gast put it in his letter.

Sephiroth tastes the air, his nostrils barely twitching. The smell is steady, very different from Professor Hojo's unceasing fluctuations. Different from most the child cared to observe. He can not make out much from the mans smell nor from his appearance.

Sephiroth thinks on Gast's letter again. What makes this man interesting? He feels nothing from his soul. Nothing about the old man strikes him as different from any other random employee. So what is it that Gast finds intriguing about him? Sephiroth doesn't know, and is uncertain what to ask to find out.

"What is your name?" He asks finally. That is the customary thing to ask when wanting to know a stranger, is it not? It was what the first thing President Shinra asked him, after all.

The man doesn't look at him when he answers. "The less people in high places who know my name, the better." Sephiroth thinks on this. He supposes they are pretty high up in the building, though it's nothing compared to the height of the Shinra tower currently being constructed.

"I don't desire their attention." the old man adds after a long pause. Well that makes a lot of sense to the boy. He doesn't desire their attention either, though he receives it anyway. Nothing good comes of their attention in Sephiroth's opinion. Tedious company and tedious tasks.

Sephiroth doesn’t really care about the man’s name either, but he still isn't satisfied. He want's more, but struggles to find the words. "Who… are you?" It is a vague question, but he cannot find anything better.

The old man's head turns to Sephiroth and looks him over slowly, then turns back to the wall. A short moment passes, then his strange sing-song dialect fills the room once again. "I am a janitor for Shinra. I do my job. I do it well. When I see something, I turn the other way. When I hear something I pretend I didn't hear it. That is all I do, and all Shinra wants of me." He falls silent and Sephiroth can almost smell that he has nothing more to say on the matter. No, actually he can smell it, the man's scent has changed ever so slightly since his last answer.

So he is just an employee that minds his own business. Perhaps that is what Gast senses from him, since no one else seems to mind their own business around Sephiroth.

But he hasn't written about that to his friend. He wrote about how he gave Sephiroth Fennel tea. He hadn't been minding his business then. But something good came out of this man's attention. Sephiroth had been content. No good came out of anyone else's attention other than Gast's. It was probably that which surprised Gast, Sephiroth decides.

He nods at the man, turns on his heel and strides out the door.

./.

Sephiroth gives his folded letter to Professor Hojo. "This is my letter to Professor Gast." Just like before the older man unfolds the letter and reads through it. He then puts it down on a table and continues his work.

Sephiroth is not surprised but cannot help but bristle. To read it so casually and then leave it lying around for anyone else to see… "Are you not going to send it away?" Sephiroth asks, carefully watching the professor.

The man shrugs. "I'm busy, I don't have time for such menial tasks."

Sephiroth's eyes flick to the letter and back. This can work to his benefit. "Then, tell me what to do, and I will send it." He says decisively.

Without turning the Professor waves a hand dismissively in Sephiroth's general direction. "It's too complicated."

"It doesn't matter. You know I can do it." the boy challenges. Professor Hojo stills. He turns and studies Sephiroth. It is true, he knows the child can complete complicated tasks with surprising speed.

"Fine, this is what you need to do. Find the Turk assigned to your case. And give him the letter. Come back when you have completed your task. Professor Hojo keeps his attention on Sephiroth, watching him the same way he studies him during the tests.

The boy thinks carefully. Turks; the people in blue suits that move with a certain grace, and sometimes smell of metal or another distinct acrid smell. He notices them because it is a familiar sight and scent to his soul. It must be a man he is looking for since Professor Hojo said 'him'. 

Satisfied with the information, Sephiroth retrieves his letter and goes looking for this Turk who's apparently been assigned to him.

…

He knows that Turks don't stick around in one place for too long, so Sephiroth moves swiftly down the corridors. He comes across a pair a few floors down A female and a male.

Quickly and silently he catches up to them and tugs on one of their pant legs. Startled the man whirls around and kicks. Sephiroth is surprised but easily dodges it since the aim is for someone taller than he. His soul hums from the thrill and he realises that his reaction may also have come instinctively from it. The two Turks look down at him but step back cautiously when they are met by eyes lit by the unsettling glow of Mako and slit pupils, constricted from excitement. A small but distinctively predatory smile graces the tiny boys face.

However, his eyes soon dilate again when he recalls his task. His first priority is to find out who his Turk is. "Do you know the name of the Turk assigned to me." He doesn't need to explain more. Everyone that matters knows about him.

The two Turks glance at each other. One of them turns to Sephiroth and responds with a simple "No." The other shakes her head. Sephiroth thinks quickly. They don't seem very talkative.

"Where can I go to find out?" He tries again. The two exchange glances.
"Nowhere you have enough clearance to go." Replies the female Turk, curtly.

"Where can I find other Turks." The boy asks shrewdly.

They both exchange glances again. This time the man speaks up. "I think the rookies are in the cafeteria." After that they swiftly make their escape. Leaving the toddler to find the cafeteria on his own.

…

A group of four lounge in the corner. Three men and one woman. All Turks.

Sephiroth watches them. Two of them stiffen. Another turns toward Sephiroth and spots him. "Hey look it's the little freak." He murmurs to his companions. Sephiroth is not meant to hear but his sharp ears catch it anyway. A shiver of something runs through Sephiroth's soul. But Sephiroth himself doesn't care what these people think of him and he approaches them without further reservations.

"Do you know the name of the Turk who is assigned to me?" Sephiroth asks again.

The talkative Turk shrugs. "Nope." He replies simply. Sephiroth looks at the other Turks but they all answer similarly.

"Where do I need to go to find out?" He tries once again. This time they all glance at each other, and they fall silent.

"Meh, I'm bored anyway so I'll give you a hand. There's bound to be a Turk that knows." It's the talkative man that volunteers. The woman shoots him a disapproving look.

"He doesn't have the clearance to go on some of those floors." She says warningly.

Another of the Turks waves his hand dismissively. "He's a kid. I doubt it's a big deal if he goes there this once."

The talkative Turk leans in persuasively. "My thought's exactly, besides it'll be interesting to go on a little mission with the freak." He stands up with a smirk. "Let's go little freak." Sephiroth's soul Shivers venomously at the word again, but he really cannot care less. This man will hopefully make this task easier, so Sephiroth follows him silently.

…

They run into a few more Turks, but they are all ignorant. When they finally do meet one that knows, Sephiroth is aware of it the instant his question is asked. He smells it, literally, and his pupils constrict in anticipation.

Warily the redheaded Turk glances between him and his escort. "Why do you want to know?"

Sephiroth thinks carefully, she is testing him, if he doesn't answer satisfactorily she will not tell. He recalls the janitor's words; Not wanting the attention of people in high places.

"Professor Hojo sent me to look for him." Sephiroth knows his answer is correct when her smell softens though she doesn't show it on her face.

"Why didn't he tell you the name of the Turk?" She asks again, still cautious.

"He wants to test my ability." He answeres simply, though no doubt it isn't the only reason. The professor probably wants to make life more difficult for him. But Sephiroth doesn't mind this challenge. It got him away from his usual tedious entourage. And he met that kicking Turk. Now that was thrilling.

The wariness fades away as the woman thinks through his answer drumming her fingers in a strange rhythm on a heavy looking bag she was carrying. Finally, she makes her decision. "Veld, I think. No doubt you want to find him too. He is in a meeting in that room over there, so you must wait. Don't disturb them until they are done." With a final lingering glance at Sephiroth, she strides away.

Sephiroth's soul stirs at the name.

His talkative escort whistles besides him. "Veld huh, that's a big guy for a little boy like you. But then I guess it's not for nothing that you're the little freak."

Sephiroth glances up at the man. His soul shivers in quiet anger again and Sephiroth is getting annoyed by it's reaction to that word. He really cannot understand why this nobody's name calling should matter at all.

"Well I'll leave you now. Nice meeting you little freak." And he walks off with a final parting hiss from his soul. About time, in Sephiroth's opinion, he is getting tired of this whole freak affair.

Not sparing his former escort a second glance he walks to the door the female Turk indicated and listens. Unable to hear anything, he resigns himself to a long wait.

…

The door to a particular room opens and the man exiting it is met by glowing green eyes staring up at him in the darkened corridor.

The man smells startled. But other then slight hesitation it does not show on his body. He eyes the toddler warily. "Sephiroth, right? A deep, calm voice speaks, almost in the intimate manner Gast uses with him.

"Are you Veld?" Sephiroth asks immediately. The middle-aged man doesn't even twitch and his smell doesn't change.

He can sense something from this man. Power, like what is around President Shinra. Only darker, quieter. If the President's power is a big ball of hot air, then this man's is a much smaller, colder and denser ball. 

But his soul does not recognize him.

"Why do you wish to know?" The man doesn't answer his question nor does he move from the door.

‘People in high places’. Sephiroth thinks this is one of those people, no doubt he won't mind their attention, but it might hold some weight. "Professor Hojo sent me to find Veld."

"Hojo, huh…" He eyes Sephiroth for a moment more. Then steps out of the door and gestures toward the room. "Veld is inside. You may use the room if you wish." With those final words he walks off.

Sephiroth steps into the room. A blue suited Turk stands to the side of the door. A tall young man. Chocolate brown hair and eyes. Olive skin. 

Sephiroth's soul stirs within him. A faint wary respect, but otherwise indifference. A working relationship.

"I am Veld. Why did you want to see me Sephiroth?" The man says, his voice somewhat familiar but his tone and aura are not. Too soft, too kind... too emotional. Sephiroth's soul knows this man, but somehow he is all wrong.

"Are you my supervising Turk?" The boy asks. A silence falls between them. Veld seems slightly uncomfortable. He can smell it.

"Yes." He answers finally his gaze not moving from the young boy.

Sephiroth's eyes sharpen. There is more to this than he first thought. "What does that involve." He pries.

"It is not important. You do not need to know." The adult answers curtly.

"It is my business to know. It involves me." Sephiroth hisses, dissatisfied.

Veld kneels in front of the boy looking him in the eye and tries to explain. "You are a child, let the adult's do what they are supposed to do. You do not need to care about such things." Sephiroth senses fluctuations in his emotions. But he cannot identify them. His soul is no help; it doesn't recognize the behavior from this man at all.

"I want to know. I need to know." Says the toddler, not budging an inch.
Veld hesitates slightly. "It's classified." He says finally.

What a familiar word. Not to Sephiroth but to his soul. Classified; annoyance and resignation. "What does 'classified' mean." The toddler asks slowly.

"It means I'm not allowed to tell you." Veld says with a sigh.

Sephiroth starts at this. He thinks back on Gast. Gast always told Sephiroth what he could, but sometimes there were things he couldn't explain. Had they been classified? Those strange inconsistencies in his letters, hinting at something more but without offering the information.

"Sephiroth, what did you come here for?" Veld asks him, breaking the boy out of his thoughts as well as reminding him of his purpose.

He fishes out the folded paper from his pocket and shows it to Veld. "This is my letter to Gast." He explains. Veld makes a move to take it, but Sephiroth withdraws it swiftly. "Are you going to read it?" Veld does not reply, but he can smell that the man is unsettled. "Did you read my first letter?" The emotions are turning turbulent, but the Turk shows nothing on his face. "Did you read Gast's letters?" He cannot tell what the emotions are, not yet. But he is certain that his suspicions are correct.

"Why does it matter? You're a child you do not need to think of these things!" Suddenly something clicks in Sephiroths mind. He recalls a memory of Gast. He sat on the old mans lap. Gast, was worried. Something about time… no, about growing too fast. It was concern. Concern and a little anger that he smelled from Veld.

His soul was silent. This was not the man it knew.

'Beware of Shinra.' Those last words come to him again. Shinra reads his letters but does not tell him why. Veld says he doesn't need to know but is that really true? He trusts Gast and believes there is merit in his warning.

He recalls the janitor not wanting people to know his name. He wrote about him in his letter. Briefly and without detail. Only that a man gave him fennel tea. But if he had known the name, perhaps he would have carelessly given it in his ignorance.

"I do not want Professor Hojo to read any of my letters." Sephiroth says finally. He doesn't really mind this man reading them. But he definitely doesn't want professor Hojo anywhere near them.

"Professor Hojo is your guardian. He is in charge of your upbringing, and your education." Veld tries to explain to the boy. But it is in vain, the child cannot understand.

"The letter is not for his eyes. It is between Gast an me." Sephiroth explains with growing frustration. But seeing that it is not enough to sway the man he tries again. "It's ok if it's you, you won't go into a bad mood when you read something you don't like. But professor Hojo will. He's bad enough as it is."

There, something he said, swayed the man, he can see it in the slight widening of the eyes and the change in smell.

Satisfied he waits. "I will take what you have said into consideration. You will know the answer when the next letter from Mr. Faremis arrives." Sephiroth hands his letter victoriously to Veld. The silver-haired boy turns on his heels and strides away, satisfied with this day’s accomplishments and discoveries.

Veld stays kneeled on the floor awhile longer after Sephiroth’s departure, thinking back on the conversation with the toddler. Those few minutes were very disturbing and for more than one reason.

He has a daughter. She is a little over one year old and has recently said her first word. Less than two years separated Felicia and Sephiroth, yet the thought of her being anything like him in two years terrifies him.

This is the first time he met the boy face to face. He had read and heard much about him, but nothing could prepare him for the real thing. He oddly lacked a child's innocent trust and shy insecurities, marching over in Turk territory and challenging him with no fear whatsoever. That self-certainty and strong will so unusual even in adults. It is disturbing to see in a child. Just what had led to such a development?

The door opens silently and Veld rights himself with a respectful "Sir."

"At ease Veld" The deep soothing voice of his boss fills the room. The man closes the door and moves to the table leaning his hips on it. Malkhaz the department head of Administrative research. Veld's superior and mentor.

"You said more than you should have." The older man chastises gently.

He had said more than he would have if it had been any other Shinra employee. "Yes, I did. It's just… He's just a child."

That is the crux of the matter. So much revolved around this boy. Almost every file in his portfolio was stamped confidential, and not the 'for privacy' kind of confidential. Even Veld's access was restricted to some of them.

Any other child his age would be blissfully oblivious and stay so for many more years. Yet this one was fishing for answers, prying for them with a persistence that seemed so alien to the toddler he is supposed to be.

"I'm sure that's what got him on this floor in the first place" Malkhaz mutters looking darkly at the door. Then he turns back to Veld, expression pleasant once again. "Tell me Veld, how old is Sephiroth?"

"He is three years old, sir. Going on four." Veld straightens, going back to his professional guise.

"At ease, Veld. At ease." Malkhaz waves a hand appeasingly, his voice deep and soothing. "Three years, huh? He sounded much older from where I was listening, even older than his appearance would suggest." He muses out loud.

Veld slumps next to his boss on the table. "Yes, and… I find it disturbing. He looks like a child, has the voice of a child. Yet at the same time, he neither looks nor sounds like one..." a hand comes to rest reassuringly on his shoulder.

"Yes, he does have a sweet face, doesn't he? The older man says agreeably. "But Veld, I am sure that very same face can turn terrifying in an instant." He looks into Veld's eyes seriously. "You've heard what some call him, haven't you? There's a reason for that name." The grip on his shoulder tightens.

"I thought of my daughter when I looked at him…" Veld swallows looking away, his voice suddenly growing horse.

The hand on his shoulder slides to his hand and squeezes it reassuringly. "You needn't worry that Felicia will turn out like Sephiroth. Only things born in Shinra end up like that." Malkhaz releases Veld's hand and pushes away from the table. Pacing a few steps toward the door. "Though, I do believe that Shinra outdid itself with this one." He murmurs to himself more quietly.

Suddenly Malkhaz takes a breath and turns around to face Veld again. His voice no longer the intimate hum but his curt business tone. "The boy has a point about Professor Hojo, I think you realise this too. He is too emotionally invested in his s-sss…" Veld watches with surprise as his superior rather forcefully breaks off his sentence. Malkhaz closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them while inhaling. "Specimen." He finishes. 

Veld's eyes widen slightly at the term.

The older man gives his subordinate a knowing look. "You have my permission and full support on delivering the letters directly to and from the boy, instead of through Professor Hojo." He turns and walks out but stops at the door. "I trust you will be able to handle the Professor appropriately, he might be a bit… unwilling to accept this decision." With those final words he makes his exit.

Veld is left alone in the room to think over his two meetings. He realizes he opened himself to his superior far more than he had intended. He is not surprised. Malkhaz has that effect on people when he wishes to. 

Nevertheless, Veld’s troubled mind had been slightly alleviated by his boss. Though this matter clearly troubled even him, judging by his slip.

Chapter Text

"Happy Birthday, Sephiroth!" The four-year-old stares unimpressed up at the wide, but distinctly fake smile adorning Palmer's face. He is one of many executives that have come this evening to proclaim the same thing. 

With the patience of a god, he endures these repetitive, mind-numbingly boring ‘pleasantries’, as Professor Hojo calls them. What a misleading name, there is nothing pleasant about overly dressed people, with overly noxious perfumes, expressing overly exaggerated and utterly insincere wishes for his wellbeing.

Sephiroth's dull visage successfully spurns Palmer from attempting any more ‘pleasantries’ with the child. Instead he turns to the adult beside him. "Congratulations professor Hojo on your promotion to head of the Science Research Department"

Professor Hojo turns away from another insincere well-wisher and smiles, if rather stiffly, at Palmer. "Thank you, and I look forward to working alongside you, Palmer, head of the World Exploration Program."

Palmer high-pitched laughs trills out in the great-hall, sounding not the least bit genuine to Sephiroth's ears. "As do I professor Hojo. Very much so!"

Another supposedly self-important person comes to greet Sephiroth. Unlike professor Hojo, Sephiroth does not bother to lie through his teeth for their unwanted attention and monotonous greetings. None of them are worth enough of his concern or consideration for him to care about their foolish and shallow games.

His soul oozes boredom in perfect agreement with himself.

Sephiroth glances up at the professor. For once it seems they agree on something; pleasantries are pointless and unpleasant guzzlers of time and effort. His energy is better spent else where.

…

Sephiroth slinks quietly out of the great hall where the celebration is held in the Shinra building. The silence flowing through the corridors his only companion. The hallways he walks are dark and desolate, the shadows only tentatively brushed by faint light slipping through the windows. 

The silver-haired child stops to look through the glass stretching from floor to ceiling. It is a rare night outside for the clouds are absent and the sky appears as a dark abyss. Not a single star is visible. The aspiring city's efforts to illuminate the night having mostly resulted in blinding itself to the outside world.

It is late, but that farce of a celebration will continue for a while longer. The bright colours, fancy decorations, pompous music, elaborate word games and never ending supply of delicate foods and drinks does not deceive the child. The people are empty inside. Bloated goldfish with no meat or guts. Sephiroth knows he will find nothing of what he seeks in that crowd.

Instead he wanders without a purpose. His soul whispers warningly in remembrance of loosing its direction. Sephiroth knows, but the awareness of his loss weighs heavier on him this day. Closing his eyes, he lets the emotion wash over him; emotion shared by both of them.

He feels his legs move and evenly paced steps start to echo in the hallway. He knows not where his feet are taking him, but lets his whim guide him. Eyes closed, he uses his other enhanced senses to navigate through the familiar corridors, following unquestioningly. It is what he has done the entirety of his short life. With trusting faith, he follows his whims wherever and whenever they care to express themselves.

…

'Private': a familiar sign on a familiar door down a familiar, poorly lit hallway.

His soul is silent. It is Sephiroth who made his way here on this night. This door will not help him fulfil his purpose, nor has it any connection to it. But on this night he finds himself alone, his soul silent and an itching emptiness growing within his bones.

A small pale knuckle lifts itself from the boy's side to nock. A few moments later, Sephiroth hears a rustle from within. A stumbling thud against the door, followed by fumbling. The door swings open and an old man dressed in a long white shirt and floppy hat stumbles out, one foot in the hallway. He squints groggily down the corridor for a long while then looks down at Sephiroth.

The boy examines the man in his unfamiliar attire. The night-clothes do not reveal much of him, not unlike his janitor's uniform. It hangs unflatteringly limp on his form. Bare hairy calves and slippered feet reveal themselves underneath. Calves that are much thicker than what the young boy is used to associating with old men.

Curiosity peeked, Sephiroth places his fingers on the mans shin, just below the knee and the hem of the shirt. A child's soft fingers trace lightly over old dry skin as they slide up and over the knee, hiking up the white fabric as the boy curiously explores the outline of the thigh in the dim light.

With a jolt the old janitor retreats back into his tiny room his hands fumbling to bring down the shirt. A different smell reaches Sephiroth's noes, the man's scent changing. Idly he tries to identify it as he observes the silhouette in the darkened room fumbling in search of something. Surprise and… embarrassment?

A flicker of a memory flashes before him. Small hands holding onto brown pants of a wide eyed, flushed lab assistant looking down at him. The man reaching hastily for the hem of his trousers that have slipped below his hips. Sephiroth blinks. Though the face is somewhat familiar, but his soul doesn't stir at the sight of him. The mans reaction is similar to the janitors though. Surprise, bewilderment and embarrassment.

Sephiroth dismisses the memory and returns his full attention to the old man who by now has pulled on his janitor's trousers. He sits slumped on his cot tiredly rubbing at one eye. He eyes Sephiroth with the other, not seeming to know what to make of the boy's unorthodox behaviour.

"You have strong legs, but you are old." The child says finally, trying to make sense of the strange association.

The man stills, then relaxes with a sigh, his smell returning to it's usual state. "I have worked hard all my life. Still do. Most people don't have cushy lives like the people in Shinra." He replies in a horse voice his accent even thicker than usual.

So this man is different from the people he knows. Or rather the people that Sephiroth knows are different from people like this man. The boy accepts this answer and quickly looses interest in the topic.

Silence falls between them with the old man sitting on the rumpled sheets of his cot in his darkened room yawning, and Sephiroth still standing in the dim hallway.

"Why come here? They celebrate your day in the great hall." The man tentatively asks while looking slightly dazedly down at his cot.

"None of them are there for me, it is for professor Hojo." The boy answers matter-of-factly, no emotion colouring his voice. "They are all boring to be with."

The man says nothing in response. After a while he turns stiffly to neatly straighten the covers on his cot. He jerkily pulls off his night-hat, folding it and laying it on his pillow.

Without a word he rummages in one of his backpacks then stumbles out of his room, closing the door. With another hand-covered yawn he shuffles his way down the hall. Sephiroth trails close behind once again not knowing where they are off to, but trustingly curious all the same.

…

Sephiroth recognizes the cafeteria, but the janitor continues straight through it to a discrete side door. It turns out their destination is the cafeteria kitchen.

The old man turns a switch and the lights flicker on unevenly in even lines along the big kitchen. Curiously the boy prowls the unfamiliar room while the older man busies himself with fishing out various equipment and ingredients.

Perhaps he would have been indifferent towards the common chores of humans, unrelated as they are to him. But Gast’s mention of domestic tasks made him realize his own ignorance. He may not care, but he will not be ignorant.

It is an odd racket that call back the child's attention and Sephiroth wanders over to where the old man has busied himself at one of the high counter-tops and stares inquisitively up at him. The old man glances down at the boy then points at a tall stool tucked under a nearby table. Without a word Sephiroth fetches it.

Standing on the stool, Sephiroth finds the janitor is quickly grating a carrot; it's length swiftly shortening. The older man stops and glances again at Sephiroth thoughtfully. He offers him the grater and remaining half of the carrot. "Watch your fingers." That is the only instruction he gives. After silently supervising the boy for the first tentative strokes he turns his attention to another task, pulling out a bag of flour and measuring it out.

Grating carrots turns out to be surprisingly difficult, requiring a dexterity Sephiroth is not used to using on a cold root. His soul is silent, evidently as unfamiliar as he is with the task. Finally, he is done. Lifting the grater, he looks at the result of his hard work; a modest pile of grated carrot. A sense of satisfaction fills the boy. He is promptly handed a second one, this one whole. After a short moment of staring down the orange root Sephiroth sighs and resums his work.

…

Some minutes later find Sephiroth squinting at a small tin mold through a badly stained oven window.

The janitor moves away to a sink and starts washing the utensils. Sephiroth eventually walks over to investigate the new activity. The old man stops the water and hands him a large bowl and a tee-towel. Sephiroth receives them, contemplating the unspoken instructions, then goes about drying off the water. Again the movements are unfamiliar both to himself and his soul, proving more challenging than he first thought. Done with the washing the old janitor joins the boy in his drying duty.

Finishes his task Sephiroth idly watches the man drying the last beater, when a familiar sent calls away the boy’s attention. His pupils constrict and his head whips around towards the oven. In realization Sephiroth pads over to peer through the window. "Carrot cake." He says in appreciation. He hadn't made the connection, hadn't realized what they were making.

The old man joins Sephiroth, squatting beside him. "My wife, son and I used to make this on our birthdays." He says softly, then continues after a pause. "It's been a long time since I made it."

A sent from the man distinguishes itself becoming denser and the boy examines him carefully, trying to identify it. Contracted pupils in the faded blue eyes and subtly drawn out facial features among the wrinkles. Sorrow, that is what he senses.

Sephiroth returns to quietly squint into the oven.

They continue to watch their small cake grow and turn a darker brown. The smell of sadness gradually fading as the odour of their joint endeavour grows stronger.

After a while the old man stands up stiffly and goes about heating some water, leaving Sephiroth to watch over their work.

…

In a warmly lit, lavish room people dance in elaborately tailored clothes. The great hall filled with music, the sound of chatter and laughter. Guests gorge themselves on delicate food made by artisans and served with gold embellished porcelain and fine silver ware. All of it in supposed celebration of a certain silver haired boy.

Unnoticed by all of the pompous guests, said birthday boy snuck away some time during the night. Many floors below the great hall he sits, still wearing his delicately tailored costume, on a cold countertop in a desolate and coldly lit industrial kitchen. Besides him leans an old man against the countertop, wearing a worn white nightshirt over a janitor's uniform pants and well used slippers.

The man who was sleepily pulled out of his closet by the boy is little more than a stranger, at most a neutral acquaintance. They sit unspeaking with a cup of fennel tea in one hand and half of a small cake in the other. In quiet mutual appreciation of their modest – just enough for two – home made cake and un-presuming tea, they celebrate together. The only sound coming from quiet sipping and the hum and flicker of the cold kitchen lights.

For the first time this night the boy is content. The cloying itch of emptiness that had grown within him finally appeased.

./.

Sephiroth turns the folded paper letter in his hands. He doesn't need to open it to know who it is from. No one else sends him letters. The boy glances up at the blue suited man who gave it to him and gives a knowing smile, tucking it away in his pocket. "Professor Hojo hasn't read this." He might have smelled it otherwise.

"He has not read it." Veld confirms stonily.

Satisfied, Sephiroth starts to turn away to find a quiet spot to read his letter when he notices a change in scent. Turning back, he looks at the Turk suspiciously. "You are not lying?"

"Professor Hojo has not read the letter." Veld repeats himself. Sephiroth tastes the air carefully while eying the adult. The smell is still there. But because it is just his second interaction with the man he cannot yet pinpoint the associated emotions.

He recalls other Turks having a similar smell when he tried to question them. One of them in particular, left a strong impression on him.

"Veld." The man blinks in acknowledgment. "There was a Turk who tried to kick me." The boy starts of by explaining, not quite knowing where he wants to go with it.

Veld stiffens. "I apologise; I will report this to my superior. Please tell me when this happened and the Turks appearance."

Sephiroth is surprised by his reaction. This is not what he is going for. "No, there is no need. It happened when I was looking for you the last time we met. It was…" he hesitates looking for the word to express himself. "It was fun."

Such a foreign word. The games the lab assistants put him through have almost always been a bore. The exception to the rules only capable of keeping his interest for a short while.

The thrill and excitement he felt when that man attacked him, however... Nothing could compare to the exuberance he felt at the time.

Something wells up inside him at the thought, flighty like leaves yet heavy as rain. "I want… More." The last word is spoken with emphasis, his soul shivering in anticipation.

Veld doesn't respond for a long while. "You want to learn how to fight?" He asks finally.

Sephiroth eyes light up his pupils constricting. A swell of thrilling excitement passes through his soul. "Yes, fight!" The words slip out in a forceful hiss, almost a snarl even with his young voice and a feral grin spreads over his face.

Veld is taken aback and disconcerted by Sephiroth's intensity, but recovers quickly. "I shall convey your desires to my superior and discuss this with professor Hojo. Good day to you."

Quickly he strides away, trying not to think about the hungry gaze he finds so misplaced on a child. His disquieted thoughts whisper to him as the Turk's nickname for the boy comes to mind. Perhaps even on a human?

"I'll come back tonight to retrieve your letter." Veld calls over his shoulder. Sephiroth watches him go without replying, his soul still doesn't recognize this man's behaviour. The boy's eyes fall back to the folded paper in his hand and a smile of anticipation graces his lips.

Dear Sephiroth

Happy birthday! Though it may have passed by the time this letter arrives, I hope it finds you well. It's been two years since I last saw you in person. I would say that time flies, but I feel that I have done more in these two than I have done for the past ten in Shinra!

I'm glad you are enjoying your lessons and it pleases me that you have such a strong desire to learn. I have learned much myself since I last wrote to you! I feel young again, this traveling and search for knowledge and wisdom is what my passion truly is.

You asked me to tell you more about those energy channels. I will do my best, however I myself have had difficulty understanding this concept and can only tell you what I myself have been able to make sense of.

The Channels themselves are called meridians. These meridians are connected to the physical body through so called acupuncture points. Supposedly these points have an integral connection with the body to the extent that applying pressure may either heal or disable the body part or organ it is related to. For this reason, the practice of acupuncture is used in medicine.

Through the meridians runs a sort of vital energy called chakra. Interestingly enough they also claim that chakra is used to fuel materia usage, which is what we would call Mana.

My journey has been eventful. Cosmo Canyon was not entirely what I had expected and has broadened my mind greatly. I met with the old scientist I told you about. The knowledge he shared with me on the planet and the Lifestream astounded me! Though his sources were rather unorthodox, I have been looking into them.

He was a peculiar looking man, of small stature with a long, straight beard and wearing robes similar to the masters of the arts that I observed in Wutai. He floats around on a green orb which contains some combination of linked Materia that he channels Mana to. Apparently he needs it because he can no longer walk due to is age. It turns out he is over 110 years old!

I have learned that there used to be another humanoid species that lived in the area. But it was unfortunately wiped out after going to war with the guardians of Cosmo Canyon, a species that is almost extinct now. I saw the surviving members of this tribe and at first I thought they were monsters tamed by the inhabitants! They looked like red Kalm Fangs but more powerful and flexible without the distinctive mane and a flaming tails. Imagine my surprise when they spoke to me! Apparently their species is highly intelligent and long lived. I had never heard of them before. It is sad that they are endangered though. I truly hope they will survive in future years. It would be such a loss if they went extinct like the Cetra did.

An old friend of mine once advised me to go to Cosmo Canyon, long ago. I now wish I had heeded his advice and gone when I was younger. If I had known some of the things I have learned here… And both that tribe and Guardians would have still been around back then, but alas I was proud. Now that tribe is gone and only two children remain of a noble species.

After Cosmo Canyon I passed through a jungled area and came across a bustling village where Shinra has built one of its Mako reactors. It seems the Jungle is teeming with life and the monsters living in it are quite peculiar. Though most are not very dangerous they can inflict quite particular status ailments. Most notably, stop, slow and frog. Yes, frog. There's a local monster that can turn people into frogs. I even saw it happening to one of my escorts. One of the local biologists I visited in the jungle is fascinated by them and tends to go out of his way to be turned into one in attempts to get a deeper understanding of these creatures. I wish him the best of luck in his endeavour.

I have just arrived in Corel. Though I hear that Shinra is encouraging the residents to let them build another Mako reactor it is a coalmining town and they hold strongly to their ways. I remember the days when Coral coal was widely used. Now only the villages around Mount Coral and Coral itself use it. Perhaps it's just as well. I suspect the mine is starting to become depleted. It's also quite dirty, turning the houses and surrounding plant life around it black from it's smoke. I remember the research results that Shinra financed on the health effects of coal, most notably causing quite serious problems with the lungs, and heart, as well as damaging the eyes if in close proximity to it's smoke. I'm sure you can learn more about it if you ask someone over there.

I'll be heading toward Costa Del Sol and taking a boat from there to Junon. Send your next letter there.

Yours truly,

Gast Faremis

This letter from Gast is marvellously long and Sephiroth is happy for it. He reads the letter over once as usual, simply for pure enjoyment. His eyes widening in particular at someone being over 110 years old, though his soul corroborates the notion. Which it also does at being transformed into a frog.

Meridian channels, chakra energy and the connecting acupuncture points are new terms to Sephiroth and his Soul. Conversely the thought of Materia and Mana are intimately familiar, as if it were a fact of life. He recalls hearing those terms, often in conjunction with the term magic, though he had never cared to find out about them. He knew what magic was; a power to rend the earth, to set it aflame, to flood it with water and bring lighting down upon it. From the moment Gast had first told him about it his Soul had acknowledged its power, yet in his young life, Sephiroth had never seen it performed.

How do these concepts translate to his own experiences? Chakra and mana, Vital energy that flowed in meridians where his soul seems to dwell and apparently a fuel for materia. To the silver-haired child there is only the soul that dwells in these channels. However, never having seen Materia in use, Sephiroth reserves continued enquiry for another time.

He wonders about the acupuncture points. From Gast’s description they seem to be located on the physical body. The memory of a too flexible neck under his fingers and the warm blood on Gast’s cheek comes to him. Back then he had instinctively known where to look for entrance into the channels. Perhaps they are the physical counter parts to the seals that separated the soul from the Lifestream? Though twisted, the spiritual realm could often reflect the physical one. Or at least a parody of it. Or perhaps it is the other way round. Realising his diverging thoughts, the boy returns his attention back to the contents of the letter.

110 years seems enormous to Sephiroth, he is only a little older than 4 years after all. But his soul shrugs it off as if it is nothing, as if it is older. When the sense of great experience floods into him through his connection he accepts the concept easily and his thought's stray to the next subject of his interest. Namely the strange talking beast with its flaming tail.

His soul stirs at the description. But unlike before it is not the usual indifferent familiarity, but a trembling, light tug.

A clue, an important clue.

Sephiroth drops all of his activity and goes in search of more information on these guardians of Cosmo Canyon.

…

It turns out no one he could find knows anything about these creatures, though Professor Hojo expressed an interest in them. Instead, Sephiroth decides to resort to another more indirect method. Grabbing a packet of colour pencils someone had given him but he had never used and a sheet of paper, he walks of to the Shinra library.

Flipping through the pages of a heavy bestiary he quickly finds the section on Kalm Fangs. A fairly weak but tenacious quadruped living in the wastelands around Midgar.

A red Kalm Fang, but larger and more flexible with a burning tail and without the distinctive mane. That is how Gast had described them.

To Sephiroth's surprise drawing turns out to be a lot harder than he thought it would be, much like grating carrots and drying kitchen utensils, requiring a dexterity that he is not used to using. But in the end he manages to draw a recognisable semblance of a red Calm fang leaving the neck area vague and undefined.

He examines the picture; the tug from his soul is much stronger though faltering. Placing the tip of the pencil on the paper he clears his mind trying to grasp onto the fragments shared through his connection. Slowly he traces the outline of his picture creating a short neck and powerful bust.

Again Sephiroth looks at the picture. His soul hums quietly in his mind.

There is still something wrong. Though Gast said they did not have manes the neck looks too naked. With eyes fixed on the picture the boy drops his red pencil and moves to pick up another, sketching out a brown zigzag along the back of it's neck.

Sephiroth is not entirely satisfied with the results but realizes that the features are distinctly similar to the creature his soul remembers. While filling in the mane, he decides to send it to Gast in his letter and ask about its resemblance.

Chapter Text

Cool fingers rub inquisitively at a slight rash on young, pale skin. The fingers move on and continue to trail down in search of further blemishes.

“What is Materia?” Professor Hojo pauses in his examination as the young boy’s voice sounds in the quiet lab.

He glances up at Sephiroth, then rights himself slowly. “Materia is crystalized Mako. It is theorized that it contains the knowledge and wisdom of the Ancient’s. When this knowledge interacts with us, it forms a connection with the planet allowing us to call upon natures forces.”

Sephiroth’s soul hums in recognition. “So it lets us use magic.” The boy concludes simply, leaning back on the examination table and out from the glare of the surgical light-head.

“M-Magic?!” Professor Hojo splutters - recoiling. “What are you going to call it next; a ‘mysterious power’?” The professor scoffs.

But Sephiroth perks up, honing in on the changing scent. The smell of fear.

Turning away from the boy while nudging up his glasses, he paces a few steps away while trailing one hand along the examination table. “You should not use such unscientific terms. This world is ruled by the laws of science and those terms are outdated. They belonged to a people who did not understand the world around them.” Professor Hojo calms down, reassured by his own speech.

Sephiroth tastes the air watching Professor Hojo with interest. The man’s fear is dissipating. “But you cannot explain everything.” The child counters, fishing for a reaction.

Professor Hojo stills then whirls on his heel to look at Sephiroth. “It is simply because an explanation has yet to be found.” His façade is steady and unruffled. The Professor is becoming better at keeping it in front of Sephiroth. But his scent, turbulent as it is, betrays the older mans inner turmoil.

The boy brings a leg beneath him and stands up on the examination table. All the while keeping a level stare at the older man.

Sephiroth finds this very entertaining. What is it that this man holds onto so desperately?

“Is there a difference if there isn’t an explanation and never finding it?” The child needles, pacing toward the Professor along the table edge.

“An explanation will be found eventually; weather I live to see it or not.” The older man retorts. But his widened eye’s are glued to the naked child stalking towards him.

The steps are deliberate and well balanced. Professor Hojo knows it well – has measured it and studied its development. He knows every inch of his… specimens body, inside and out.

Sephiroth reaches the tables edge and standing tall and undaunted at eye-level with his guardian. “What difference is there – if when you find your explanation – you are unable to understand it?”

Hand trembling slightly – the professor moves to push up his glasses, only to press them harder against his brow.

Sephiroth knows he understands things differently from the Professor. His guardian may know more than he but the boy can perceive things the adult is incapable of. “You are limited in yo–”

“This conversation is fruitless!” Professor Hojo finally snaps with a hiss, interrupting him. “Return to your seat and wait for me to finish the examination.”

Sephiroth regards him for a moment, but slinks quietly back to his sitting position on the table. A smirk starches the child’s lips as he scrutinises the professor who moves on to manipulate the young boy’s joints, checking the range of motion. It would seem that professor Hojo is afraid of what he cannot understand.

./.

It is late in the night when Sephiroth wakes with a start. It feels like his time has come to a sudden halt.

It is not the first such experience. He has felt several times during the past few days.

With a mental shrug he knows his time is still moving, slightly faster than the Lifestream’s, and has not stopped since he came into existence.

He wonders idly what is happening. But scouring his inner channels - his meridians - he finds nothing. Patiently he waits a few minutes and feels the impression come again - of time slowly coming to a start.

Examining the sensation, he finds that it is incomplete and far away. The boy sighs as the awareness fades away, none the wiser on what it may be.

./.

“When Veld passes Gast's folded letter to Sephiroth, he is pleasantly surprised. Veld has been sending him Turks who bring him to their training facilities. They would teach him the basics to fighting. Sometimes even Veld himself came to the boy to give him some lessons.

Sephiroth assumed that this time was such an occasion. But it seems he is pleasantly mistaken.

Most of the Turks are distant but professional with him, which suits Sephiroth just fine.

Apart from learning how to fight and actually fighting them, the boy isn't interested in doing much else with them. He learns quickly but for the most part the child is still training on basic movements with various wooden weapons as well as bare handed. Though a large amount of time goes to simple physical exercise and coordination training.

The only weapon that truly has an affinity with Sephiroth, however, is the sword. Though the hum of appreciation from his soul is disrupted regularly by the disconcerting wrongness of the practice weapons, many of the movements are intimately familiar to it.

But even favoring the sword as he does, he gets plenty of practice with the other fighting stiles. And enjoys them as well. Most of all, he looks forward to actually be able to start fighting no matter what fighting stile he will be aloud to use.

His soul shivers with delight in remembrance.

Dear Sephiroth

My how surprised I was by your picture! Yes, they do look like that, though they also have tribal tattoos, head dresses and bangles. Hopefully one day you will have a chance to meet them for yourself.

You asked me about Materia, Linked Materia and Mana. I keep forgetting you do not know of such things yet. Materia is compressed Mako. Within the Materia it is believed that knowledge belonging to the ancients is held. When we access this knowledge it forms a connection with the planet and allows us to call upon it’s powers. This is also known as ‘Magic’. This field of study is highly complicated, dangerous and not at all well understood so not many venture into this realm and the few who do often tend to divert form from commonly scientifically accepted theories. I used to have a friend who was very well versed in this field, but he died years ago from one of his experiments.

Materia is often inserted into armour, bangles or weapons so that they are easier to use. Certain materials, often metals, can create a connection between the user and the materia even when there is no direct contact. These connections must be built into the equipment and are know as Materia slots. They are notoriously tricky to make in a way that they function reliably - especially as the number of slots increase. Many years ago only skilled smiths could make them, but Shinra found a way to mass produce materia slots and have made them more widely available. This is one of the reasons it was so influential even before it developed Mako power. However, equipment with many slots are still very difficult to make and are often rare and valuable. Linked slots are much like single slots but allow the user to access two Materia simultaneously. We know that depending on the combination the function of the Materia’s combined power can change. This is what is known as linked material. With clever combinations effects that cannot be produced with a single material may be wielded. The floating transport I told you about is a rather unusual but a very clever use of linked material. Grant elemental protection or attributes to a person or weapon is a more common application.

In the past Mana was believed to be a separate power within us, reminiscent to what I told you about chakra, which was consumed when using magic. We now know that this is probably not the case, and in science the term is used as a unit of measurement. We know that people can only cast magic a certain number of times and that this number seems constant if the right circumstances are met. We also know that some spells are more taxing than others, often in relation to their power or influence. For fighters it can be very important to keep track of how many more spells they can cast. Scientist have learned to give an approximate number to the required mana cost of spells and from there have been able to calculate a number for fighters to be able to use. This number is referred to as MP. You may sometimes hear it called Magic Points but the correct term is Mana points. The total MP seems to vary from individual to individual and will often grow over time and with fighting experience or training, weather it is the mind or body. It is speculated to be related to a person’s cognitive abilities though, once again, it is not well understood nor studied. Young children have been known to suffer badly if they use Materia. They often become inexplicably confused, fall into a deep slumber for days, suffer from memory loss or in the worst cases become mentally damaged for life. It is thought that this is because their brain hasn’t fully developed yet and cannot handle the information from the materia. This is probably why you haven’t been allowed close to it yet. I am sure that professor Hojo wouldn’t be willing to take such a risk by letting you use it too early.

Speaking of professor Hojo I have heard that he finally became head of the Shinra Research Science Department. He has a bright mind though he strikes me as very young. He must be among the youngest who have ever taken that position. I hope he is happy with his achievement. People are often envious of those with influential positions, but they do not realise the price for that success. I know for I have been there myself. These past few years must have been very hard on him. I know professor Hojo has made difficult choices, Sephiroth, and I do not envy him for his sacrifices.

Shortly after I sent my letter to you from Corel I departed with my hired mercenaries to the pass through the mountains toward the port of Costa Del Sol. The journey through Mount Corel was a harrowing one thanks to the many petrification-inflicting monsters. An ability particularly common in this area and also the reason why Costa Del Sol is renown for its Soft-production industry. Aside from their reputation as a resort town and large harbour, of course. I had the misfortune of falling victim to the status ailment several times. Fortunately, my escorts managed to get me out of the condition every time.

The boat trip was quite uneventful. My stay in Junon will be short, but I will take this opportunity to properly say my farewells to all of my old colleagues who remain here. The city is very familiar to me. Though you may never have been here I have worked many years in Shinra HQ when it was located in Junon. I have only been to Midgar during its initial construction. Maybe one day you can show me around.

My next destination is the Mideel continent I’ve heard that the life stream is unusually close to the surface there. I heard some years ago that Shinra planned to build a Mako reactor there, but for some reason the project was abandoned. Send your letter to the Mideel Town. I’ve heard they are well known for their hot springs and I look forward to finding out for myself.

Yours truly,

Gast Faremis

Sephiroth sits before a second picture of the red creature he’s drawn, this one a lot better than his last attempt.

Tattoos, headdresses and bangles. He reasons that bangles would obviously be on the wrists. Starting with the most evident he draws out bangles on the front legs. The boy hesitates then moves to draw two on the back leg as well, his soul humming in recognition.

He places a coloured pen on the head of the image - letting whim control his actions. His hand moves to behind the ear drawing a spiky shape in black and filling in the tip. He looks at it quizzically, his soul humming again in confirmation. A feather?

Moving on to the tattoos, he knows this will be harder because he doesn’t know where to start. Staring hard at the picture his hand shifts, scribbling in a line across the foreleg of the beast, between the shoulder and elbow. He moves again and draws a similar line on the thigh. Hesitating he finally outline a smaller scribble just above the forelegs first tattoo. He isn’t entirely satisfied but for now he is certain that it is the closest he will get to drawing out the image that lies hidden within his soul.

Turning back to Gast’s letter he reads through it again. Gast’s explanation for Materia is similar to Professor Hojo’s, only more readily using the term magic and admitting to the knowledge gaps which the younger scientist had denied. The mention of a friend specialising in magic stirs something within Sephiroth’s soul. But when the boy grasps for it, the thought evades him and scatters like dust moats in the air.

Gast’s description of Materia slots is also familiar to his soul but it is new to Sephiroth himself. The thought sends tingles down his arms and he instantly knows it is a clue for something else. A white line of light in a dull surrounding. A hauntingly beautiful song. The feeling of a steady companion, of a reliable presence, of the only true friend. But try as Sephiroth might he cannot grasp its identity from the abstract details offered to him from the depths of his soul. Knowing the answer will reveal itself to him in time, the toddlers thoughts shift to ponder elsewhere.

Once again he is unsurprised by the older mans defence of professor Hojo. However, he does recall Hojo mentioning something about negative effects and material use to president Shinra. Sephiroth had not taken the information to heart though. Neither he nor his soul could imagine the professor attempting to protect him from harm and found it more likely to apply it on the child himself.

A faint and forgotten air stirs within child’s soul at the thought. Not wishing to dell on it any longer he scans further down the letter.

He stops on the mention of petrification. The term is familiar to his soul in the same way that materia is. But something else tugs at Sephiroth’s thoughts, urging him to recall... And he fishes out a book on status ailments to seek the meaning of the term.

“A status effect that turns an organism into stone. This status puts the afflicted into stasis in addition to rendering them virtually invulnerable to most attacks, both mental and physical. Petrify can be a dangerous condition in battle: leading a team to being wiped out. It may also be perilous to any one who wanders on their own. It can be counteracted by using Soft or casting Esuna. It also wears off with time given certain care and the proper conditions even without the remedies.”

Sephiroth sits back in contemplation. Those times he woke in the night, had that been Gast being petrified?

His previous thoughts on the professor crosses his mind lighting up an idea, and the boy’s curiosity pulls him into action.

…

“I want to know what being petrified feels like.” Professor Hojo looks slowly away from his notes and down at Sephiroth.

He blinks, dark circles marring his eyes. “Petrified?” He repeats not fully registering the boy’s meaning.

Sephiroth nods patiently. The Professor stares at him for a minute.

Suddenly, a fire lights in his eyes. The air fills with his smell of excitement. “Why, that would make for an excellent experiment!” The adult stands, dropping his documents without a second look. “Come Sephiroth, let us start the preparations.”

…

It is in the lab as usual. Only they’ve been there for about an hour, doing nothing. Sephiroth is already prepped with the full set of examination equipment. Lying partially reclined and naked on the padded examination table, he waits with the patients of a god. Professor Hojo, however, fidgets restlessly while the lab assistants are doing their best to be inconspicuous. Their nervousness in seeming disharmony with the calm beep of Sephiroth’s own heart rate.

Suddenly the black-haired man lifts his head towards the door. “Ah! Finally, lets get started immediately.”

Sephiroth turns to see Veld enter, followed by another Turk. As he observes the tanned skin of the middle-aged man, the boy realises it is the one who was with Veld the first time they met.

He sits up on the table ignoring the quiet scolding of the lab assistance as they move to make sure none of the electrodes on his head are yanked of or displaced. Just as he ignores the tickle of the wires attached to his chest as they slide down to his belly. He watches with interest as the Professor turns to the Turks, a slightly guarded set in his shoulders.

“If you would?” Professor Hojo says politely and Veld steps forward bringing out a small box from a hidden pocket which he hands to the Professor.

Meanwhile, green eyes follow the older Turk as he slinks of to a shadowed corner where he settles quietly against a table. The older mans smell of power is more subdued then last time and no one seems to give him much notice.

“Vagyrisk Claw, this will do nicely.” At the sound of his voice, Sephiroth turns back to the Professor. “Considering the optimal conditions and the immobility of the specimen, the chances of success should be high with minimal damage.” He comments to himself, satisfied.

“Professor Hojo, in consideration of your new position, we will go through with this experiment. But please send a report in future and wait for it to be approved before starting any new projects. Especially ones with such a delicate nature.” Veld warns diplomatically.

“Yes, yes.” The Professor says distractedly, his mind already on the experiment. He turns back to the child on the examination table. “Lay back down Sephiroth. We shall start shortly.”

Sephiroth obeys, leaning back into the padded surface, tuning out the people around him as he usually does during experiments. He feels large hands pull back his mane of silver wires along with his shoulder-length hair, draping it carefully over the tables raised edge like a strange halo. Staring up, he sees the familiar cruddy white ceiling tiles and the surgical light-head bowing over him.

Vaguely aware of Hojo leaning slightly over his body holding what looks to be a large pointy nail. In the back ground he hears the Professors instructions and the assistants’ affirmations as they ready themselves.

He has seen, heard and felt it all before. He feels only indifference as he surrenders his body to their ministrations.

The Surgical light snaps on. Chasing the concealing shadows from his nude body, it blinds the child. But as his pupils constrict into tiny slits he sees the professor’s finger snap the nail and unleash the magic hiding within. Sephiroth takes it as his queue to start his own little experiment, no longer paying any attention to the world of white light and disjointed colours filling his vision.

He feels the magic’s suggestion introduce itself to his essence. Imposing it’s will upon every cell in his body. Preaching for it to believe it is something different. He gives way to it slowly, observing it carefully. Letting it do as it wills, but only the surface close to his skin. It calls to his time, and his soul – commanding them to stop and close upon themselves.

He feels his skin stiffen and slowly loose it’s feeling, but he does not fear. This is what he had felt, only farther away and more rampant and out of control. Back then, the one he was aware of must indeed have been Gast.

Satisfied, Sephiroth imposes his will once more and brushes of the petrification. Returning his attention to the world around him.

…

An hour later, the child is thoroughly bored and somewhat annoyed. They’ve repeated the same procedure three times with twenty minute brakes in-between. The waiting isn’t so bad; it is just as boring as it usually is. Except with the occasional interesting whiff from Veld.

The petrification, however… It is no big feat for Sephiroth to slap it away when it comes upon him, only sometimes it persists like an annoying fly that keeps pestering him.

“I propose we put an end to these, experiments.” Veld’s voice breaks the child out of his bored stupor.

Yes, that sounds like a very appealing proposal.

“But we must prove that this seeming immunity is not a fluke! Just one more try and our data will be so much more credible!” Professor Hojo splutters in response.

“I do not believe that it is worth squandering another Vagyrisk Claw for one more test. They are a rare, useful and expensive commodity. I do not believe that the President will condone such wasteful usage.” Veld counters coolly.

Professor Hojo bristles but them forcefully calms himself. “Well I suppose we could run other experiments.” He says sulkily. “If the specimen reacts the same to dream powder for example… perhaps even hyper and tranquilizers…” The voice of the boy’s guardian raises as he becomes excited once again. With eye’s filled with a burning fervour he contemplates Sephiroth. “What if he is immune to even poison? Will materia affect him the same way?”

“Before you go through with any of these experiments, make sure you submit the proper applications and wait for approval from the president.” Veld breaks off rather loudly, slight emotion colouring his voice. Distress, thinks Sephiroth as he tastes the air.

Hojo deflates all of a sudden. “Yes, yes.” He waves a hand dismissively at Veld.

The middle-aged Turk unsticks himself from where he has been lurking and moves toward the door. The younger Turk turns as well but makes a final remark before stepping out. “Make sure you submit the report for this experiment by tonight.”

Professor Hojo harrumphs then turns toward Sephiroth and signals for the assistants to start tidying up. But as he approaches the boy where he sits, attached by the scalp to his silver main of wires that snake up the table, the mans mood seems to lighten. He smiles softly and gently starts removing electrodes from the young boy’s head.

Sephiroth freezes, staring wide-eyed at Professor Hojo in realization.

This expression, this smell – it is familiar. Emerging from his soul comes a powerful yearning for it, followed by sadness and that cloying emptiness. Sephiroth himself recognizes it from this man. That smell he only emitted while looking at the boy. But never has what it represents been so clear. Affection.

The calloused fingers of the professor run through his silver locks… affectionately… removing the final electrodes.

“Sephiroth, lets go out and eat lunch together.” He says, his voice much warmer than usual. He hadn’t thought this man capable of such emotion. And his mind brushes back to Gast’s mention of Hojo, which he promptly cringes away from.

His soul yearns distractingly for the sound of such warmth, in counterbalance to Sephiroth’s own disgust for his guardian.

The boy, still surprised by his new insight, takes a while to process professor Hojo’s suggestion.  “Out?” He always eats inside. If not in the cafeteria, then the labs with a hoard of scientists. Professor Hojo joining in and running off at random intervals. Apart from the helipad on his arrival he has never been outside in Midgar.

“Yes, I know a nice quiet place that we can go to together. Just you and I.” The black-haired man smiles. The strain gone, for now, from his haggard face

…

Half an hour later, an unusually presentable and clean Professor Hojo, without his customary lab coat, strides out the Shinra HQ building. Turning around he takes the now clothed silver haired child by the hand and leads him away. Sephiroth looks around carefully, with Gast’s letter in mind about showing his friend around the city. All the while trying to ignore his other half, disgusted by its soulful appreciation of the warmth radiating from the man besides him.

Chapter Text

Brisk and decisive steps.

The kind that says you know where you are going. The kind that warns people to make way. The kind that says a Turk is on a mission.

But this Turk is not on a mission.

He doesn’t know where he is going, his thoughts entrenched in the foggy shallows of his mind. It flounders back in the lab, endlessly witnessing those scenes replay themselves. For every time he relives, them they grow darker and more sinister.

A brewing storm of emotion threatens to burst out of him. The torrents of feelings are only reined in by the ingrained professionalism required by his occupation. Instead it clouds his judgment and bogs his senses in a mire of numbness.

His usual grace is replaced by the mechanical gate so commonly seen in city-dwellers as his legs move by themselves. Fuelled by his suppressed outrage, they bring him away from the acts that choke his faith.

He can not even spare the thought to recognise his surroundings. The little control he has to his disposal is all sett to keeping a stony mask on his face. To maintain it’s integrity and keep any cracks from appearing.

He dares not reveal what lies beneath.

Dares not even find out for himself.

Distantly he notices something gripping him by the elbow. It firmly but gently steers him down another corridor and into an elevator.

He doesn’t have the presence of mind to identify his guide, but he surrenders to its direction. Blindly trusting it to lead him to solace.

A short eternity passes of struggling uselessly through the muddy battle fields of conflicted thought before he dimly feels the guiding force change its nature. He stumbles backwards on to a firm surface, feeling hard edges dig into his arms and back. The fall jolts him far enough out of his stupor to realize that he is on a chair in a dimly lit room.

A warm hand touches the side of his face.  “Veld.” Deep and musical, the voice of his superior. His mentor. “Breath and relax. We are alone.”

“Malkhaz… Sir.” His ingrained conduct in his superior’s presence rouses him enough for the older man’s lined face to come into focus. Short, black curly hair. Tan skin. Deep, dark, enthralling eyes.

“Relax, Veld. Breath. Then talk to me.” The man hooks a chair leg with his foot, pulling it over to sit in front of his younger subordinate. The well-tailored cloth of their trousers’ brush against each other. But the younger man’s troubled mind barely notices.

Silence falls as time passes, measured only by the unsynchronised breathing of two men. “Tell me what you saw.” The deep voice murmurs, at once commanding and coaxing.

“I…” Veld’s voice cracks. He clears his voice and breathes deeply. “I keep seeing the boy on that… table. Lying there, letting those people do whatever they will. Pinching, prodding, stroking...” To check for numbness or nerve oversensitivity they said. A typical after effect of petrification, even when it did not take hold. But the boy hadn’t even twitched, answering the questions disinterestedly, not even bothering to look at what they were doing.

When the report of an urgent request for a large amount of Vagyrisk claw had come in, signed by Professor Hojo, something had felt off about it. When he retained the lab assistant for questioning he had been horrified.

It still unsettles him. The Professor had not even sent a report detailing the experiment before hand. This wasn’t anything new per say. It had been done before, often on impulse. But those had been small, mostly unintrusive measurements or performance tests. Not this…

Petrification is an unpleasant experience at best. The thought of anyone willingly consenting to it seemed unlikely. But, Veld is not a naive man. He knows what desperate people are willing to do given the right conditions. However, Sephiroth had been neither desperate nor promised anything in return.

Even so, if it had been an adult the Turk would not have cared, much. Life was harsh after all and no one was truly guiltless enough to say they didn’t deserve what life gave them. But a child is a whole other matter. When they give their consent a child has no real ability to judge consequences - to understand the implications - nor do they have the same ability to say no. Even more so for those under the age of five.

It is a guardian’s responsibility to use their greater experience to decide what is best for their charge. But this guardian had not deemed it fit to protect their child from this experience. Instead he planned and instigated it himself.

“Did you think of Felicia?” Malkhaz breaks of Veld’s brooding abruptly. Reminding him of his presence.

“No, I…” Veld pauses as a vission of his daughter’s face flashed through his mind, her eyes wide with a silent fear. “Maybe I did, in a way. I suppose I kept expecting him to act like she would have. I thought he would be afraid. But…” The younger man exhales heavily, pulling a hand down his face.

“But he was not afraid…” Malkhaz finishes for him. His eyes draw Veld’s attention back to his leader.

“No… not even anxious or nervous. He seemed… apathetic. I find it disturbing. Even more than if...” The younger trails off, not quite ready to detail what he had been expecting.

It was the first time he’d been to one of his charge’s experiments. He knew about SOLDIER, how the boy was a forerunner for the whole program. Like many he thought the hair an eyes were an unfortunate side effect of the early Mako formulas. But he hadn’t truly realized what it entailed. Was this what the boy had grown up with all along? Veld can barely imagine it, yet the boy treats it as if it were mundane.

“Sephiroth is… special.” For a moment Malkhaz gaze darkens as his gaze drift. Then he turns his attention back to the younger man, his eyes sympathetic and his voice reassuring. “Veld. You needn’t fear that your daughter, or any other normal children, should befall his fate.”

And Sephiroth is special.

In more ways than one. His strange alien appearance. His cold unchildlike behaviour. His seemingly unsocial nature - only engaging with people when he wants something from them. Uncaring for people’s attention or approval. Never sharing his thoughts or feelings. Never playing or partaking in the imaginative games characteristic to children. All the thing his daughter and any normal child does naturally, Sephiroth is never seen doing. Children developed fast, growing in both size and character, but Sephiroth’s behaviour had not change much in the year Veld had observed him.

Veld was by no means a saint. He had killed, kidnapped, bribed, spied and betrayed many times before. It is his job and something he had done as a living even before Shinra. It was a life born out of necessity, and his moral sense had long been blunted. But for this very reason he holds even more strongly to his principles. All of his kind had a threshold they would not step over, for if they did they would be monsters.

Like many of his kind, killing or harming children unnecessarily is a taboo. Though the threshold for what a child may be varies, it is unquestionable that among humans there is nothing more innocent or deserving of mercy.

He looks to his superior and asks. “Why did you allow the experiment to continue when we first heard of it?

Malkhaz leans back in his chair with a sigh. “Oh, Veld…” He chides softly as he leisurely adjusts his cuffs than places them on the chair’s armrests. “Have you forgotten what department we work in?” He gives his subordinate a meaningful look. “We are Turks. Our job is to do what Shinra wants us to do. Without question and with professionalism.”

He is right. That is, in a nutshell, what his contract had stated when he signed it. A contract for life that promised a good pay, stable work and respect. At the time, Veld had thought he was at the bottom of the gutter, as a human he could not be worse.

But a creeping realisation comes upon him. It sends shivers up his spine yet it is too faint for him to articulate.

“Surely you can understand the benefits of allowing this action.” Malkhaz continues. His gaze is steady, quietly evaluating.

The benefits for Shinra, unspoken but a test of it’s own. Veld easily slides into the role of the Turk, analysing it as he has been taught. “Professor Hojo is currently learning the benefits and testing the limits of his new station. This is an opportunity to show him Shinra’s favour while at the same time reprimanding him for the recent liberties he has been taking. Additionally…” Veld hesitates a moment, realizing now that he hadn’t entirely thought through the implications of this outcome. “This experiment was unlikely to cause lasting harm to the subject and even provided highly unexpected results that greatly benefit Shinra.” No doubt it would even endorse future experiments of similar nature.

Again the creeping unease made itself known to him.

Malkhaz looks at the younger man quietly for a moment then nods once in acceptance of the answer.

Suddenly he leans forward placing a hand on Veld’s knee. “But Veld, know this.” His voice is commanding and holds a hint of urgency. His deep gaze seemingly sees through his subordinate soul as the dark-haired man speaks. As if knowing where the younger man had fallen and offering his salvation. “After the job is done we always take care of our own.” Warm fingers squeezed the knee reassuringly. “The Turks are family and their family is our family.”

With that the older man stands, pushing the chair back to it’s original position. He continues in his business tone, signalling the end to this discussion. “I’m sorry to leave you Veld. But I have work to attend.”

As Veld makes to get up his boss presses a hand down on his shoulder. Malkhaz stoops down to speak in his ear. “Take a few days off. Go to Kalm and spend a few days with your family. I’m sure they will be happy to see you.” He pats the shoulder and promptly exits through the door, leaving Veld in what he suddenly realized is an unlit office.

Veld leans back in his chair, letting his head loll back. “Thank you, sir.” He sighs to the empty room.

Chapter Text

This is the last one. 

The last day of the status effect immunity experiments, as they have come to be called.

Sephiroth is used to them by now and he barely notices the attempted intrusion of the magic on his being. Apart from the initial cast which he would curiously study, the rest would simply slip off of his perfected mental barrier like water on oil.

As usual he lies with electrode wires draped around him. He can taste tension and excitement in the air. A strange downy scent reaches his nostrils and he catches a flash of orange in one of the assistant’s sweating hands.

A phoenix down.

Professor Hojo clears his voice. “All is ready. Let us start.”

The toddler’s eyes move to Veld as he steps forward lifting his arm adorned by an iron bangle. Within its single slot glows a green orb the size of Sephiroth’s fist. He can smell conflict on the man, just as he had every other time materia was required for an experiment. A certain amount of mental power –  Mana – and skill is required for it to be used, especially repeatedly. The Turks are well suited to this task because of their combat experience and frequent materia use.

Sephiroth watches calmly as the materia flares, throwing its green glow onto the blue fabric of Veld’s suit.

He can sense the man casting. He feels the materia form a conduit in the Lifestream leading to man’s inner channels - his meridians - where the consciousness resides. The materia forms and shapes the older mans intention and the child can feel its ripples in the Lifestream as it hones in towards his closed being, even as he sees the vague translation of the intention inserting itself into reality. It applies its suggestion, attempting to convince the seals of his inner channels to unravel.

Suddenly a sense of familiarity comes upon Sephiroth. The figure of an unnaturally twisted head flickers through his mind. He has done this before. Only back then it was done from the inside.

Curiously he lets the seals tremble and twitch. He is not afraid of death. Any other would be unconscious by now, their vital signs beginning to fail or work erratically as a symptom of a seal’s breaching. But Sephiroth’s soul is not influenced, his body stays unaffected and he knows that even when they are half open he is in perfect control.

But at the rate they are unravelling it will be a good few minutes before the seals would be open enough for the currents in the Lifestream to suck any helpless soul away, rendering the person beyond the help of a phoenix down.

He realises that what he had done was perhaps slightly different. Sephiroth had been more forceful, directly and permanently breaking a seal.

With a mental shrug the spell is thrown off and the silver-haired boy settles to wait patiently for the next hour to pass.

./.

Another letter from Gast. Only this time it is a bit different since the stoic Turk also hands him a small box along with the folded note. It is obviously unsealed; he can see where the former tape has pulled off the grain. Long resigned to his companies snooping he does not even comment. Though he spares Veld a knowing look when he grasps his delivery, before turning away.

The toddler senses Veld’s sent fluctuate but the boy knows the older man’s face will remain unreadable.

Guilt and apprehension. Sephiroth has come to know this side of Veld during the many experiments the Turk witnessed and took part in.

Sephiroth stills his steps. “If you have something to say, then say it.” He says calmly.

Surprise followed by a slight colouring of fear. He hears the older man take a breath. “What did it feel like?” The little boy turns back to look up disinterestedly at the Turk. “That last experiment.” The older man clarifies.

“The death spell?” Sephiroth enquires and receives an affirming nod from Veld. “It feels like someone wants me to join the Lifestream.”

The Turks expression stays impassive but his sent wavers. He doesn’t understand. “Like someone wants to kill me.” Sephiroth tries again.

The corner of the left eye twitches, but there is a wave of emotion conveyed through his smell. Guilt, anger, confusion, concern. Concern for him, the child realises.

“Why do you care? It is only killing intent.” Sephiroth asks. It can not affect him. It is an inferior thought only capable of expressing itself through materia.

But the toddler’s words do not comfort the older man and instead only plants the seed of doubt deeper within him. Sephiroth can smell it, and he observes apathetically when the Turk suppresses it.

“I see. Thank you for answering my question. I shall take my leave.” Veld says quickly before turning and striding away.

Dear Sephiroth 

So you’ve started to learn how to fight? It’s nice to hear that you have found something you enjoy doing, especially since you would have been bound to learn this eventually. What a pleasant surprise that Professor Hojo took you out for lunch. Though I’m shocked you haven’t been outside before. I think it would do you some good if you saw more of the city.

I’ll tell you what I can about status immunities, but I admit that this is not my area of expertise. Many creatures are naturally immune or have a resistance to certain status conditions or elements. It may also go the other way, where the creatures are more susceptible or vulnerable. Sometimes these qualities may be caused by the physical properties of the creatures. For example the monsters known as the Malboro, a dangerous and poisonous creature is naturally immune to poisons or the Bandersnatch – a relative of the Calm Fang – which lives in the far north is naturally resistant to the cold. But sometimes their immunities cannot be explained by physical traits alone. In such cases it is theorised that this condition is caused by the magical skills of the monsters. As far as I know humans are not immune or particularly resistant to anything though there may be very small individual differences. But they may gain such traits through materia or equipment with special properties.

One of the most discussed of such items is the Ribbon. As it’s name suggest it looks like a simple strip of cloth, often red in colour and incredibly rare. It grants immunity against all status ailments aside from slow, stop and instant death. You probably haven’t heard of instant death, as it is called. Usually, living organism do not die unless they sustain great physical or magical damage, though the amount may vary from person to person, this quality is often referred to as Health. There are spells, however, that overlooks Health entirely, and if successful, causes death instantly no matter how healthy the victim is. If not revived they will start to decompose and eventually completely dissolve. It is a terrifying condition, though due to it’s short lived nature, there are often debates of weather it should be considered a status effect at all.

But I have come off topic, haven’t I? It’s been a long and tiring journey, but I have finally arrived in town of Mideel and the spring does wonders for my weary mind and body. I’m truly not young anymore. But as always I am glad that I have gone on this journey.

As I crossed the Junon Plaines I was particularly surprised by the locals’ veneration towards nature, in spite of the presence of a Mako reactor. In particular, they revere the Condor. It is a large, long-lived avian beast that lives in the area. Its main diet is monsters and it usually never touches humans or their livestock. Unfortunately, their numbers have been dwindling over the past half century. But I had the fortune of seeing one fly close to the Mako reactor. It was huge! Never have I seen a beast of such size! I wonder why it flew so close to the Mako reactor? Wild beasts tend to avoid them for there is little food within the vicinity of reactors.

On the Mideel continent, I took a detour to visit some colleagues of mine that I haven’t heard from for a few years. It turns out they have settled down to become farmers and tend Banora White orchards. A peculiar arched, white barked apple tree. The apples are nicknamed by the locals as Dumb apples because the trees bear fruit at random times of the year! Apparently it is due to the Mako veins running close to the surface. It was my first time seeing them. The fruit, when ripe, is blue skinned with white pulp. I tasted one myself, and I must say, their fragrance is very particular.

But… I am very surprised by my former colleagues’ choice to all lead this simple life over the life of researcher. They must have been living like this for…. four to five years now? One of the original reasons they came here was to investigate the land as a potential location for a Mako reactor while working on various other projects. But the plans for the reactor have been stopped for some reason and their other projects shouldn’t be preventing them from traveling to the bigger cities. It just strikes me as strange that they should live so close to nature now. But they were rather distant towards me, so I was not able to find out much.

In a few days I will meet one of the sources that the old scientist in Cosmo Canyon told me about. Though I’ve been exchanging letters with this person they remain very mysterious. Understandably I’m excited to meet them.

I plan on staying on this continent for a while more so you can send your next letter to the Mideel town again.

Ps. I sent you a little package along with this letter. I hope it finds you well.

Yours truly

Gast Faremis

Sephiroth has never felt the desire to explore Midgar nor know the people that walk its streets. Likewise, his soul expresses little interest for the city itself. The sight of the people milling below the old Shinra building evokes only disdain and annoyance. To him, the outside seems just as drab and uninspiring as the corridors he has grown up in and the people who walk them. He had made pleasant discoveries, however, which his soul had not recognised. Perhaps there is something of interest in the city which Gast is hinting at?

Gast explanation of Status immunities is much more encompassing than whatever the assistance had deigned to share with him. Professor Hojo had been more exasperating than his usual self ever since the first experiment and treated Sephiroth’s questions as a distraction. There was an obsessed glint in his eyes that drove him to stay up late into the night. Sephiroth knew, he could see it even without the recognition curdling within his soul.

But with Gast’s explanation comes the precursors of a heavy understanding. One that his soul does not deny.

Humans are not immune to status ailments. But he is. Or can be, if he so desires. Professor Hojo believes it to be an innate ability. It could be a physical trait, but given Sephiroth’s human body and conscious choice in the matter his immunity resembled the magically based one.

Then has Sephiroth been using magic all along? Never had he thought of it that way. His abilities stem from his soul’s influence over the Lifestream. He has come to understand that the people around him are not aware of the Lifestream and its influence the way he is. They do not seem capable of perceiving it. But he had not thought it as magic. He had never needed to use materia, after all. He knows monsters can cast magic without materia. But not humans. Is this an over sight on his part?

Sephiroth calms his thoughts and turns his attention back to the letter. It is knowledge that time will bring. Or so his soul suggests.

Slow, stop and instant death. Sephiroth’s immunity has been established on all of them. He had informed himself on all the status effects before the experiments and had learned that they caused the targets cognitive process and movements to slow or stop completely. He had not even bothered to counter the time spells. They held a temporary influence on the Time within him. All they had done was for a short while influence his bodies growth. But his consciousness is not ruled by Time and he dictates the pace of his actions. In the end they had not appeared to have taken effect. And therefor the scientists had drawn their conclusion.

Gast is as usual much more enlightening than the brief explanations Sephiroth had found on the instant death condition. But it would seem that this condition was uncommon and greatly feared.

His brief exchange with Veld comes to mind.

Perhaps there is something more to the Turks reactions, the toddler muses as eye’s roam further down the letter.

He had also been told by the man not to inform anyone about the experiments. The only one Sephiroth would care to share with is Gast, but knowing his letters are supervised he would not mention them to his friend either.

His thoughts come to a screeching halt.

Banora Whites. It sends a shiver of familiarity through his soul. And instantly he grasp at the fragments it presents. An echo of a forgotten voice. Contentment and betrayal. Overwhelming emotions. A clue.

Quickly Sephiroth skims the rest of the letter seeking more information. Suddenly the past and the present do not matter. He knows this is important. It is his purpose to find out.

Green eye flick towards the small, brown box by his side. He knows what is inside. It must be, but the thought of false hope weighs heavily. It is just another clue in his long quest.

Slowly he slides it in front of him and gently opens the flaps. And there, nestled in fragrant straw, is a blue apple.

…

The child watches the sombre dome of clouds covering the city. The lights are turned off and halls are deserted. Only the grey light of twilight seeps through the floor to ceiling windows. The boy’s faint shadow stretches behind him, morphing into a tall, lone man.

He feels the weight of the apple in his hand. So light, so smooth against his bare fingers. He feels empty inside, yet his heart is heavy. A horribly familiar itch in his bones, that has imperceptibly grown within him, gnaws at his ribs. It leaves him restless and inexplicably dissatisfied.

The boy’s ears twitch. The ding of an elevator. The squeak of wheels and the soft hiss of cloth against the hard floor. Soft, slow measured steps. The toddler waits quietly, looking down at the blue shade of the fruit as he turns it in his hand.

His company reaches the lobby. He knows it is the janitor. That specific janitor. He can hear it in the soft measured steps. The deep breathing of light exertion.

Sephiroth meets him regularly in the halls. At times they acknowledge each other’s presence through a brief eye contact. He hears the old man stop for a moment as he notices the child before returning to his work.

A few minutes pass, both seemingly minding their own business. But the boy listens idly to the sounds of life behind him. Seeking something he cannot express.

Sephiroth turns his head and looks at the janitor whom quickly notices the young child’s glowing gaze. Slowly he comes to a stop and straightens to look back at the boy. Sephiroth gestures to the man with one hand without turning around.

A few moments of stillness ensue. Then the janitor returns to his work. The child watches him a moment longer, then without a word turns back to his cloud watching.

…

A few minutes later the janitor parks his cart, and puts his cleaning utensils away. Then he sinks with a low exhale onto one of the benches behind Sephiroth facing the window.

“Do you know what a Dumb apple is?” Asks the boy. There is no reply and the old man’s smell is its usual unchanging self. Slowly, Sephiroth turns slightly towards him to look at the apathetic expression of the weathered face. After a few seconds of quiet staring the janitor shakes his head.

“It’s an apple that only grows on the continent of Mideel.” Again Sephiroth is met by a blank stare. A sudden thought crosses the boy’s mind. “Do you know where the continent of Mideel is? He tries again.

Another second trickles by before the janitor shakes his head again. His thin stringy white hair flutters from the movement.

Sephiroth pauses a moment sensing something strange in the air but unable to identify it he continues.

“It is a small, narrow continent south-east of this one.” Sephiroth explains simply and watches as the janitor nods his head in acceptance.

“My friend sent me a gift.” Sephiroth turns around to face his acquaintance and presents the fruit in his hand. “A Banora White, also known as a Dumb apple.” He says calmly. The grey light in the falling night highlights the silver hair and his shadowed face is marked by the light of vivid green eyes. With dilated pupils and a relaxed but deep gaze, they do not appear threatening.

The four-year-old places his other hand on the apple. “In this life, it is the first time I have seen this fruit.” Suddenly the boys small hands tighten and his wrists twist in opposite directions. A sharp snap echoes through the lobby followed by the hiss of pulp rubbing together. The corner of the janitor’s eye twitches in surprise.

“But…” Continues Sephiroth as he looks down at the white insides. “I think of a friend when I see it.” He raises the half in his right hand and offers it to the world-weary man before him.

Finally, the old janitor speaks in his strange accent. “This gift is from the friend you write to?”

Sephiroth nods. Hesitantly the man lifts his hand as he slides of the bench to squat before the boy. Calloused bony fingers close gently over the offered half of a friend’s gift. The large blue veined, dry hands contrast greatly with Sephiroth’s own small and supple ones. The scent from the other changes slowly along with the softening lines of the mans face and shoulders.

Sephiroth does not know what feeling they correspond to. He has not had much opportunity to decipher the finer emotions from this man for his sent rarely changes. But he has come to begrudgingly trust him more than any other in Shinra.

The silver-haired boy takes a step to the side and turns back to the lights of the city as he bites down on his half. A familiar, fragrant taste spreads in his mouth, not to him but to his soul. Besides him he hears the old man eat the other half, still squatting on the ground.

Behind them their long shadows stretch over the bench morphing into two men sitting peacefully together.

Gast’s voice echoes faintly in Sephiroth’s mind. ‘All who share the meal become equals in their enjoyment.’ Quietly the emptiness lurking within the child, and perhaps the man as well, retreats unnoticed from whence it came.

Chapter Text

Professor Hojo, Head of Science Research Division. The words are printed plainly and discretely on a paper plaque beside the office door.

The toddler reaches up on tip-toe to pull the handle. Pushing it he lets it swing open silently. Silver hair shifts as the child peers into the dim room. The tapping of a keyboard and quickened, shallow breathing reaches his ears. A sound that has become all to common to the boy.

Intently the child observes his guardian hunch over. His hair is stringy with grease and a few escaped strands hang before his face.

A disgustingly familiar sight to Sephiroth and his soul.

A growing body of text forms in the reflection of the Professors round glasses as his fingers spasm over the keys. His guardian’s sent permeates the room. Of frantic emotions. The smell of stress.

Without a word the toddler slinks closer until he is by the older man’s side. “Professor Hojo.” He says softly. His guardian jerks, alarm and surprise add themselves to the potent mix in the room.

A flicker of amusement crosses Sephiroth’s eyes as the elder man’s hackles rise. Hazel eyes dart to the boy’s glowing green gaze before returning to the screen that shines just as brightly.

The older man takes a moment to slow his quickened breathing and startled heart. “Go away, I’m busy.” He replies curtly, returning to his typing.

“I want to go outside.” Sephiroth states calmly. It was Gast’s suggestion after all and he had waited long enough.

“I told you, I’m busy. I don’t have time for you.” The professor replies without a second thought. The smell of annoyance follows the statement.

“Then I will go outside by myself.” Continues Sephiroth unruffled. He knows he can take care of himself.

“Don’t be silly.” The professor scoffs with his eyes still glued to the screen.

“Why am I silly? I am capable of doing it on my own.” The child retorts, a spike of annoyance quickening his pulse.

The typing comes to a complete stop. The professor pauses for a second then swivels on his chair and leans over the child. “You - are too young. You know nothing of the world and even less of the dangers outside. Not only would you be a liability to Shinra if you fell into the wrong hands, but it would also be irresponsible of me to let you go outside on your own.” The professor leans back, having said his piece.

Sephiroth’s eyes narrow. He cannot understand the reasons given to him. Acutely aware of his own ignorance the desire to know the outside only grows.

Professor Hojo sighs. “Of course it would be too much to expect you to understand such matters. You are a child after all.” The Professors voice suddenly sharpens. “Listen, Sephiroth. We give you a lot of freedom as it is. We let you roam the corridors without supervision in your free time. This is more recognition of your independence than any child your age should deserve.”

Freedom.

A distant concept, a faint yearning to know what others desire but never seem to have. The possibilities of action when all shackles of duty, obligation, claims and worldly fetters are severed. And for a moment an intense urge to sever those chains burns in Sephiroths gut.

He knows he can do it. He has the power.

A spark heralding decisive action flashes through his eyes. But then he recalls his purpose, is search for meaning, and a veil of calm falls upon him and he settles himself to wait and watch once more. The time may come, but it is not now.

His slip does not go unnoticed, however, by Professor Hojo. Sephiroth knows by the heavy silence and the sliver of wariness that pierces the air.

Abruptly the professor pushes up his glasses and turns to the monitor once more. Ending the conversation with a tone of finality and disinterest. “I suppose you can ask Veld if he has time to babysit you.”

…

Sephiroth finds Veld on what seems to unofficially be dubbed the Turk floor, printing out documents.

Most people seem not to be allowed on this floor but Sephiroth has his ways of trespassing. By simply by slipping in behind or past a Turk entering or exiting it. Sometimes they do not notice him, small and light on his feet as he is. Other time he darts by them too quickly and they cannot be bothered to chase after him.

Though it is not a floor he usually frequents. Most Turks seem uncomfortable when they come across him, but have all learned to keep out of his business when he is there.

The older brown-haired man seems surprised to see him, even going so far as to show it through the slight widening of his eyes. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He says coolly.

The toddler doesn’t deign to comment and gets down to business. “I want to go outside but Professor Hojo says I must have a….” Sephiroth pauses recalling the foreign word. “Babysitter.”

Veld’s eye’s quickly dart over to the growing pile of paper being spit out by the machine. “I do not have time for that.” He states bluntly.

Unimpressed and apathetic to the elders excuse the silver haired boy stares down the taller man. Veld sighs and closes his eyes. A change enters the air and Sephiroth knows a solution has been found. The older man’s mood seems to lighten but at the same time he hesitates.

“I may know someone who has the time to be your babysitter.” He looks sternly at Sephiroth. “But you must behave or else you won’t be allowed such a possibility again.

An imperceptible curve of the child’s lips is the only hint to

the boy’s triumph.

…

“I’ll leave him in your care then.” Sephiroth feels a large hand press on his back, pushing him forward and towards a rather corpulent man with a smile as big as it is fake.

As Veld takes his leave, the toddlers eyes drift to the boy besides the man. It is the first person his own size Sephiroth has seen in his short life. Blond and blue eyed.

They eye each other for a moment. The silver haired boy sizing him up and the blond with simple curiosity. He could feel the faintest of tugs from his soul, but no recognition ensues.

Palmer, in his customary dirt coloured suit, turns to put a hand on the boy’s head and says kindly “Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Wide blue eye’s turn to the adult’s brown ones for a moment. Sephiroth senses something from the boy, reminiscent of faint fear and something else. This child’s sent is much different from those of adults. When he turns back the boy draws himself to his full diminutive height and puffs out his chest. He steps forward and presents his palm perpendicular to the floor. “Rufus Shinra.”

Green eyes dart quickly to the hand then back up at the boy’s pompous face. The name rings a bell in his soul. But he feels only slight caution and distaste towards a Shinra.

The boy looks expectantly at Sephiroth until it becomes faltering and shoots an uncertain look to Palmer. Not understanding the boy’s plight, Sephiroth breaks the awkward silence with an “I see.”

The boy deflates slightly and Palmer bends forward in an apparent attempt to blind Sephiroth with his smiling face. “Your name. Tell him your name.” He prompts.

The silver haired boy looks at the adult strangely. “You already know my name.” Every one knows who Sephiroth is.

The smile on Palmers face only grows wider. Green eyes flit back to the boy who’s smell Sephiroth has already come to identify as uncertainty.

Come to think of it, President Shinra had also asked for his name. “Very well, I am Sephiroth.” But he doesn’t take the hand outstretched towards him.

…

“How old are you.” Asks the blue eyed boy beside him.

“Four.” Answers Sephiroth in a dead panned voice, without even needing to think about it.

“Really? I’m older than you then. I’m seven!” Chatters the young Shinra. He had been going on like this for quite a while. After the awkward introduction he quickly recovered his confidence, and had since then been trying to coax Sephiroth into ‘playing’ with him.

“Hey, because I’m older I will take care of you and decide what we’re going to do. Let’s play with my toy soldiers!” This is the eighth time Rufus brings up his toy soldiers along with the eighth reason for playing with them. He is quite manipulative, but not enough to cajole Sephiroth into entertaining him.

Small hands grip Sephiroth’s shoulders and attempt to shake him. The younger silver haired child doesn’t budge and he only succeeds in shaking himself.

Not that it seems to matter.

“Heeeey! Why do you stare at the wall? Aren’t you bored.” The child whines, finally showing the strain on his patience.

“I am bored.” Answers Sephiroth in a dull voice. His new company is tedious and more annoying than dream powder in his persistence.

“Since you’re bored let’s play with my toy soldiers. They are really cool. You won’t be bored anymore.” His eyes are sincere, his face amiable and friendly. His sent frustrated. The boy is good at hiding it, but he is an open book to Sephiroth.

“When are we going outside?” Sephiroth changes the subject.

Rufus’s eyes widen and he turns to Palmer who is reading on a sofa. “We’re going outside?” He asks excitedly.

The adult looks up and is quiet for a moment as his fake smile slowly re-plasters itself on his face. “We are not going outside.”

Suddenly Sephiroth jumps to his feet from where he is sitting on the carpeted floor. “Why not?” He asks calmly, but there’s a subtle edge in his voice.

The smile widens even more. “It is not safe outside and the Turks are too busy to escort us.”

“Ohh…” Says Rufus, disappointed.

Sephiroth offers no response. Instead his thought start to race. If they aren’t going outside, why is he here? The only reason he needed a babysitter was to leave the building in the first place. That is the reason to why he is enduring his current social entourage.

A sense of frustration comes over the silver haired boy, accompanied by resigned exasperation from his soul. And so Sephiroth knows this will not be his last encounter with the joys of bureaucratic inefficiency.

Rufus joins him where he is standing and pats him on the shoulder offering him a sympathetic look. “To bad we can’t go outside.”  Then his face brightens. “I’ve got an idea of something we can do instead! Let’s play with my toy soldiers. They are really fun!”

Of course he did not fool Sephiroth for an instant. His sent was steady from the moment he stood up. What a schemer.

…

“Hey, Sephiroth, look at this one. This is the new model of the general of the army, Heidegger.” The silver haired boy glances disinterestedly at the toy Rufus is holding in his hand. Green suit adorned with medals looking much slimmer and smooth faced than when he had last seen the man.

“And here is a figurine of my father. He’s super cool.” The blond boy says, his voice softer. Sephiroth’s eye’s flicker to the boy, barely sparing a glance at the figurine. Instead he examines the boy’s proud expression. In his sent an unfulfilled yearning lurks.

But more than that there is that word he doesn’t recognize though it sends ripples of disquiet through his soul. A jumble of suspicion and distaste along with a faint yearning.

“Father?” Sephiroth repeats. Somewhat wary.

“Yes, and this I got from my mother.” Rufus says, a warm wistful smell wafting from him accompanied by a small smile. Unaware of the effect his words have on the Silver haired boy beside him.

For a few moments following the boy’s statement a quiet stillness prevails in Sephiroths inner landscapes. Almost tranquil. Then something detonates within and his soul whips up a hurricane of emotion. Devotion, yearning, wonder, contentment, desire, love, freedom, purpose.

Paralyzed under the pressure of a word that has been kept from him for so long. A word that is so intricately entwined with his destiny. No, not a word, a person. Mother. It echoes in his mind. Washing his spirit with foreign feelings and stirring up dormant memories.

He can perceive fragments of it - of her. Flowing silver hair, the curve of illusory skin. Tantalizing beauty. On the edge of his mind, on the tip of his tongue, in the corner of his eye.

But he cannot see her.

Frozen, he stares into space. His eye’s glowing brightly and his pupils narrowed to thin slits.

“They are beautiful.” Comes a child’s voice, startlingly close. Sephiroth snaps out of his trance and his gaze focuses on the cold blue eyes mere inches from his.

Unmoving he stares back at the boy, studying him. His voice had been clear and open. His sent suggests wonder and appreciation. No deceit, no half truths, no hidden meanings, no complicated motivations. An innocently open statement. An honest and pure intention. So foreign to Sephiroth, he cannot fathom that it wasn’t merely a myth.

“You are not afraid.” The silver haired child says with quiet wonder.

Rufus continues to stare at Sephiroth. His eyes blank but his scent fluctuating. Uncertainty. He does not understand, but he covers it quickly and grasps onto the younger boy’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you something. There is a secret with these toy Soldiers. I will share it to you if you play with me.”

Sephiroth can only let out an inaudible sigh and turns to the windows. He idly promises the clouds that he will avoid spending quality time with Rufus in future.

Said boy seems to slump in defeat on the carpeted floor behind the white haired child. A minute of restful silence ensues. But, alas, peace will never last with a Shinra.

There is a subtle change in the air and Sephiroth closes his eyes in resignation, resting his chin against his knee. He feels a hot breath against his neck as the boy crawls up behind him to speak into his ear.

“You wanted to go outside, didn’t you?” He says slowly. Sephiroth had never said so, just mistakenly assumed. But he does wish to go outside.

Draping an arm over a shoulder and leaning onto the younger boy’s back, the young Shinra continues softy. “I will ask them to take us out, if you play with me.”

This catches Sephiroth off guard and for an instant, just one instant, he considers it. Rufus must have caught onto something for his excitement spikes. His sharp ears can almost hear the quickening pulse of the blond boy hanging over his shoulder.

Shaking his head, he cannot believe he even contemplated it for a moment. The child’s game is so obvious. He would gain everything from asking, for he obviously wishes for the same thing. And lose nothing from being denied. It would be Sephiroth who would pay for something likely never delivered. Perhaps the young Shinra would wheedle even more out of the younger boy for that minimal favour.

Shaking his head a second time with more decisiveness to stave of any further attempts, he brushes of the the older boy’s arm from his shoulder. Sephiroth will not trust a Shinra.

…

It is with relief that Sephiroth sees Veld come to free him from Palmer’s, and by extension Rufus’s, custody.

“Did you have a nice time?” Asks the brown haired man.

“Yes, we had a wonderful time, Sephiroth and I.” Answers the blond boy with enthusiasm.

Someone begs to differ. What a persistent pest. Without a word of goodbye, the silver haired boy stalks off, letting Veld catch up to him.

Sephiroth does not like to be played with. In any sense of the word. Though he learned some things from the young Shinra. He turns an eye to the Turk who walks quietly beside him.

“You knew Palmer wouldn’t bring me outside.” The child states flatly.

The older man stiffens imperceptibly, but doesn’t speak.

“Why?” Questions Sephiroth simply. They both know what he is asking. Why put Sephiroth under supervision he doesn’t normally require? Why mislead the boy deliberately?

Emotions fluctuate, he can feel it in the air. And finally the older men respond. “I thought you might like being around a child your age.”

Sephiroth listens for lies or deeper motives but cannot detect anything. “I did not.” He says simply and continues on. He senses sadness and disappointment, and not for the first time he wonders why this man cares.

…

Professor Hojo is where he last was. In front of his computer. Only the screen has darkened though the hum of the monitor still fills the room to Sephiroth’s ears. The light’s are off and a blanket is draped over the professor’s sleeping form. Likely a kind colleague who didn’t have the courage to wake their superior.

Sephiroth pulls out his own chair to perch on and he watches Professor Hojo vigilantly in the dark.

…

The professor wakes to the sight of two green glowing dots. Sleepily he blinks at them.

Suddenly they are much closer. Close enough for him to recognise that they are in fact, eyes. Eyes that he is very familiar with. He starts awake, only to grown from the ache of stiff muscles.

He fumbles for the desk light and winces as it flickers to life. Tiredly he rubs at his eyes only to feel a layer of warmth slide off of him. Removing his hands, he sees it is a blanket. Hastily the professor’s eye’s dart to familiarly contracted pupils.

“This is the way I found you.” The boy explains with a calculative gaze. And the man moves to push his glasses up the bridge of his noes, taking the time to straighten them while he is at it.

“What time is it? Asks the older man, his voice horse and his throat dry.

“After hours.” Replies the young boy.

The professor shoots him a sharp look.

“All you need to know is that it is too late to leave the building.” replies the child with a small smirk.

With a glare the professor moves to wake the monitor but stops midway. He sighs and slowly pushes himself out of the chair, his muscles protesting. Looking down at the boy, who returns from leaning on the table to curling up on the chair, he says. “You best go to bed, Sephiroth. You shouldn’t have stayed up this long.” With those words the older man moves to the office door.

Suddenly a child’s question rings out behind him. “Who is my mother?”

The professor stiffens. Every muscle tensing. “Where did you hear about that?” the adult asks sharply.

“Rufus Shinra.” Comes the boy’s dismissive voice.

The professor whirls on his heel. Sharp words on the tip oh his tongue.

“Don’t change the subject. Who is my mother?” Cuts the silver haired child off with a commanding tone and a hidden edge in his voice. The boy rises to his feet, standing on the chair facing the professor. His pupils are dilated, but there is a warning in his eyes.

The older man breaks the eye contact. “You don’t have a mother.” Loose, dark strands fall over the pallid skin of his face and by his side his hands curl into fists.

“Do not lie to me about this, professor! Who is my mother?” The boy interrogates, the edge of anger more apparent.

The older man’s fists tighten and he turns away, making for the door. “It doesn’t matter, she died shortly after you were born.”

He ignores the light thud on the carpeted floor and starts to pull the door open. Only to have the handle wrenched out of his grasp as the door slams shut. Startled the professor stumbles backward, cradling his hand.

Before him stands the little boy looking up at the adult from beneath Silver eye-lashes. His eye’s are piercing. “Say it.” He commands, his voice dangerously calm.

The man moves to push up his glasses. “Fine.” He snaps, only a slight sheen of sweat betraying him. “Her name was…” He cuts off short, seeming to choke on something.

“Her name was?” Repeats the child eagerly.

He is transfixed by the child and all he represents. He swallows thickly. Finally, wrenching his gaze away and mutters softly. “Jenova. Her name was Jenova.”

Silence follows that statement until the older man hears the boys voice, slow and filled with wonder. “Jenova…”

There is something in that voice that pulls the man’s attention back to the boy, who seems to have entered a trance. His pupils are constricted in spite of the dim light and his irises glow eerily. A smile spreads on the boys face. “Yes, that is mother’s name” He hisses with excitement.

Then the boy focuses back on the adult, who now looks at his charge with widened eyes, and the smile is gone in an instant. The silver haired child opens the door and is gone in an instant.

A shiver runs up the man’s spine and he takes a deep breath. Sinking down into a nearby chair he falls deep into thought.

Chapter Text

It is a surprise to receive Gaste’s letter so soon. Instead of waiting months, like when he was in Wutai, it took merely a a few weeks for him to receive a reply from the man in Mideel. Nevertheless, Sephiroth hopes this means he will hear more from his wandering friend.

Dear Sephiroth

I’m glad you enjoyed the apple and that it reached you in good condition. It is a fruit that is not very well known outside of Mideel. As you suspected, this continent is not well known in many parts of the world. Though it is around the same size as Wutai, there aren’t many people who live there and most of the wilderness is roamed by dangerous and strong monsters. The towns people themselves have little interest for what they call the outside world, and are mostly only concerned with their simple lives in Mideel. Though it has a hot spring resort, it is mostly well educated individuals who come to relax away from their busy lives. People who are not privileged or who live far away from this continent would probably not know of it. While there are many who receive a basic education, this education tends to be lacking. Hopefully this will change for the better after the launch of Shinras educational program a few years ago. They send teachers and books to rural areas that have few resources available to them in hopes of improving the education there.

Ah, but I’m rambling. You asked me to tell you about spells. It is an old word that is still used today, but few other than the individuals who study magic truly understand what a spell is. But I shall attempt to explain what little I know. As you know magic is a power capable of changing reality as we know it and though it rarely happens, if magic is unbound, it can be very dangerous and can cause great destruction and generally cannot be used by any living creature. It can be said that instead we must follow a formula which allows us to harness the power of magic, making it controllable and safe for us to use. Spells are this formula and without this knowledge it is impossible to use magic. The death spell I mentioned in my last letter refers to a specific spell which the Destruct materia can cast. If successful it will cause the condition known as instant death, but it doesn’t cause any additional physical or magical damage. No matter how many times this spell is cast its effect will remain the same. If you want to use magic with a different effect, a different formula must be cast and there for another spell.

Monsters can cast magic at will without materia, provided they have enough MP, but even they are limited by which spells they can use. These spells vary in property between species, but not between individuals of the same kind. It is thought that the knowledge of these spells are inherently passed on from parents to children. No matter which individual you may encounter, the properties of their magic remains the same because they cast the same spell.

Can humans use magic without materia? It is an interesting question and most people would say ‘No, they can’t.’. But the truth of the matter is not so simple. Humans are different from monsters. In normal circumstances they are incapable of using magic on their own. Instead they can cast magic with material which monster cannot. But in some cases, often when feeling great anger and in the midst of battle, humans are capable of feats that they would not be normally capable of. These can involve enhanced strength or speed, but sometimes are clearly partially or entirely magical in nature. This means that they may be capable of conjuring fire, water or other elements. There are even those capable of temporarily materialising objects, such as bombs or beasts, which can contain a measure of the strength or power the real counterpart would have. This phenomenon is known as Limit Breaks.

Little is known about the physiology of Limit Breaks, and the only scientific studies have been either case-studies or interviews with worriers who are capable of performing them. But interestingly enough they do not seem to be limited by the amount of Mana possessed by the individual, though there have been cases that suggest that the power may be influenced by it. But this is why people don’t tend to think of Limit Breaks as magic. It has been said that certain Limit Breaks can be learned from manuals, but as far as I know there has been no study proving the evidence behind those claims, and it seems that they are unique to the individual. There are many reason why people do not believe Limit Breaks should be considered as magic, but personally I think they are. Limit breaks allow individuals to perform feats that should otherwise be impossible to them without magic. Once an individual has discovered a Limit it’s properties stay the same for life. Furthermore, there is always a distinctive glow of power that emanates from the body just like when magic is used. For these reason I suspect that Limit Breaks can be considered the human’s natural means of using magic. I hope this answer is satisfactory, though the truth is not a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

My time in the town of Mideel has been beyond what I ever expected. I final met my mysterious source with whom I’ve been exchanging letters with for months. I’d gotten the impression that they possessed a rare wisdom, so imagine my surprise when this very same person turns out to be a young, fair lady! Her knowledge of ancient history and the belief system surrounding the Lifestream is vast. I have been spending much of my time with her and cannot help but respect her immensely. Ah, youth is wasted on the young. If I were 30 years younger, well… I might have considered spending my time differently…

To my surprise I came across one of my former colleagues from Shinra on my way to meet the young lady. You’ve met this employee, but I don’t know if you remember her. She took care of you before you moved to Midgar. Apparently she was doing some research and is aiming to become a Doctor to advance her career in Shinra. Perhaps you’ll see her again one day.

I do worry for you sometimes, Sephiroth. I hope you remember what I told you the last time we saw each other.

Your truly

Gast Faremis

A small, pale finger caresses the inky black words of Gast’s letter. A spell is like a formula. It is necessary in order to use magic, which is a power capable of influencing the fabric of the material reality. Or so Gast says, and no doubt many others. It is what they believe, given their limited ability to investigate it.

Remembering what he had sensed in the Lifestream when Veld used materia, Sephiroth suspects once again, that this explanation may be a warped picture of the reality he knows. Not only had the materia formed a conduit, it had also shaped the intention it emitted. In other terms the conduit acts as a mold. The mold being the so called spell, which will keep churning out the same effect.

Experimentally Sephiroth sends his awareness within himself, opening one of his seals and emitting a burst of intent, tasking it to seek its target. There is no glow of power around him. But it worked. He can feel the stinging cold in his palm. Discreetly turning his hand, he glances at the serene field of beautiful but misplaced ice crystals adorning his skin. Closing his fist, he continues to ponder.

Sephiroth can cast at will, is not limited by spells nor does he require mana. The icy water which drips from his knuckles is proof enough. According to Gast, monsters can cast at will, provided they have the mana.

Thinking upon letters and the information his friend revealed on Limit Breaks - another familiar concept to his soul - it would seem, however, not all magic requires mana.

Then what is mana?

The Wutaians had called it chakra, a vital force within the meridians. But what then are the requirements for the use of this vital force? Gast mentions that with increasing power of a spell, the mana consumption increases as well. No doubt a similar concept applied to monsters, however, Limit breaks should - if they are as powerful as Gast and his soul imply - require great amounts of mana. Which they do not. Or at least if the words of his friend are to be believed.

Like many things Sephiroth realizes that perhaps there is something the scientist missed or is not aware of, and if Sephiroth wished to sate his curiosity, he would ultimately have to wait to find out for himself.

Instead he turns his attention to the implication of this new found understanding. He would be careful with his use of magic, though there would be no glow to give him away. He supposed that if he ever is caught he could pass it of as a Limit Break. Adding an extra, pointless glow, should not be an issue.

Interestingly enough, his soul echoed with familiarity to his newly made choice. It must have been something he had done before too, thinks the silver-haired child idly as he moves to reflect over Gast’s letter again.

Gast’s recounting of his mysterious source causes Sephiroth to pause in suspicion. His friend usually doesn’t mention his acquaintances in great detail unless he thinks they would hold some interest to the child. They would remain nameless and faceless and genderless, just like the source had up until this letter. The sense of something being left unsaid is even stronger than before, and his eyes narrow suspiciously at the ‘well…’ passage. The attempt to divert attention to the assistant he used to know - but couldn’t care less about - makes it even more suspicious to Sephiroth’s mind.

Alas, the mystery would have to be resolved, once again, with time.

In spite of this acceptance, the boy can not help but feel a spike of impatience at the notion. How much longer will he have to wait for his answers?

…

Quietly the strange boy engages in his ritual of Cloud watching. Staring out the window at the somber swirling vortex outside, he dwells on heavy thoughts.

The world is not so simple that people understand it or know the truth to the illusionary depths of reality. Hojo’s bluffing is no longer enough to fool Sephiroth into thinking he has a clear understanding. And for all of Gast’s humble wisdom even his knowledge is cracked and warped in the face of the world that Sephiroth perceives.

The child is not surprised by his abilities. They are his own and come naturally to him. But for every moment of this life that passes he learns more about how differently the world appears to him and his surroundings.

He does not wish to be like others, but neither does he particularly desire to be different. Such a quality seems merely to attract unwanted attention.

He has never forgotten Gast’s warning in their last parting. The boy trusts this old mans reasons and intentions. Perhaps he had his suspicions on the boy’s nature and knew how the crowds around him would react to the individual that is Sephiroth, if they had fathomed the true extent of his abilities.

So the boy does not flaunt them and instead keeps a firm hold of his discretion. But some things Sephiroth cannot or does not know to hide.

Whatever small differences the public eye sees in him, they seem to fear. The child knows. He can smell it, see it in the way they freeze as he briefly gazes upon them or skirt around him like a disease. Then there are others who seem morbidly drawn by his unique qualities.

Ultimately the boy doesn’t care, in spite of the forgotten tremors of alienation and despair his soul sends him.

In this life, Sephiroth’s quest is to seek answers. To him, these new revelations are merely puzzle pieces to complete his forgotten history

./.

“I am ready.” A child’s voice, spoken with calm certainty but possessing a sharp edge of challenge.

The Turk eyes him warily. “You are too young.

Sephiroth narrows his eyes. This reply again. Short and evasive. How many times has he heard it now?

“But I have nothing more to learn from these katas. I know them all and can execute them quickly without mistakes.” In demonstration he grasps his staff and smoothly enters familiar steps and maneuvers. “I have the stamina and the strength.” He continues with a thrust followed by a block. “I need an opponent.” The child concludes as he executes the last thrust.

His soul hums longingly at the notion of an adversary. Familiar urges and thrills flicker through his mind, but never clear enough to identify.

It urges him to wield the staff differently, warning of dangers that are not present on the rounded wooden body of his weapon.

The instructors are always quick to break him off if he indulges in his whims. One of them had told him too stop fooling around once, and perhaps that is what they believe he is doing. However, the scent of apprehension and wariness always lingers more strongly in the air.

“It is too early. You think too much when you make your moves. Now return to practice.” Explains the blue suited man calmly. But the wariness is there, hidden in his scent.

“Do you really believe that?” Asks the child quietly. Turks are never what they seem, there must be more to it. Unfortunately, they are not easy to get answers from either.

The silver haired boy feels the tension rise in the room, one that he is quick to fuel with his own sharp gaze upon the blue suited man. This scent, these dilated pupils, they are all so familiar to his soul, quietly stoking the embers of excitement.

Yet it is only the Turks that possess it around him. The others who fear, freeze and quake or scurry away. These, only watch.

“My orders are not to have you engage in combat.” The adult stands in a seemingly relaxed posture, his legs lightly spread.

He recognizes it for what it really is, though. A subtle, but battle ready stance.

It triggers a pulse of remembrance which ripples through his soul. The thrill of battle. The powerful urge to… do something.

Then the pieces fall into place.

An adversary. That is what he is to the Turks. They are always ready to turn on him, to lash out and fight if it is needed.

A small smile graces the boy’s lips as he makes his first steps toward the adult before him. He has found his opponent.

Slowly Sephiroth circles the man, following the measured steps sung by his soul. His attention wholly on his target.

The tension rises just as the man seems to naturally relax into his stance.

The boy’s eyes brighten, his senses honing in on his target.

“You are wary of me.” Sephiroth observes, fishing for a reaction. It is the other that must strike first. The adult has the longer reach and greater experience with his weapon.

The man hitches for a breath as he turns to follow the stalking child.

His reaction sends a wave of remembered sensations through his consciousness. Not a target, he realizes as his pupils’ narrow in excitement.

His prey.

But he doesn’t wish for his opponent to bolt or back out, he wants them to face him. It is the Turk that must instigate the attack. But the Turks are calm and will not commit easily.

“What do you fear?” he inquires softly, eyes on the man and sensing the others hackles rise. “To harm me?” The man must not fear him, it may cause him to back away. He must be provoked.

“Or to be harmed?”

There. A spike of anger. For a moment there is an unguarded fire in the man’s eyes. But he is too professional, has too much control over himself. Perhaps with time, Sephiroth could goad the man into action. But the adult is too well trained, too collected and too wary.

“Is it pain?” The man is calming himself, Sephiroth can hear it in his controlled breathing.

For a reaction Sephiroth must tip the scales between rationality and emotion. Magic could easily achieve this. He encountered it during one of the experiments. He knows he can do it. And if he is careful, they will never know. If not they will suspect, but well, they are human. They won’t believe.

As the boy utters his next words he sends a ripple of intent into the Lifestream. There is no visual surge of power like magic usually has. There is no drain on Sephiroth’s mental fortitude. If the magical nature of Limit Breaks are questioned, then any traces this may leave will be even more difficult to prove.

The seeds of anger bear down on the seals that connect the human to the other realm which is the Lifestream. And as it silently saturates into the man Sephiroth delivers another oral jab.

“Is it humiliation?”

It is working. He can smell it. He can hear it in the others breathing.

“To be defeated by me; a child.” Sephiroth hisses his gaze trained on his prey.

The man is shaking. An irrational anger burning inside.

Suddenly, Sephiroth faints without warning toward the man, his staff thrusting forward in a blur. The man flinches, his own staff moving to counter. But before it makes contact the silver-haired child draws back with a smirk and a barbed goad. “You don’t dare-“

“Shut up you freak!” Interrupts the Turk his voice raised. The man hasn’t moved out of his stance but his eyes flash with anger - his face distorted with emotion.

Perhaps those seeds had been to potent, Sephiroth reflects calmly over the raised voice of his instructor.

“You think your so high and mighty, but you’re just a pawn in a bigger game. You have no choices. Your only purpose is as a puppet! A tool!” Spittle flies as his stance lowers.

Ignoring the Turks words and their influence on his soul, Sephiroth settles in his own stance, his eyes glowing in delight. “You fear a puppet?” The boy mocks.

With a growl the Turk lashes out with his own staff.

“Cane, withdraw.”

The order’s effects are immediate and the Turk retreats, albeit with reluctance and breathing heavily with an unnatural rage burning openly on his face.

Disappointed, Sephiroth turns to the speaker by the entrance. It is the Turk that had been with Veld. The one with the silent authority.

“This training is over.” His low, but commanding voice echoes and he motions to the Turk - Cane was it? - to leave.

Sephiroth eyes the calm man as the younger Turk storms out of the room. His dark eyes reveal nothing and the boy is to far away to sense anything else. “Have patience, child, and you shall have what you want.” He soothes.

Has the boy merely been impatient? Has he been to quick in assuming the instructors were deliberately holding back?

No, he’s been ready for a proper duel for months. He learns quickly and they know it. There must be something more.

But before Sephiroth can dig for answers the Turk offers his parting words. “I trust you can show yourself out.” Before turning on his heal and striding after his distraught colleague.

Not one to miss an opportunity, the silver haired- child does not leave immediately. Instead he changed his grip on the staff, taking the chance to practice on his own, undisturbed.

Holding it in both hands, an imaginary hilt beneath his fingers. He lifts it over his shoulder and hold it parallel to the floor. Much like he would certain kinds of swords. Only this sword would be as long as himself.

Moving on instinct and following the faint urges of his soul, he shifts from stance to stance. Thrust, swing, turn, guard. The dance soothes his soul and spirit.

That intervention had been too swift. They must be watching him. That older Turk in particular is dangerous. He is too cunning, and Sephiroth knows he will suspect something. Perhaps he already does.

There will be no proof though. The silver-haired boy will not do the same mistake again. He will be patient.

Chapter Text

With a frown he peers from his high vantage at the construction of the Shinra Tower. It’s a huge project, with an enormous amount of workers. He sees them file towards it every morning. But less then half seem to appear on the site throughout the day.

He’s been a Turk for a few years and knows the ropes of his job by now. One day he’ll be asked to eliminate runaway construction workers. He knows his employers well enough at this point.

His partner, Ropes, nudges him and murmurs quietly. “Look Cane, it’s the future head of the science department.”

He glances away in time to see a black pony tail hang limply on the back of unremarkable office garb. As the door to the conference room shuts, he turns to his partner. “He’s not the head yet. Hollander still has a chance.

Ropes scoffs. “The only ones who don’t know are Hojo and Hollander. Haven’t you heard from Scissors? She was assigned with Gast in Nibelheim.”

“You mean about Sephiroth?” he enquires. The forerunner and future of the mysterious SOLDIER project. He’d heard talk about the boy, but not from Scissors.

“Yeah, apparently he’s a weird kid. Got a lot of promise though.” His partner settles his back against the window. Ropes’ blue suit obscuring the view of the skeleton tower.

“Weird in what way?” It would be troublesome if the kid had mental problems.

Ropes shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out sooner or later now that he’s here.”

Sending a quick glance his way, Ropes adds quietly. “She didn’t seem to like him at all.” There’s a wary gleam in his eyes.

…

The Conference room door opens and Professor Hojo comes hustling out. Ropes murmur comes from his side. “Look, it’s him.”

Silver hair catches the light as it hides the toddler’s profile by the professor’s side.

“That is Sephiroth?” He asks without thinking.

The boy turns to glance at the two Turks. For a brief instant, his eyes meet with apathetic green. But behind that veil of boredom a foreign intelligence simmers.

The moment is cut short as the toddler turns to stride after the professor.

A dreadful unease fills his gut as the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Instead of the teetering steps of a three-year old it is confident, powerful and graceful. That is not a toddler’s gait.

A premonition slithers down his spine. One day; this will be the start of his nightmares.

./.

A glimmer of silver.

Heart beating, he swiftly takes his distance as his eyes fall on the only child in the Shinra building.

It had come up from behind him. He hadn’t sensed it at all.

Green meet his, the eyes dull with disinterest. Something tells him there is more to those eyes than the rumoured Mako.

Steps unfaltering, it continues to haunt the corridors like a wraith, inadvertently scaring any employees who have the misfortune of encountering it.

./.

Silver. That dreaded colour.

He comes across the strange child more than he would like. It is never startled, never unruffled. The boy wanders aimlessly along the corridors, a blank look on his face.

If only his eerie eyes were just as blank.

There is something terribly wrong with them. It’s not only the glow or that misplaced intelligence. There was something else.

./.

Silver by the window.

The child is sometimes found staring at the sky. Sometimes until Twilight falls.

In the sombre darkness green would reflect off the glass. The others say the freaks eyes glow more than usual in those moments. He never cared to get close enough.

He understands why Ropes said Sephiroth had promise. The boy is the perfect tool: completing its task dutifully and idling around like a forgotten puppet when not needed. He just wishes this particular puppet would stop walking the corridors like the cursed existence it must be.

./.

One look at Fists’ haunted eyes and he instantly knows something is wrong. Scissors grim expression confirms it.

“Is there trouble I should know about?” he asks tactfully.

The two exchange glances. In a nervous gesture, Fists rubs his knuckles. “We met the freak in the corridor.” Fists begins, studiously indulging his revealing but practical tick. “He grabbed hold of my leg from behind.”

He understands. Most of the experienced Turks are on edge around that child. It was just a matter of time.

He smirks. “Did you give him a good one?”

The two partners glance at each other again. “He reacted rather quickly.” Mutters Fists, returning to rubbing his knuckles.

“He dodged?” Improbable for a child with no combat experience. But then again, it was that freak. “What did he want?"

“He was looking for his supervising Turk.” Answers Scissors, her usual brusque self.

He raises a questioning eyebrow at the two. He certainly isn’t envious of that task but glad someone is doing it.

Fists shrugs to his silent question. “We sent him down to the rookies.”

“Well, I guess they’re less likely to instinctively hit him.” A disturbing fact that the rookies are less uneasy around the freak than they.

Scissor scoffs. “They’re also more likely to die.”

Fists and he glance at her uneasily. She’d been trying to stay out of Midgar as much as possible since the freak came. She’d known it before then. But information about Nibelheim is classified. It hadn’t stopped him from hearing about deaths and disappearances, though. He knows his employer, he can put two and two together. He isn’t surprised and merely hopes that when his time comes it will be at the hands of enemies.

But Scissors’ implication is another matter. It has nothing to do with his employer. It hints at that freak’s true nature.

Fists purses his lips pensively, now rubbing his other wrist. “I don’t think it cares about small fry.”

Neither Scissors nor he commented their comrades slip.

./.

Silver on the Turk floor.

He freezes. It was like seeing a Bandersnatch in his home. A dangerous monster which should never have had reason to be there in the first place.

He’d heard the others talk about it, but it couldn’t prepare him for when he actually saw it.

This is his home, the Turk haven. The sanctuary of blue suits.

Silver does not belong.

Ignoring him, the freak continued to stalk the corridor. Disinterested green eyes the only thing that meets his reprimand.

Its presence lingers, tainting the halls of his home with paranoia.

./.

Silver darting past.

Unease, anger and guilt stir within him. He’d inadvertently let the wraith slip onto the Turk floor while shutting the door behind him.

Once again it wanders where it should not be. And this time he was the one who’d let it in.

./.

“You are to start training Sephiroth in your respective disciplines” A smooth dark voice uttered that dreaded name. A voice they must obey.

Fists starts to rub his knuckles besides him. Rifle sinks her head in her hands and Ken simply closes her eyes. He himself cannot suppress the trepidation that fills him.

Malkhaz, their dear boss, softens his voice sympathetically. “I know how you feel about him and I believe that you are right in being wary. You will not engage him in combat but work on developing his conditioning, strength, coordination and teach him basic techniques. Professor Hojo has an interest in this development too, so you will collaborate with him and send reports on Sephiroth’s progress.”

His superior’s sympathy doesn’t help, he just wished he had chosen a more unconventional speciality, like Ropes or Scissors.

./.

Seeking out silver.

Green watches him as he leads the way. His instinct scream at him not to let it walk behind him as it seems inclined to do. His ears strain to hear the freak’s quiet steps behind him.

…

Warm ups and conditioning.

The boy does everything he tells it with surprising ease. If this had been a normal child, he would have proposed different kinds of games instead. But this is the freak so he makes it do mind numbingly dull, but effective exercises.

He can only hope the child will be bored enough to lose interest.

…

As the child grasps its staff for the first time he could swear that green glowed.

He would disappoint the child, however, they would only focus on the proper grip and dexterity this time.

But the freak does not seem disappointed.

./.

“It’s a monster!” Are the first words out of Rifle’s mouth as they assemble for the instructors meeting.

“Ditto you on that.” Mutters Fists as he sinks into a chair next to Ken whom is resting her chin on her hand.

“Strong as hell - and quick.” He agrees to the others.

“Not just that. Smart too. I had the kid disassemble and reassemble a few guns. A week later and the freak seems capable of doing it in its sleep!” exclaims Rifle.

A disturbing claim, considering the amount of time spent with her. Though it’s hard to judge the credibility with Rifle’s tendency to over exaggerate.

Fists snorts at Rifle. “Yeah, so the kid’s a genius, that’s not unheard of. I told it to jump as high as it could on one of those strength test with Hojo.” The man whistles while illustrating the trajectory with his finger.

“Yeah, I know. I saw the footage.” He adds in response to Fists gesticulation. The boy jumped higher than he could have, which was several times its own body length.

“It’s the Mako enhancements.” Inputs Ken suddenly. The others look at her questioningly and she obliges. “I’ve been training the new SOLDIERs. Some of them can jump an entire story without any problem. They’re also very fast with great explosive power. Their reaction times seems a lot better too, I saw one of them dodging bullets fairly successfully.”

Silence falls between them as the unreal reality sinks in.

“It’s not just the Mako, though.” He finally interjects. “I sometimes get the impression that it’s listening to something. Sometimes it changes the Kata along with the grip on the staff.

Ken straightens slowly in her chair. “I’ve also seen him do that. He does it with two handed swords.” She raises her arms as if holding a long hilt above her shoulder, then waves them around as if with an imaginary sword.

A shiver of unease runs up his spine in recognition. “I thought it might be a sword. You didn’t teach him?” he asks her in vain hope.

But she shakes her head. “He shows an affinity for the sword, but when he does that strange kata, he’s always off balance. I stop him every time he loses himself in it.”

He frowns. “That’s strange, he doesn’t seem off balance when he does it with the staff.”

Ken looks at him strangely then put’s her thumb to her lips in thought. “An odatchi, perhaps?”

Besides him, Fists rubs his knuckles. “Guy’s we’re getting off topic.”

Rifle stretches in her chair. “Boy, I’m glad I just have to deal with its bored looks.”

All eyes turn in her direction and she shrugs at them with a smug grin. “He doesn’t seem to much like firearms.”

His gaze turns envious all of a sudden. Why hadn’t he been gifted with guns?

Besides him Fists rubs his wrists in his nervous tick. “I dread the time when we’ll start actual fighting.” A familiar haunted look passes through his eyes. “I never want to see those eyes again.” Fists comments quietly to himself. And he hopes he will never learn the meaning behind those words.

./.

When he sees the haunted look on Veld’s face, he thinks the man has finally seen that creature for what it is.

But no. He’d just witnessed one of the experiments on the boy.

Perhaps long ago, before he’d laid eyes on it, he would have wondered what his employers were doing experimenting on a child.

But he cares not what they do to that boy now. So what if it was the experiments that turned it into a freak? If there ever had been a real child, it was long gone.

Silver catches the light.

In his ignorance he utters its dreaded name. “…Sephiroth?”

Heeding his call, straight and immaculate hair, shifts to hint at its inconceivable secrets.

Ropes’s voice drifts over from his side. “Yeah… he’s a weird kid.” There’s a worried gleam in his partner’s eyes.

Beneath a silver cascade lies the dull gaze of a weapon. Its disinterest is an eerie blessing.

Fists’s haunted eyes. “…the freak in the corridor….”

With spectral grace the child wanders down a desolate hall. It stops and turns to stare with glassy eyes set in a doll’s face. It fades away as the walls turn to glass. Skeleton towers loom in the distance.

Fists pensive face. “…sent… to the rookies.”

Something shifts in the window. Glowing eyes watch from the reflection, aflame with a secret intelligence.

Scissors scoffs. “…more likely to die.”

An empty hall until it appearance before him. Silver wanders aimlessly past, green merely glancing with disinterest. He hadn’t even sensed it.

Fists rubs his knuckles. “…don’t think it cares about small fry.”

With careless negligence he let’s the door shut itself behind him. On swift and silent steps, silver darts through the unguarded gap. He let the monster into his home.

Disinterested green answers its name as a tainted darkness spreads from it to engulf everyone he loves.

Rifle holds her head in her hands. “It’s a monster!”

The child stands before him. It smiles with a face of an angel. It’s teeth sharp and pristine.

Ken wields an imaginary sword. “It’s the Mako….”

Eerie green ablaze. It watches him with a hidden hunger.

He hears himself speak. “…he’s listening to something.”

Silver lines the child. The swirling sky its stage as it watches the heavens with alien eyes.

Ken presses a thumb against her lips. “…seen him do that… An odatchi perhaps?”

The staff thrust forward, it’s eyes aglow, and everything changes. With haunting grace it wields the familiar weapon in ways it never was intended.

Fists sinks down tiredly into a chair. “…never want to see those eyes again.”.

With a serene expression and a hint of a smile, it watches unblinkingly. The pupils turn to slits. It speaks to him.

“What do you fear?”

With a start he jerks awake. With clammy sweat on his face and skin still crawling he takes in the semi-familiar surroundings.

He is on the couch in his superior’s office. Malkhaz sits by his desk reading through a stack of reports lit by the yellow light of a desk lamp.

“Awake from your nightmare, Cane? The familiar deep voice sooths him.

Nightmares were not uncommon among Turks, however, only idiots would try to wake one from it, for the only thanks they could possibly expect was blood and broken bones.

“A moment.” he mumbles back, his eyes darting to the shadows with paranoia.

In the meantime, the middle-aged-man leans over his desk to turn on a water kettle. In the minute it takes for the water to boil, the older man collects two cups and some jars from a cupboard.

The noise put him on edge. His gaze roves the room again and again, searching for tell tale silver or green. His eyes land on the door and an irrational apprehension sinks its teeth into him. “Is the door locked?”

His boss’s tanned face looks up for a moment. Slowly Makhaz moves around his desk and across the floor, reaching for the handle.

A horrible premonition rears its head in his gut. “Don’t open it!” He blurts out in desperation. Fortunately, the elder man smoothly diverts the trajectory to press his palm against the door, the other brings out a ring of keys to lock it.

He cannot help but give a sigh of relief and slouch back into the couch. He knows he is being irrational, but he can’t help himself in this moment. He has ignored his instincts for too long.

Leaving the keys in the door his superior collects their cups. Camomile for him, coffee for the boss.

As he grasps the warm cup the other man sinks down beside him, slinging an arm over the back of the couch. He cannot help but take comfort from the calm presence of his respected superior.

A few minutes pass in silence as they nurse their beverages. He knows, however, what the purpose of this meeting is.

“Have you looked at the footage?” He finally asks. Better to get this over with.

“Yes I have, Cane. Several times. But there was no audio so I will have to ask you about your side.” His boss swirls the remaining contents of his cup but doesn’t look at him.

“You came just in time.” The thought had struck him when he’d calmed down enough to think rationally. He does not believe in coincidences. He knows his employers too well for that.

Malkhaz gives him a side long look. “I like to keep an eye on Sephiroth when Veld is busy. Especially in certain circumstances. I saw when things started to change and came over as soon as I could.”

Relief floods him at the knowledge that his superior does not trust the freak either. Veld is a good Turk, but he does not like that the man holds a soft spot for the kid.

“I don’t know what came over me… I…” He starts to explain but Malkhaz arm slinks down from behind to rest reassuringly on his shoulder.

“One step at a time, Cane. One thing before the other.” The middle-aged man stands, exchanging his cup for the laptop and returns to sit besides him, flipping open and waking the computer.

The screen brightens to a window showing several angles of the training room. All of them stamped with a date and time. He sees himself standing calmly with a staff looking down at the pale-haired child. It too grasps a staff which is as tall as it.

“As far as I can tell, this is when it started.” Comments Malkhaz.

Looking at the time stamp he thinks back to that moment. “He wanted to start sparring. I told him it was too soon.”

Malkhaz presses the space bar and the footage starts to play. He sees the kid swiftly move through the kata in demonstration.

The child turns to him and he sees himself answer calmly. The boy stands silently for a moment. He spots the slightest shift in his counterpart. Malkhaz pauses the video. “What happened here?”

He purses his lips ever so slightly in remembrance. “He asked me if I really believed that it was too soon.”

“And what did you make of that?” Dark eyes gaze at him, urging him to confide in them.

“Until then, the freak always did as it…” He catches himself. “As he, was told. He was always… strange - but obedient.” Dark eyes continue to question him and he fumbles to elaborate. “I didn’t think he could question.”

Satisfied, Malkhaz starts the tape again. His part isn’t over, however, and he continues to explain his counterpart’s response. “I told him I was under orders not to have him engage in combat.”

Then, all of a sudden, he sees it again. That terrible smile. So innocent and pretty. The grainy image does no justice to the true horror of it – unable to capture the latent hunger in those dreadful eyes.

“The first time it smiled.” He comments offhandedly as the creature starts to circle him. He sees his body shift, the knew position screamed of wariness. A civilian would not have noticed but it would be clear to any trained fighter, not to mention himself.

He sees himself shift to follow the boy, the camera barely catching the movements of it’s lips from an awkward angle. Suddenly his counterpart stiffens and the video pauses. Malkhaz turns to him once again with an enquiring look in his dark eyes.

“He said I was wary of him.” He takes another breath but Malkhaz speaks before him.

“Observing the opponent’s reactions out loud is an effective method of unsettling and demoralizing the target.” One that Turks learn to both use and counter if they did not already know to.

“I know, but I didn’t expect it from the kid with no training.” He confesses honestly. “It didn’t speak to me much before.”

“Why did you freeze?” Dark eyes gaze into his and he feels a hand against his knee. “It couldn’t have been because of what Sephiroth said, could it?”

His gaze moves back to the pale haired boy. “It’s eyes changed.” He made a slicing gesture with his hand. “The pupils narrowed.” He falls silent. He can’t believe such a monster is allowed to roam freely. Even, without those eyes, the child is barely human.

“Yes, I’ve seen them too, Cane. And the higher ups also know about it.” Malkhaz leans back in the couch.

“I hadn’t noticed… before.” He mutters. Sure he’d had the feeling there was something off about the eyes, but he’d never been able to place his finger on it.

The video start’s playing and he watches the child circling him. It’s eyes never leaving his counterpart. Not to look at the ground or the staff in its hand. Only at him. The child is taunting him now and he watches himself be riled up. Disconnectedly he notes that it’s a bit like watching a bully on a playground, only this bully is a third of the size of its target.

He sees himself start to shake and that is when Malkhaz pauses. “I had already left to intervene at this point.” The elder man starts. “What could he have said that would anger you to this extent?” Malkhaz’s face doesn’t turn to him and instead watches the screen, the slightest hint of a frown on the elders face.

“I don’t know, really. He asked me about what I was afraid of. If it was pain or humiliation. Nothing that would have normally…” Now that he thinks about it, why had those words cut so deep? “I admit; I wasn’t calm to start with. He unnerved me. Always has. But when the anger came it didn’t go away.” He can’t even properly remember what happened after that. “I felt helpless.” He ends lamely but honestly.

Dark unreadable eyes look at him coolly. “When I arrived, you weren’t yourself.” The deep voice reassures gently. “You were still beyond reason when I left you in my office. I suspect you were exhausted after that.” And he moves to press the play button again. “I understand that these circumstances were special.”

They watch silently as the child lunges, only to withdraw. He glances at his superior catching sight of a dark expression on Malkhaz’s face as the man watches the footage intently.

He turns back to see himself stomp out, followed shortly after by his boss’s counterpart.

The pale-haired child on the camera stands quietly looking at the closed door for a moment before gripping the staff in that improper manner of his, lifting it over his shoulder into a strange stance.

“It’s that kata again.” He mutters to himself.

The elder man shoots him a quick look. “Tell me about the kata.” He says softly after a few seconds.

Obliging his superior he begins. “Sometimes, when he’s in the midst of a kata he changes it. At first I thought he’d forgotten the movements or was just fooling around. But they became more recognisable. Ken has seen it too.” He frowns as he watches the boy swing the staff - one handed now. “None of us know what stile it is but I think Ken is looking into it.”

Malkhaz expression remains severe but unreadable as he watches the freak on the screen.

Eventually, the boy seems satisfied, putting aside the staff and leaving. They sit besides one another, quietly contemplating their own thoughts

In hind sight he is glad Veld had been busy during this event. He doubted the other man would have been as quick to intervene. “When the time comes, I don’t want to be the one to face it.” He concludes

His boss directs his full attention to him. “And why is that?”

Bitterly, he is reminded of the last words in his nightmare as he scrambles to word his answer. “I... don’t think he’s stable.”

Malkhaz lifts his dark brows inquiringly, though dark eyes seem to gleam knowingly.

He sighs in frustration as he tries to collect and make sense of what his instincts have been telling him all along. “Sometimes, it’s like its not at home. Like its body moves on it’s own. At first I thought it was…” He throws a quick glance at his superior. “…What he was made for. But during the… incident, he was the same way. It’s the same with that kata…” He knows he is twisting himself into a knot. He had never claimed to be good with words.

In the end Malkhaz interrupts his pathetic rambling. “Cane, why wouldn’t you want to fight him?”

He pauses to take a deep breath and gather his thoughts. “I think it will show it’s true self.” Pursing his lips, he looks back at the empty room on the screen. “Just like it did today.”

Quiet fills the room once again.

Abruptly Malkhaz stands and moves to turn the keys in the door. “That will be all, Cane. If nothing more comes up, then you may have a day off. I believe your partner is free too.”

He stands quickly, relieved to be done with the talking. “You are dismissed.” Comes the amused deep voice of his respected superior from behind him as he strides down the corridor on the Turk floor.

His boss’s suggestion is a good one.  He’ll go find Ropes for a drink.

Or ten.

Chapter Text

Sephiroth watches calmly while professor Hojo pulls a medical glove onto his hand.

Soon Sephiroth will reap the consequences of his little farce. His soul had warned him against it, but on impulse he had done it anyway.

Turning to the child, professor Hojo reaches towards the boy’s face and Sephiroth leans into the glare of the surgical headlight once more. His pupils draw into thin slits through his half lidded eyes as he gazes into the blinding light bulbs as professor Hojo grasps his jaw.

Gloved fingers gently prod at his lips and the child’s mouth parts for him.

The adult freezes for a moment.

A finger promptly inserts itself into his moist cavern to pulls at his lips in search for something the child knows is not there. The smell of surprise, followed by stress and frustration graces his sensitive nostrils.

Sephiroth feels a slight swell of satisfaction and a faint itch of vindictive pleasure in his chest from the elder mans distress. Even his soul tunes in with a tug of contempt.

The gloved hands remove themselves from his person. Green eyes move in time to see professor Hojo hesitate to push up the glasses with his glistening right hand, switching to do it with his left instead.

Blank faced, professor Hojo looks at him before speaking matter of factly, but with a hint of emotion colouring his tone. “You have lost your first tooth.”

With his mouth still slightly ajar Sephiroth prods the gap with his tongue while watching the professor keep his outward composure. The man has gotten better at it, Sephiroth thinks as he deliberately replies. “I know.”

He catches Hojo taking a calming breath before the older man starts his questioning. “Were is the tooth?” He sounds calm, but Sephiroth knows better.

“I threw it away.” He answers back with his own flawless composure.

“Where did you throw it away?” Hojo continues, still keeping is cool but for a higher pitch in his voice.

“I don’t recall.” The child retorts, repeating a commonly used phrase in the lab.

Hojo’s eyes sharpen slowly as he watches the child bathed in light before him. Sephiroth can almost see connections being made, and the blades of suspicion sharpening within the other man. This is the phrase the other scientists use with professor Hojo when they lie to him. The new head of the Shinra Science Research Department may have suspected them on occasion, but Sephiroth had known it for certain. He could smell the blustering fear in some and the contempt in others.

To his disappointment, however, professor Hojo seems to regain his calm for real this time. The stress and hints of anger and frustration are gone though the annoyance remains.

He approaches Sephiroth while switching off the glaring lights. Pulling off the gloves he bends over to stand face to face with the silver-haired boy. “You are wasting everyone’s time with this little game of yours.” With those sharp words and a final reprimanding glare, he tosses the gloves to the side and strides out of the lab.

Sephiroth stares quietly after him. This was one of the few things his soul and he had not agreed upon, as he had held the tooth between his fingers and conceived of this farce to deny a precious sample to his guardian. But from the faint sense of disappointment and even regret dredged up for this occasion, his soul had hinted against it.

In the aftermath of this occasion the child’s anticipation had fallen flat with results that weren’t as fully as satisfying as he had hoped.

The lab assistant which had stayed quiet in the background all this time approaches him to tidy up after Hojo. He takes the opportunity to scold the child for being careless and inconsiderate. This time Sephiroth fully agreed with his soul as disdain for the male assistant awakens within both of them. The man truly thought he was doing Sephiroth a favour by the smell of self-righteousness gushing out of him.

…

Sephiroth has often little to do as the working day in the Shinra Power electric company draws to an end. His teachers send him off and the scientist scurry to finish sorting, gather and save the data they’ve collected before closing hours.

Free to do as he wills, as long as he doesn’t get in the way of anyone, the silver-haired child wanders the corridors. Disinterestedly he watches the employees move around, idly listening for whispers from his soul that go beyond his own apathy.

It is in such a moment while on the Science Research floor in the old Shinra building that he comes across a smell, though familiar, is out of place on this floor.

His soul does not react to it. But having nothing better to do Sephiroth follows the scent to investigate.

The scent leads him to the public labs. These are labs which the silver-haired child rarely has reason to go, but that people from other departments or non-Shinra employees will often visit to cooperate with or observe Shinra lead science experiments and projects.

As Sephiroth draws closer to the source of the smell he notices the lack of employees in the corridors. Though the hour is late, it is not so late as to explain the desolation.

When one of the few scientists he sees in the corridor holds her sleeve discreetly over her noes wile cradling a stack of files in her bosom, Sephiroth realises it must be the smell. It should be strong enough that even other people can discern that scent of decomposing food and grease.

This scent is familiar to Sephiroth. It is commonly found by the trash cans in the cafeteria and at times from some of the lockers in the locker rooms.

He had realised long ago that the people around him tended to be disgusted by the smell. Though Sephiroth himself doesn’t find it particular repulsing and it certainly didn’t provoke the gagging induced in some.

He recalls that back before he had come to the Shinra building in Midgar, the scientist had thought the boy’s sense of smell was defective when they first tested it. From what he gathered his reaction to the smell of decomposing matter and bodily fluids had not been the expected one, in spite of the fact that he could identify them. Later, when they had moved to Midgar, the child overheard professor Hojo explain to a group of other scientists that it was probably an adaptation to an enhanced sense of smell while lamenting that they hadn’t thought to test it before the enhancements for a baseline.

There are, however, still certain smells that the silver-haired child can find nauseating, fortunately the source seems to be a rare commodity in Midgar.

His thoughts are cut short as he reaches a lab door which stands ajar from behind which the smell originates. This open door is likely the reason for why it is so prevalent in the corridor.

This affair would normally not be enough to keep Sephiroth’s attention for long, let alone break off his line of thought, except when he glances into the lab he sees the janitor.

The janitor faces the door standing behind one of the movable metal counters upon which lies a black plastic bag with it’s contents spilled out on the table.

Surprised, the silver-haired child stands frozen a moment longer in the doorway as faded blue eyes flicked to meet Mako lit green.

Perhaps it is caused by the strangeness of seeing the janitor on this floor or perhaps it is the cold laboratory lighting, but a niggling impression arasies that there is something different with this man in this moment.

Taking a step into the room, Sephiroth tastes the air. But it is to no avail for the smell from the waste masks the older man’s scent.

Without a word the janitor returns his attention to his task on the table, but from Sephiroth’s short angle, he can not make out much other than the moving of his arms and the rustle of the trash bag.

Grabbing a stool, he carries it over with ease and hops onto it to gaze upon the situation on the table. Instantly a suspicion sprouts, grows and blooms as he sees the older man with medical gloves covered fingers swiftly pick through smeared foodstuff before discarding it in what must have been another plastic bin beside him.

In spite of his growing certainty Sephiroth utters his question anyway. “What is this?”

The janitor’s hands do not pause in their swift work as he replies curtly in his sing-song accent. “Floor 21, trash bag from the trash bin by the cafeteria exit.”

The silver-haired child’s eyes lowered from the janitors face as his suspicion is confirmed. His tongue feels for the gap between his lower front teeth.

He had not thought about how his farce would end when he had begun it.

“It is my tooth your looking for.” The child admits while tracing some of the more colourful smears on the cold metal table top with his eyes. An quite, unnamed weight settles in his gut;

A few minutes of silence passes between them, filled with the repeated rustling of the trash bag on the floor as the pile of wasted food is discarded once again. So it comes as a surprise to Sephiroth when the janitor replied very grudgingly. “I thought it was yours.”

Sephiroth’s green eyes flicker back to the janitor watching him calmly. He has not been able to identify this mans emotions as he has the others. Leaning over the table from where he stands on the stool across from the older man he discreetly tastes the air.

He can vaguely sense the underlying deep sadness which he had identified when the man spoke of his wife and son, but through the masking smells that lay between them he can not gather any more.

Hesitantly the janitor speaks up again. “Did… you enjoy it?”

Righting himself the silver-haired child’s gaze shift contemplatively away. The janitors questioning is very discreet and veiled, as he usually is with his desire to keep a low profile, but Sephiroth understands that he must have caught on to the farce. “Not particularly.”

Initially it had been, but that moment had been short lived and mostly fuelled by his own anticipation. The bubble had popped, awakening him to the pointlessness of his actions.

The janitor does not respond, however Sephiroth senses a shift in the air and his eyes flicker back to the man as he once again samples it. There is something new, but try as he might he cannot identify it.

Instead the child carefully examines the older mans face whom is still busy with his work.

The corner of the mans lips are drooping slightly but the child discerns nothing more then that. Still Sephiroth continues to study the elders lined face. He notices the faint lines from a frown between his brows, contrasted with an abundance of laugh lines around his eyes and mouth.

Belatedly Sephiroth realises that he’s never seen the janitor use those lines before, never seen him smile or laugh. Recalling how the man had spoken of his son and wife he speculates whether it is they that had led the marks of a lifetime of joyous emotion to become obsolete on this old mans face.

Idly he wonders why he had not noticed it before. But as he watches those lines the smallest of changes comes upon them and they smoothen out ever so slightly. Realisation strikes the boy as his pupils suddenly narrow.

Seeming to have sensed the change, the janitor’s eyes snap up from his work and he pauses for an instant.

Sephiroth’s pupils, however, quickly return to their relaxed, half dilated state as the thrill of realisation fades. He had noticed those lines because they had been deeper and more prominent, even if just subtly.

“You’re amused!?” Sephiroth blurts out. At once surprised, indignant and baffled.

Swiftly, the janitor returns to his work as he seems to mull over something. Finally, the older man replies simply. “Being petty is normal for children.”

Normal.

When had ‘normal’ ever been used to describe Sephiroth, however indirectly. The word awakens mixed feelings of faint longing and disdain from his soul that had been deathly silent up until this moment.

As the janitor pulls out more of the contents of the trash bag Sephiroth broods quietly.

He is different from the people around him. He has learned this both from the scientists and his own observations. For every passing day since his birth he seems to learn more about all the ways in which he differs from others. His appearance, his behaviour, his perceptions, his knowledge and lack of it, his inherent abilities… all of it sets him apart.

It is his differences that his surroundings observe and also what Sephiroth must keep to himself. Never had he, nor anyone else pointed out in what way he is similar to the masses.

…

As time flows through the Lifestream, Sephiroth’s idle but sharp eyes finally fall upon a corner of ivory in the pile of waste before him.

“There it is.” Says Sephiroth while pointing at it.

The janitor turns his head and observes the area carefully before gently plucking it out. He turns the small tooth in his gloved fingers without saying a word.

Watching him carefully once more, Sephiroth can still not pick out any particular facial expression, however he can faintly sense what might have been sorrow with something more in the air.

Suddenly the faded blue eyes turn to gaze at the boy. “Do you have more teeth you want to throw away?” If it hadn’t been for the telling wrinkles on the old mans face, Sephiroth may well not have noticed the subtle crinkling of the corner of the elder’s eyes, and would have missed this mans first joke.

The corner of Sephiroth’s mouth twitches upwards in self derision. It truly had been a petty thing to do.

Placing the tooth in a petridish which had been set aside the janitor promptly began to clean up the mess on the table. Sephiroth quietly slunk away, satisfied with this encounter.

Chapter Text

The rustle of paper and the smooth feel of the folded pages against Sephiroth’s fingers is a familiar blessing: Gast’s Letter.

He glances up at the sound of Veld’s voice. “Hand me your reply tomorrow morning. I will be too busy this evening.”

He is not the only one who is busy today, Sephiroth thinks as he watches the Turk striding away. Everyone seems busy. He can smell it in the air and see it in their furtive movements.

But whatever it is, Sephiroth has no part in it. He would have known otherwise. His soul is silent, indifferent to the event unfolding around the silver-haired child.

Instead, he turns his attention to find a private corner to read the Gast’s anticipated words.

Dear Sephiroth.

Unfortunately, I can’t tell you much about your mother. I didn’t know her so well personally. Professor Hojo knew her much better than I, but I will tell you what I can. She was a beautiful and intelligent woman with light brown hair that glowed copper in the sun. Your hairline is very similar and I seem to recall the shape of your eyes reminding me of hers, though they were brown in colour. You resemble her in many ways. Regrettably, she passed away from the complications resulting from your birth. I want you to know that the fault does not lie with you Sephiroth. It was our weakness and mistakes that resulted in this tragedy. I could and would never ask for your forgiveness, but I want you to know that I am sorry and remorseful of how it unfolded. I cannot help but wish that things had happened differently and that you could one day meet her yourself. I am sorry, I can’t tell you more...

So you’ve finally met young Rufus Shinra. I saw him when he was just a baby, but not since. When he grows up he’ll take on the mantel of Vice-president which stands vacant for now until Rufus is old enough. I’m glad you have had the chance to meet him Sephiroth, even if he didn’t give you a very good first impression. I am not surprised by Rufus’s behaviour. It is typical for children to be manipulative and they have reason to be so. It is actually partially related to your question about Professor Hojo’s responsibility as your guardian.

Children usually have little means to fend for themselves, they have insufficient knowledge of how the world works and how to gather or earn the resources to live. The food you eat, the knowledge you gain through lessons and books, the space you live in, all of these cost resources which Shinra provides for you. Professor Hojo – as your guardian – is responsible for making sure that you are safe and healthy to the best of his ability. The duty of an adult is to provide for and protect their young who are unable to do so themselves. It is also their duty to pass on knowledge and skills that will allow the young to be able to provide for themselves as adults. Since children have no proper understanding of the dangers or difficulties they may encounter and the skills they will need in life, they do not have the ability to make correct decisions for themselves. Which is why adults decide for them. However, this means that children have no real authority or power over their own situation and can only gain some measure of influence by convincing an adult to humour them to get what they want. This is manipulation. Surely you have managed or at least tried to get your way even when adults initially said otherwise? I certainly did when I was a child. My, it seems like such a long time ago. I’d be embarrassed if I behaved like I did back then, but this sort of behaviour is somewhat expected from children.

I myself am doing wonderfully. I find my days are spent with the fair lady I told you about in my last letter. I find that the more I learn about her the more I appreciate. My heart flutters when I’m around her and when she smiles I find myself stutter with nervousness. I am blind to all of her faults. In my life I never truly valued romance. I could not understand what all the fuss was about and preferred to pursue my studies. I would never have thought I’d come across it in this old age. It was worth the wait and I hope you will come across love once in your life, Sephiroth. Even if it ends in heartbreak as I fear this first love of mine will, for the age which separates us is simply too great. But even if it does, I will thank her for the days of happiness and bliss this love has brought me. Ah, it must be strange to hear this old man wax about love. Don’t mind it. I hope the day comes when you will understand.

On to more practical things. My young female companion expressed a desire to investigate the condor I spotted by the Mako reactor when I told her about it. So we will be traveling to the area. There is a small number of staff living at the reactor in the Junon plains so you can send your next letter there.

Yours Truly

Gast Faremis

The first words of Gast’s letters are promising, but Sephiroth’s hope quickly stumble into confusion. Though Gast says he looks similar to Jenova the colours are all wrong. Even as he thinks of his mother’s name, silver strands and illusory skin flicker, a vision he is unable to consolidate with the description of brown hair and eyes. The attempt disperses the longing and purpose evoked by his mother’s name and instead his soul falls silent and the visions dissipate.

Frustration follows confusion as his eyes move over the stream of apologies that Gast offers. The information is wrong. These descriptions are of another person. It must be. Is Gast trying to hide something from him. His eyes glow in quiet menace that threaten to turn over to betrayal. His soul awakens in remembrance of the violations of his trust.

But as Sephiroth reads the paragraph again his attention is caught by the last sentences: ‘I cannot help but wish that things had happened differently and that you could one day meet her yourself. I am sorry, I can’t tell you more…’.

The corners of the silver-haired child’s eyes tighten as a different suspicion arises. One which sooths his sudden anger, while his sharp mind flashes to the time in the Turk office with Veld.

Classified.

Perhaps this is classified information? Or maybe the old man is even hiding something from Shinra.

Calmed by this insight the child decides to let this matter lie in darkness a while longer. With time, Sephiroth will find out.

Reading on he finds his mind broaden once again through Gast’s words and explenations of the human society.

Can he survive and prosper on his own? Sephiroth has never truly thought about survival in terms of food and shelter beyond having an innate confidence that he will be able to protect himself. His soul hints the answers he seeks will be found by remaining in Shinra until further notice.

However, something strikes him as wrong with the image Gast paints of his situation. Though it is not explicitly mentioned his words suggests that Shinra’s caretaking is an act of generosity. But Sephiroth knows better than that.

Shinra is not generous. A notion his soul is inclined to confirm.

He does receive benefits from this company, he would have no reason to remain otherwise. However, they gain something from raising him as well.

The eagerness with which they put him through tests and experiments comes to mind, as does the memory of Veld’s guilt and conflict during the status effect immunity experiments. He had not understood the man’s feelings at the time but they could well indicate something. Perhaps the price they ask of him is already more than the value of what they offer him in return.

It is not only the experiments, however. They require absolute obedience from him and expect him to serve under them in future.

Though perhaps that last is more common considering Rufus’s future is also laid out for him and he is expected to take the post of Vice-president when he is ready.

But is the price he pays really equal to the food, shelter, education and protection from the outside which Shinra offers him? Not knowing the value of such, Sephiroth can not truly judge that for himself. Veld’s behaviour could suggest otherwise, but he is but one man. Even in this letter, Gast supports Shinra’s efforts to raise him, albeit he warned Sephiroth to be wary of them in the past.

Once again, the silver-haired boy glances upon the letter from his friend. A seed of suspicion grows in his gut and echoes of betrayal whisper from the child’s soul.

But Gast’s last question makes him pause. Has he been manipulative? He had never thought of it. The silver-haired boy does not ask for much, he mostly does as he is told and the occasional times he willingly interacts with others have mostly been out of a desire for information. Often they answer him with out too much needling on his part.

But sometimes he manages to direct conversations or get answers which had not originally been supplied to him. Could that be considered manipulation? It comes so natural to him and it is only from professor Hojo and the Turks that Sephiroth has had difficulty to extract desired information from.

He had also managed to get his letters out of professor Hojo’s hands, but had that not been his right in the first place. Especially since he had been able to argue his way to the conclusion.

In the end, perhaps it is not so unusual as the boy had first thought. He had done it often enough without even realising it, and he had mostly benefited from it.

However, he had not appreciated Rufus’s attempts of manipulation on him. The boy had been obvious enough that Sephiroth was capable of recognising his actions for what they were. The boy had merely persisted to the point where it annoyed the silver-haired boy. It had not done much to earn any of his trust either.

Sephiroth had never so blatantly manipulated another… Or actually, the boy pauses in thought, he had. One of his Turk instructors – Cane, was it? – Sephiroth had deliberately provoked him. He’d even appealed to the mans emotion and fuelled it with magic in an attempt to get what he wanted.

He knew the Turk had been delaying. All the Turks had and still are.

That had indeed been manipulation. And of the sort that Rufus had attempted on him, only much more potent.

Rufus too had tried all manners of ways to convince Sephiroth to play with him using both his twisted, childish logic and trying to emotionally influence the silver-haired child. The young Shinra had even attempted to exchange favours.

When Sephiroth, had been unable to spar or advance properly in his combat training, he had goaded his instructor into attacking him. Or would have if that older Turk had not intervened. The one with the silent power around him.

He hadn’t seen the Turk instructor since. He was told the man – Cane – had been sent away on a mission so his staff training wouldn’t begin until he came back. That had been a couple of weeks ago.

Sephiroth doesn’t really care about the man’s absence, though he suspects that this ‘mission’ may have something to do with his attempt to rile the Turk up.

He had done it not out of necessity but out of desire. To seek the thrill his soul promised.

Once again he hears the janitors voice from a few days ago: ‘Being petty is normal for children.’ And now Gast confronts him with the same words by saying it is normal for children to manipulate and even suggesting that the silver-haired boy is no different.

How can Sephiroth be so different from all others around him, yet hold so much in common with children?

That is, if Sephiroth’s actions really are comparable to those of children. The silver-haired child knows his understanding and motivations are not at the same level as Rufus’s. But the boy doesn’t know enough children to truly be able to evaluate their approximate intelligence. Perhaps Rufus is dumber than others of his peers?

Laying that matter aside the next paragraph has Sephiroth reading it again and again while turning his head at it.

What had happened to Gast?

Romance?

It awakens a mixture of disgust and contempt from his soul along with a reserved curiosity. To understand what others seem to experience but that he could never grasp.

Love.

An aching longing and fulfilment. Mother’s love, he realises. But Gast does not seem to be talking about his mother in his letter. He does not even mention receiving any in return, but instead suggests that the love is his own directed towards this woman.

Ultimately the child finds himself stumped on this part of the letter. His friend seems to give so much in return for the discomfort he describes and even expects his heart to break in future. It sounds very painful to Sephiroth.

Yet his friend seems happy and even wishes the same experience upon the boy. Unable to make either heads or tails of this concept he puts it aside to explore on a later date.

Gast news that he will be traveling to the Eastern continent gladdens the silver-haired boy. He fleetingly wonders what is so special about that condor aside from it’s size. But more then that a seed of hope stirs within the boy.

For every month that passes his soul seems to suggest his meeting with Gast will never occur. The thought awakens frustration, confusion and a faltering sense of betrayal.

A quiet wish cannot help but express itself, that is friend will continue his journey north and visit the silver-haired child in Midgar.

There are so many things he would like to ask the man in person and things that he has yet to know to ask about. But his soul whispers that the end is approaching, though he knows not what this end may be.

...

Sephiroth likes using the stairs, because no one else does. The elevators are often crowded and the time it takes to wait on it to both reach him and bring him to his destination makes using the stairs at times quicker.

From what the boy has gathered, the reason many people avoid the stairs is because it tires them. He can tell by the laboured breathing when he hears them walk in the stairwell. But this is usually not an issue for the five-year old unless he intends to climb dozens of floors. If he is in a hurry it is no big feat to simply leap to the next landing in but a few steps.

It is on his way to his tutor on arithmetic that Sephiroth hears one of the doors on the lower landings squeak open and heavy footsteps thump down the steps.

Sephiroth pauses in his assent.

These footsteps are different. A bit heavier than even Palmers, yet there is no accompanying laboured breathing which is customary with this weight class.

Leaning over the banister the silver haired child feels his shoulder length silver hair tickle his cheeks as it hangs above the great drop of 45 floors while he waits for his opportunity.

The opportunity is quick to arrive and just as quick to leave, but in that moment he catches a glimpse of the man descending the stair and freezes as metal glints in the light.

His soul gives a jerk of recognition. A swell of mixed emotion of shock, anger, exhilaration, and something more, something deeper. In that short instant it thrums through him with a strength that he hasn’t felt since professor Hojo uttered mother’s name.

But this moment lasts but an instant and passes out of sight.

Pushing of the banister Sephiroth dashes down the staircases leaving any thought of attending his lesson behind.

Listening to the sounds from below, as he turns at his third landing in hisn chase to catch up to one of the phantoms from his soul.

The sounds stop, but thankfully there is no creak of a door. It is when he makes another turn that he halts as his eyes meet the softly glowing blue ones of the adult on the landing below.

It is a tall black haired man with a muscular build unlike any Sephiroth has seen before. He wears a strange uniform which is somewhat familiar yet very wrong in it’s details, and behind one shoulder, illuminated by the light trickling through the window on Sephiroth’s landing, is a red leather-clad hilt.

The sight before him strikes echoes of his soul’s memory that strangely overlap each other again and again and again. But for every time slightly different in the shape and size of the silhouette.

He cannot see the blade, but his soul’s whispers form a disjointed shape in his mind. It speaks of the sharpness of its edge, the unyielding nature of its metal and the stubborn weight of the strength the wields it. But he cannot see it in it’s entirety.

“Are you Sephiroth?” The man asks, his voice deep but gentle. The silver-haired boy can smell the lingering scent of surprise and curiosity make its way towards him.

Knowing that particular question doesn’t warrant answering Sephiroth counters with his own question. “Who are you?”

Though the posture is familiar, with his tall, muscular build and black hair, and traces in the facial features sending echoes of faint recognition within the boy’s soul, the man himself is not.

Sephiroth and his soul have never met him before.

The man smiles and straightens into a strange stance to Sephiroth but an intimately familiar one to his other self. “SOLDIER Hewley, at your service.”

SOLDIER Hewley. It sends ripples of remembrance. Of contentment and trust, along with an equally heavy dose of betrayal and anger. But it must be for another man that these echoes stems from, and not this one, for the adult is ultimately unfamiliar.

Leaving the identity of the phantom in his mind aside Sephiroth proceeds to the most pressing matter. Namely the hilt that protrudes from behind the man’s shoulder.

“Your sword…” Yes, that is what it must be. His soul resonates with the idea. Though Sephiroth is sure that he has never seen a sword of this kind before.

The man seems to catch on quickly to the boy’s wish. A small, indulgent smile appearing on his face as he grasps the hilt and brings it over his head carefully. Not to scrape the tip on the landing above, the child realises. For it is as long as many men are tall, though not quite as tall as this adult before him.

A shock of familiarity rips through the boy’s inner landscapes. The movement is somewhat awkwardly executed by the black-haired man as if unused to it. But the manouver is never the less terribly familiar. As too is the the distinct shape of the blade and the fractured images within his mind forms and fits perfectly into a complete picture.

As if drawn like a moth to a flame, the Silver haired child descends the remaining steps. The taller man unabashedly sits on the dusty floor and rests the huge sword on his knees to let the child have a better look.

And this sword is truly a flame, for as dilated pupils set in glowing green eyes trace the sharp tip of the blade, his soul replicates a brutal searing shock of pain through his abdomen. A blurry vision bathed in Mako blues and greens portray the blade protruding through what must have been his leather-clad torso. He can almost sense the phantom wielder twists the blade cruelly through his midriff, eliciting a short breathy grunt out of him.

On impulse he glances over his shoulder, but the vision shatters and scatters leaving the dusty staircase and the pale light of the landing window above.

“Is something wrong?” Turning back, he is met with questioning glowing blue eyes which sends echoes upon echoes of other such people through Sephiroth’s soul. But none that he can distinguish.

Not bothering to answer, green eyes fall to the blade once again and he reaches reflexively to trace the familiar grooves, only to hesitate as his soul balks at his action.

Sephiroth’s eyes dart up to the stranger to ask. “May I touch?”

The tall man smiles down at the boy from where he is sitting cross legged on the floor. Sephiroth senses that this he is content with studying him for the moment, the curiosity thick in the air. “Yes, of course. As long as you’re careful with your fingers.

The permission pacifies his soul, the adults voice substituting for one of the phantoms within it.

Attentively he listens to the metal whisper as his pale fingertips run lightly upon the flat of the blade. Along it’s grooves and to the circular holes in the centre, just below the hilt.

Materia slots, he realises quietly as he fingers their edges. He wonders idly if the grooves are to disperse and lead the Materia’s power along the large blade.

“It was specially created for SOLDIER.” The man interrupts his line of thought, pride seeping in his voice. “No unenhanced person would have the strength to wield it.”

Sephiroth glances up at the man, the information somewhat new. “What is it called?”

The man seems to falter at this then continues in a softer voice, a scent Sephiroth cannot quite identify emerging. “It’s called the Buster sword.” The name trigger of remembrance from his soul which combines in perfect harmony with the replica of the blade in his mind.

Sephiroth is certain now. This is one of the tools involved in his soul’s history. A major landmark. An identifier to the pieces of his lost destiny.

“It’s a good name.” The child comments offhandedly.

Chuckling the tall man replies bashfully. “I thought so too, but my buddies said it was childish.” A mixture of pride and what the child now knows as light embarrassment tinting his scent.

Lightly the silver-haired boy brushes over the decorative brass, before reaching for the red leather-clad hilt. Once again a strong sense of wrongness bursts from his soul and he hesitates for a single moment. But Sephiroth has his own curiosity to pursue and ultimately disregards the warning. If anything it fuels the child to break the compulsion.

His small fingers reach underneath the hilt, grasping around the leather and he lifts. Or tries to, as a weight which is greater than he expects meets his own strength and he only manages to bring the hilt a hand’s width from the black clothed thigh.

Disregarding the sharp intake of breath accompanied by the scent of surprise from the older man, the silver-haired child exerts a force he rarely has reason to use, managing to lift the hilt to his own height. His body adjusts intuitively to balance himself, the pressure of the weight on his joints both new and somewhat familiar.

But try as he might he cannot lift the blade completely off the ground one handed so he grasps it with his second as well. Just as the tip of the blade lifts from the dusty concrete and the boy feels the muscles of his back and arms strain to keep his posture with the force of his feet pressing against the floor - a large warm hand grasps the hilt along side his and relieves his body of the swords burden.

Glowing green move to meet glowing blue. The man smiles kindly at him. Though Sephiroth can feel a deep shock emanate from the black-haired adult. “I guess you really are meant to be SOLDIER.” He says.

“SOLDIER…” Sephiroth realises that he’s never thought much about it, in spite of constantly hearing it referred in the same breath as he. The thought so natural, he never questioned it. “What is SOLDIER?” He asks releasing the hilt and letting the man lower it back to is knees.

Once again Sephiroth senses a fresh whiff of surprise but the sent quickly softens, and the man looks at him with an expression that Sephiroth can only describe as evaluating.

With an elbow resting on the flat of the broad blade he speaks softly with his deep voice, his cheek resting in his palm. “SOLDIER is a new kind of fighter.” His other gloved hand strokes carefully along the blades edge as he continues to explain. “We’re given immense strength and endurance through the power of Mako.”

Returning his gaze to boy before him he adopts a severe expression. “But that is not the most important.”

All of the word ring quiet bells of recognition in Sephiroth soul. This is SOLDIER.

“What is most important…” the man continues in his deep voice. “Is our SOLDIER honour.” Pride and faith permeating the air in the surrounding.

Echoes of another man in another time ripple through him. He can almost hear him, the voice slightly irate, as if lecturing.

“Honour is what will stop us from using our power in the wrong way, if we are ever tempted to do so. It sets us apart from the monsters we slay. You must never forget your SOLDIER honour.” The man finishes with the severe tone a quiet fervour radiating underneath it all.

His impassioned speech raises a mixture of amusement, exasperation and bitterness from the Sephiroth’s spirit, but the connection is fickle and flutters away as Sephiroth seeks to delve deeper.

However, the mention of honour tugs at the silver-haired boy’s own memory. “Are you from Wutai?” The child asks abruptly.

The man blinks. Once again the sent of surprise comes across. “No… What made you think that?” He asks seemingly taken aback.

“A friend told me that the people of Wutai greatly value Honour and would even take their own life if they lost it. Your mention of honour reminded me of this.”

“Oh, I see.” The man replies softly, while scratching his noes. “I hadn’t thought about it that way before, but…” The man pauses considering. “My grandfather on my mother’s side was from Wutai.” He confides. His voice warm and his eyes distant. The expression helps Sephiroth identify the unfamiliar scent which the man exudes. Admiration. “It was he who put me on the path of a fighter.”

“Is it true that they take their own lives when they lose their honour?” The boy asks curiously. He had not been able to understand that particular aspect of the Wutai culture, neither had Gast though he mentioned it anecdotally in his letter.

The man’s gaze returns to meet Sephiroth’s and he seems thoughtful as if recollecting. “Hmm, yes I think they do it sometimes, or at least they did in my grandfather’s time.” He confirms. “But as I recall it is not so much for the reason that they have lost it, but to regain it.”

The child’s soul stirs uneasily at this subject. Faint wisps of turbulent emotion prickle Sephiroth’s awareness. “How can they regain their honour through death? Isn’t it just running away from shame?”

He feels a spike of indignation from the big man before him who lowers his hand from his chin to rest on the Buster sword with the other. “I think, when a person loses their honour they will put the well being of the people around them in danger. Either through their own actions or the actions of others in retaliation. In order to protect the people they love they will take their own life.”

“How would their actions affect the lives of the ones close to them?” Sephiroth asks, not understanding. His attention is quietly caught by the mention of love, however.

The older man pauses for a moment. Adjusting the weight of the sword on his lap and surreptitiously stretching his back, he replies. “Well, apart from the shame and betrayal that is caused by the dishonourable actions, the loved ones’ reputation may be affected through their association with them in a similar way. People may become more mistrustful, and some might seek to take revenged on the ones deer to them.”

“It still sounds like they are running away through death.” Argues Sephiroth on behalf of the anger and betrayal that simmers in remembrance of an unnamed death. For he realised that this must be been someone’s death that resides somewhere within his soul. This subject is too closely tied to it for it not to be.

The dark haired man sighs, shaking is head with the faint sense of exasperation trickling into the man’s scent. “It takes great courage to recognise how you may endanger your loved ones and greater still to take your life in order to protect them.”

There is that word again. Love. The ones that are loved. Just like how Gast described that he loved that new woman he met. Does this mean that Gast would protect that her not only from others but also himself? Would he take his life in order to do so?

Sephiroth can sense that the man is losing his patience and interest in the subject. With the foreboding sense of urgency for Gast’s unnamed end in the child’s mind he continues his questioning. “What of the ones that are left behind? What of the friend who still needs them?”

The man rolls his shoulder his right hand moving to grip the handle of the Buster sword as he manoeuvres his feet under him. “Traditionally it is the friend that grants the merciful end to their pain, since the suicide itself is a slow one.” He stands up in one smooth motion. “It may be hard for you to understand this now, but the ones who kill themselves after having lost their honour do it for good reason. If they are lucky enough they have a close friend who deems them worthy of having a quick and merciful death.” He finishes with a soft click as what might be a magnet on the mans harness meets the blade, holding it in place.

The SODIER smiles down at Sephiroth. “I’m sorry to leave you but I have things to do.” He turns and opens the door on the landing. Waving, while uttering his parting words. “We’ll probably meet again in future.”

But before the door slams shut, a sense of urgency comes across Sephiroth as loss and betrayal, along with that emptiness, rears its unpleasant head from his soul. In an instant the child grasps the door an and calls after the adult beginning to stride down the corridor on the other side. “What if they have no friends left?” He asks. “What if there is no one left worth protecting?”

The familiar yet foreign form of the tall dark haired man with his sword, stops and turns partially to look back at the strange boy. He is quiet for a moment before answering simply. “Then, I guess, they will die a monster’s death.” Turning back, he continues on, unaware of the true weight of his words.

Retreating back into the quiet stairwell the little boy broods quietly. He had gained much from this interaction; he’d found a major tool from his soul’s forgotten history, yet at the same time the things he learns promises a foreboding fate.

Sliding down he feels the wall tug at his shirt and the slight pain as his bare back scrapes against he uneven surface. He finds himself for the first time truly questioning his soul. What could the purpose he has lost be? Would it truly be worth the pain his future hints at?

Reaching a finger down to touch a patch of undisturbed dust on the ground, he traces the shape of the Buster sword.

When will he find his illusive Cloud?

Chapter Text

“What is Love?” Asks a child’s voice.

Professor Hojo does not look away from his papers. Sweat, grease and stress is thick in the air. The characteristic smell of another hectic period in Shinra. Something big is happening within the company that no one cares to tell the silver-haired child about.

His question, however, does draw the unkempt man’s attention, an intriguing mixture of treacherous scents emanating from them man. Sharp and heavy; anger and sadness, hovering on the borders of regret, which softens and mellows too a scent reminiscent to the one he bears around Sephiroth at times, but different. Affection, the child thinks before his attention jumps to the remerging anger.

Yet the scientist says nothing. Still looking down into his papers. Sephiroth has come to know this man’s scents well. He knows him better than anyone else.

“Stop pretending. I know you heard me.” The silver-haired child challenges.

The man’s sent wavers, a grain of fear and suspicion joining his other warring emotions. “I am busy, Sephiroth.” The man snaps irritably.

“Then tell me, and I will leave you to your work.” The boy retorts smoothly.

A spike of annoyance erupts in response, but is after a while overtaken with the same mixed emotions as before. A distinct sense of bitterness drapes itself over the ensemble.

“Love is not for scientists. It clouds their judgment and corrupts the data by turning their analysis biased.” Professor Hojo turns away while nudging his glasses up his noes, his voice growing colder and more professional. “Whole projects have almost been ruined because of love.”

The man is avoiding the question, Sephiroth knows of the turmoil below the surface. Not entirely sure he wants to know why, he still presses for a respons. “You haven’t answered the question?”

The professor stiffens, unwillingness and… shame travels through the air. Sephiroth perks up at scatterings of something else which lies beneath it all. Fear.

He can use the fear. It can help him get his answers, yet Professor Hojo is not as easy to influence, as he used to be. To… manipulate, the child corrects himself, slowly.

But emotions are a fresh product and will not last long, so Sephiroth decides to try a different approach from the usual emotional barbs he uses. “So what is it? Taking a leaf from Rufus’s book he softens his voice to mask any of his usual reproach or ridicule.

Professor Hojo turns suddenly to look at him, surprise in his scent as the man studies him, but with out the usual cold scientific detachment. For a moment the child wonders if he has been too obvious, but he keeps his face blank and his demeanour calm. At this point mimicking Rufus’s open face of innocence would probably be too over the top. The professor knows the silver-haired child too well.

A strange change comes over the professor. The surprise lingers, and along with the frenzy of conflicting emotion, a hint if embarrassment arises. The man nudges his glasses further up his noes and his emotions calm. “Love is…” The embarrassment grows quietly while the adult swallows thickly. “When a person feels affection for another.” He looks down at his papers, but peering from below, Sephiroth can tell that those words are left unread. Regret, sorrow and the warm smell of that special scent whispers in the room.

The man takes a breath and straightens, staring into space ahead of him. He starts to speak in a lighter tone, as if changing the subject. “Some would say it’s often mutual. But I…” His voice turns suddenly bitter upon the last words, his scent matching the expression.

Professor Hojo presses up his glasses to the bridge of his noes his posture having returned to it’s slouch, as if curling up upon himself. When he continues his voice is professional. “That is incorrect. It is estimated that at least half the time, love is not reciprocated. Further more these emotions are often fleeting and fickle. They will change and fade with time.”

Silence falls between them, professor Hojo’s finger still pressing down on his glasses. With dilated pupils, glowing green eyes watch a bitter thirty-year-old man slowly supress his emotion.

In the end Sephiroth is the first to break the silence as he turns away and walks out of the office. His voice is quiet, the usual traces of condescension gone. “I see.”

He had seen too much.

He holds no interest in this man’s past.

Dear Sephiroth

I apologise form my thoughtlessness in my last letter. On the matter of Love, it is a term used widely and can have a great number of implications. But generally it can be described as positive feelings such as caring or affection towards someone or something. The stronger the emotion, the greater the love. Love can take many different forms depending on who it’s directed to and what it involves. For example, there is the love for a friend, a parent’s love for their children and a child’s love for their parents. Or the special kind of love for another which leads to the birth of children. Love may also be directed to a pet or even certain experiences like the taste of food or an activity like reading. However, the most important form of love in my opinion is the one towards people. Different emotions may be awakened in such cases, but generally they are positive ones like appreciation, admiration or protectiveness. It is worth mentioning that sometimes these feelings can become too strong: bordering on an obsession. In such cases jealousy or possessiveness may awaken in people because they fear that what is loved will be lost. This is usually considered as a rather unhealthy kind of love, both for the giver and the receiver.

As a young man I loved my work. Or at least parts of it. I was passionate about it and I both enjoyed it and felt like a was making a meaningful difference. I still do even when retired, though I am wiser now then I was back then and know that there is more to life then science. The love that I feel for my new companion is a romantic one. The kind of love that a man has for a woman they are drawn to, and perhaps would even have a child with. Though the sensations I described may have been uncomfortable at the time, but love transforms it into a wonderful experience. And as I look back at those moments I only recall those moments as enjoyable and special. The colours all seem stronger and more vibrant and it breathes new life into me. The world is not the same as it was before.

So you’ve met a SOLDIER, and SOLDIER Anael Hewley at that. I’ve been keeping as close an eye as I can on that group because you’ll be part of it some day so I know a bit about it. The SOLDIER program is in itself very new and is based off of enhancing human’s capabilities through Mako. The theory of enhancing people has been around for a long time: folklore tell of humans and monsters who have accidently come in contact with natural Mako and gained sudden strength, speed and health. However, with these stories often comes a warning of the dangers of Mako. I dare say that those warnings are very real. The people and animals who come in direct contact with Mako often mutate, drastically change their behaviour and tend to become very aggressive. Until recently there hasn’t, to my knowledge, been much research on Mako enhancements, especially on humans because there hasn’t been enough funding. Further more, the attempts can very easily go wrong, as mentioned, mutations may occur as well as what used to be called Mako poisoning, but which is now referred to among scientists as Mako addiction. This condition is not very well understood but it’s theorised that the sheer amount of information which is stored in the Mako may overwhelm an individual who’s exposed to it for too long, to the point where they lose track of who they are and the life they’ve lived. In severe cases it may even lead to death. This isn’t anything you need to worry about though, Sephiroth. What is revolutionizing about the SOLDIER project is the use of a special stabilising agent called the J cells. It seems to increases the average person’s tolerance towards Mako. It reduces the chances of mutations and Mako addiction. I don’t know any more than this, however, since I didn’t take part in the project and stepped down from the position not long after it started. It is also a company secret so If you find out more information then what I’ve already told you, be careful about not sharing it, even to other company employees. This is to stop the method of creating SOLDIERs from falling into the wrong hands and bring that would bring harm to the world.

SOLDIER have been showing their might during this year by exterminating dangerous wild life which had been plaguing certain areas for a long time and had been left alive simply because their formidability stopped any fighters from killing them. This has caused their reputation to rise tremendously, particularly on the Eastern continent, and SOLDIER has been constantly on the news in places like Midgar and Junon, with information filtering out into other areas. I’ve been fortunate to get a hold of the newspapers from these cities in the Mideel village. I think they sell them here because a lot of important people from Shinra come here on vacation - as I have told you in one of my other letters. You wouldn’t know it from asking the locals though, because they simply don’t care about what happens outside of their simple lives. I think it is why famous people sometimes chose this vacation spot, they are left alone by the common folk.

Anyway, there are in total 13 units in SOLDIER. Now, as I understand units in the military are groups of 80 to 250 fighters that often go into big battles or work on certain tasks together. I may be getting this wrong but I imagine that the units with the higher numbers are more common in the infantry - which are generally not particularly skilled fighters. SOLDIER, however, is different with smaller units which range between 30 to 50 SOLDIERS in each unit. From what I gather, the reason for this is that SOLDIERS are vastly more powerful and often more skilled than normal fighters and are already enough to overwhelm most odds. The most well known unit is the 13th which is widely celebrated among the public population as the strongest group of fighters in the world. It consists of 17 members, one of which is SOLDIER Anael Hewley. A much loved figure, from what I understand, though I admit I haven’t been closely following the information on these individuals, unlike their avidly admirers among the public – who, by the way, have recently nicknamed the 13th unit: Ragnarock.

Two weeks ago, I read in the news that the 13th unit are partaking in an interesting experiment with Shinra’s weapons development department. They’re recruiting famous smiths from all over the world to custom make weapons that SOLDIERS can use with their abilities, but wouldn’t be practical or plausible to other unenhanced fighters. The Buster sword that you told me about must be one of them. I haven’t seen any pictures of it yet, so Hewley probably had just recently received it when you met him.

Oh, and thank you for telling me what SOLDIER Hewley told you about the Honour code among the people of Wutai. It may be hard to imagine what could be so bad it warrants committing suicide, but I think if it’s put in a proper cultural and concrete context it would make a lot more sence. Remember that this is not a common deed in Wutai so the situation that merits it is probably very severe.

I’ve arrived safely to the reactor on the Junon plains. Interestingly enough, the lodging for the few personnel that maintain it is in a cave network in the soft rock which the reactor was built through. In spite of that, the living conditions are quite cosy, dry and warm even while being well into the Autumn. My companion and I did see the Condor flying close by and she surprised me yet again with her knowledge. According to her the beast is surveying the area for a good location to lay its egg. However, she estimated that there are a few years still until it will decide on it’s location. You will probably be well into your teenage years when it finally lays its egg, and an adult by the time it hatches. Apparently the last time this happened was about 50 years ago, the chick hasn’t been seen for a long time in the area. This is sad news because the Condor only lays one egg and when the egg hatches the parent will die. This means that if a Condor dies before it lays an egg there will forever be one less Condor in the world. It makes me wonder how this species came to be in the first place. My companion told me about a legend which was passed down in her family: that the Condor is the offspring of the god of rebirth: The Phoenix. This is the benevolent paragon of the skies that gained immortality by beginning its life anew when it reached its old age or was killed. Though the Condor inherited the Phoenix’s ability of rebirth has its limitations. In the end it is a balance, in exchange for power comes a heavy limit on reproduction. This is a common phenomenon in nature though it’s the first time I’ve heard about such an extreme case. I’m beginning to understand why the Condor is so revered, however, and the news that the Condor is going to lay its egg is spreading and bringing joy to the people in the area.

Our next destination will be Junon. Shinra will be holding a conference about future changes in the company and many of the department directors will be there. I hear that the biggest discussion will be about the future of the department of World Exploration which has become somewhat obsolete now that most of the world has been explored and most of the obvious potential Mako sites have been identified. In any case this department hasn’t provided any major contributions to the company for a while now, weather this departments purpose will change or if it will be downsized or demounted completely is left to be seen. Many people are very interested in this development since it might mean a lot of people may lose their jobs while others are looking for an opportunity to gain a good employment within Shinra.

I also hear that SOLDIER will be making their first real public appearance by primarily being in charge of the security in the City during this period. This is something which is usually handled by the department of Public Safety, so I imagine they are not very happy about this decision. It is a good way to introduce SOLDIER to the populace, however.

In any case you can send your next letter to Junon. Big changes are afoot and I hope that you will stay well, Sephiroth. Though change brings opportunity, it may also bring disaster.

Yours Truly

Gast Faremis

As always Gast’s explanations are more encompassing than Hojo’s, however, for once they strike him as being very close. Though they have different attitudes they both mention that love is a feeling of affection for another, and even Gast mentions that the perceptions of the people who experience it can be influenced.

Has he felt love before? Does he love his mother? Even as the comforting sense of purpose and devotion sweeps over, he realises that is his souls love.

The silver haired child indulges in these emotions from time to time, in order to feel a hint of his mother’s warmth… It is to receive her love which he desires. But he doesn’t know her, has never met her. He revels in the emotions provided, but does he feel any appreciation for the entity he has yet to meet in this life? Does he himself, love her at all? He could probably only know when he met her in person.

Who else does he appreciate? He often thinks of Gast as his friend. Does that mean that he loves the man? His soul indicates him as someone who has answers, and so far Gast has proven himself in this respect through his letters. But does the value Sephiroth put in this man because of his information truly equate to love? For that is the only thing he has received from Gast since he left Shinra: Information. And that one apple.

It has been so long since he had seen the man in person. More than two years. To his soul, those two years are merely an instant, but to the boy they are half a lifetime. If he sees Gast again - just once more - before that fated event his soul foretells, then surely he would recall what it felt like to be around him. It has been so long he barely remembered if there had been anything at all from his side.

What of the janitor? The man does not really say very much, neither is he emotionally expressive and the knowledge he offers is not at all as satisfying as his letter friend’s. But the silver-haired boy distinctly recalls having sought out the man without any distinct desire for information. On those days when the world grew to empty to bear, when he felt the loss at its greatest, he would find himself before the elder with a silent soul.

Was that love that drew him?

Hardly. Sephiroth barely knows the Janitor and has spent very little time with him, how could he have such seemingly important emotions for him? If something bad happened to that particular employee, he would probably not intervene. Unless he could gain something from it, of course.

Then, there is Veld who he interacts with fairly regularly. However, this is purely professional to Sephiroth. Just like his past self, the child holds only a working relationship with him.

The only other he knows much about is Hojo. The mere thought of which awakens distaste from his soul. Love for that one does not even bear thinking about.

Moving on, Sephiroth’s eyes fall upon the name of Anael Hewley. Only the surname stirs any reaction, the rest is utterly unfamiliar. His soul does not know this man.

At the mention of information landing in the wrong hands his soul almost scoffs.

Curiously, the silver haired child studies this passage. He sees nothing wrong with it. However, both disdain and bitterness awakens within him. As he lingers on the thought a strange but familiar sense of dissonance comes over the child. He recalls Gast’s last warning to him and the janitor’s wariness of shinra. Yet here Gast trust Shinra to use SOLDIERs in a way which does not bring harm to the world. Is he not contradicting himself?

Perhaps this is the older man’s subtle warning to him about not sharing the information he knows or else he’ll get into trouble. However, the boy has already been told many times not to share the details of the experiments he partakes in to other people, so the warning is hardly necessary.

Letting the matter rest for now, he moves on to mutations, Mako addiction, and J cells. All very familiar, they shudder through him. Like they are an integral part of his destiny. His existence. Though Gast reassures him that he has nothing to fear, a sense of dissonance comes over him once again.

Yet the information also awakens a momentary spark of hope. He knows he is different from the others, but if it were merely the Mako and the J cells… For the child is certain that the J cells are an integral part of the puzzle, judging by the feeling of belonging and an inexplicable sense of oneness that threads through to him from him upon it’s mention.

Perhaps the SOLDIERs were like him. Perhaps they too were not like the others. Perhaps something more then the sound of those heavy footsteps had drawn the silver-haired boy to lean over that banister. Only it had been so subtle he never noticed. Perhaps among these SOLDIERs he would find a place where he belonged. Where he could find his equals.

That little spark is quick to disappear, however. Ever since the beginning, in the days before the Mako, he’d been different. He’d known it then too, though he hadn’t understood it with the same clarity as he does now. From the very beginning his soul had promised him a lifetime of alienation in his existence, with all others inferior in their abilities to him. SOLDIER too is a familiar concept to his soul, and though it sires a faint comfort, it does not suggest that he will find the belonging that he hadn’t known he yearned for.

He is not like the other SOLDIERs.

Returning from his runaway thoughts the child narrows his eyes at the reassurance that rings hollowly within and his own unsettling sense of dissonance. But this is Gast, he always tells Sephiroth what he can. Only… the child is not so sure that is enough, anymore.

With a sobered mood Sephiroth corroborates the section on the SOLDIERs tasks with the latent memories within him, however, the make up of the SOLDIERs ranks do not ring any bells. There is simply no connection with SOLDIER and the mentioned units to his soul, not even the 13th unit, Ragnarock.

He does not know this SOLDIER. Briefly his thoughts turn to Veld. He too does not merge well with the image in his soul, even if he is undeniably the same person.

In time the answers will present themselves.

The Buster sword. Again the mention of that blade brings about a jarring reaction. He knows the bite of it, the weight, the unyielding nature of the strengths that yield it. He is fairly certain now that in those shattered memories, the phantoms behind the sword are more than one. However, this Anael Hewley is not one of them.

The experiment that is mentioned does send the faintest of recollection, but it slips before he can catch it and try as he might it does not stir a second time.

Gast’s guess about that SOLDIER, Anael Hewley, recently having received the sword is probably not to far from the truth considering the awkward way he wielded it. Though Sephiroth does not know how the sword is meant to be wielded, his soul does, and those movements had seemed somehow unbalanced and unnatural.

But whatever the role this Buster sword will play, it is not yet time. Too soon for this key to unlock the secrets of his destiny. Unlike what he’d thought before in his initial years, speeding up his own time would not hurry along the event’s to his answers. He can not rush ahead either and risk missing some clues. The best choice of action is to be, as always, patient until the moment is right.

The fascination Gast holds for the Condor comes somewhat as a surprise since his soul has very little to offer up about it. Never the less, there are elements of the Condor’s story that interests the silver-haired boy.

The child of a god. The thought resonates with him. He can… relate to it. There must be a very real possibility of it being true. He wonders what things he would perceive from being present during the Condor’s hatching. Once again, however, this is something for many years yet and he files it away in the back of his mind, to reimerge at a more appropriate time.

The news about the changes that are about to occur in Shinra comes as a revelation to Sephiroth. So this is what everyone had been up to for the past month? He had also been told that professor Hojo and Veld would be leaving for Junon early tomorrow morning, but he had not been told why. His enquiries often shrugged of with the vexing response that he was too young to understand.

It would be the first time that his guardian would be a whole city away from his charge. The boy can not help but wonder if his day would be any different with the unlikable man so far away. He would find out that evening. Professor Hojo had instructed him to seek him out before he left the Shinra building. No doubt with instructions for the following days.

Chapter Text

“Fools! What good are their brains if they don’t even use them?” Professor Hojo mutters while scowling down at a sheaf of paper. His scent dissatisfied and frustrated.

The older man turns to the stoic child which he had sent for, a sour expression still marring his face. “You’ll have the honour of spending tomorrow afternoon with Rufus Shinra, it seems.”

At this news the silver haired boy’s cool demeanour heats up somewhat. “Why?” He asks, a subtle edge in his voice.

“Do not take that tone with me; Sephiroth.” The professor rebukes sharply, in spite of his words the scowl slowly smoothens from professor Hojo’s face as he searches familiar green eyes, his emotions gradually settling. “Officially, you require a supervisor with a high enough clearance after your morning classes end. Unfortunately, Midgard is short on the qualified personnel at this time.” He explains with uncharacteristic composure, even though the silver-haired boy senses the underlying dissatisfaction. “However, one of the executives is baby-sitting Rufus which supposedly presents the perfect opportunity to occupy the both of you.” The black-haired man’s expression then morphs to disdain as he scoffs. “Even though it is a preposterous suggestion!”

“But I don’t need to be supervised.” Counters Sephiroth, not understanding.

“The problem lies in the fact that I, as your guardian, will be outside of the city. If you do something – if anything were to happen concerning you – I will not be in the vicinity. ” The professor explains, uncharacteristically clearly and calmly, the faintest hints of something resembling worry in his sent.

Curious but unconcerned Sephiroth tucks away the information in favour of pursuing the faint flare of hope. “Then take me with you.” In his letter Gast had said he would be in Junon.

“Out of the question.” The professor is quick to put down the boy’s faint hope. “There will be too much going on and everyone will be too busy to keep a proper eye on you.”

Sephiroth hadn’t been expecting much anyway. “Then why do I have to be with Rufus? shorly a Turk would do?” He continues to argue, vainly attempting to at least save himself some annoyance.

A streak of anger shots over the professors face, frustration even more apparent in his scent. “Don’t ques-!“ Suddenly he breaks off raising a finger to press is glasses to the bridge off his noes. “I am inclined to agree with you, Sephiroth, unfortunately I have no say in the matter.” The professor replies irritably. “I’ve tried to reason with them, even with the president.” He seems both exasperated and resigned.

A sour mood comes over the silver-haired boy. He doesn’t want to spend another hour with that pest, Rufus, again.

“Don’t give me that look. If you hadn’t gotten yourself an afternoon with the president’s son, this would never have happened in the first place.” At the inquisitive look of the small child, the black haired man elaborates. “That boy probably charmed his father into organising this. There are too many reasons for you not to be overseen together for there to be any other reasonable explanation.” Professor Hojo sneers. “Not that there is anything reasonable about doing as a child says in the first place, really!

“What reasons are those?” Probes Sephiroth as he latches onto that unstated worry the other man held. His voice is suddenly calm as a lakes surface, feigning indifference, his soul whispers of alienation.

The professor stills, a wariness which had been previously absent cools the air. Sephiroth’s eyes sharpen slightly in suspicion and calculation.

The professor straightens as he looks down at the boy, a finger unconsciously moving to nudge up his glasses. “I was going to talk to you about that.” He says with deliberate carefulness in his voice.

The professor must have sensed something from him, he realises. Had his change in topic been to sudden? or perhaps it was the tone, Sephiroth speculates.

“This is something you should have been told the first time you were babysat.” A hint of annoyance enters his scent. “It is very fortunate nothing happened.”

There, he said it again. “What could have happened?” The child asks quietly.

He can sense the faintest whiff of fear, but it is different from before. The man seems uncertain of himself, he clears his throat and hesitantly kneels before the silver haired boy.

Uncertainty suddenly shudders through the child; echoed by his soul in faint remembrance. The professor has never done this before. “Listen carefully, Sephiroth, this is very important.” The familiar hazel eyes he disdains so much look very different now. But the boy cannot quite put a finger on it.

Not that this man’s matters are important to him. But the unfamiliarity of the situation calls his attention to it anyway.

“You are a lot stronger than a lot of the people around you. That is why you must be extra careful to limit your strength when you are with others. Especially Rufus. No harm must come to him. Understand?”

The silver-haired boy looks at him quizzically. Why is this man bringing this up now? “I’m always in control of my strength, don’t you know that?” He calmly responds adding a little jab at the end, trying to get a reaction from the older man.

The professors’ lips thins; but not entirely out of annoyance. He can smell it. The man is pensive, but why? Does he really doubt Sephiroth’s ability to control his strength or is he concern him?

“Yes, of course, I merely felt it necessary to remind you.” The man stands and turns his back on the boy. Even without seeing the boy knows the professor is pressing down on his glasses again. “I have still some final preparations to do before I leave. You should rest early today, Sephiroth.” With those words he walks off leaving the little boy to gaze thoughtfully after him.

Finally the dreaded afternoon arrives in the form of two female Turks.

A brunette he’s never seen before squats before him with a smile on her face “Hey there, little one, we’ll be taking you on a little adventure outside of the Shinra building.” She says in a high pitched tone.

The other Turk a tall, stern faced woman with short cropped blond hair, is vaguely familiar to Sephiroth. His soul doesn’t remember either of them so he is quick to dismiss both of them as relatively unimportant.

“Stay professional, rookie.” The blond is quick to reprimand her younger colleague in a cold voice. Sephiroth scenes a quiet alertness permeating from her presence.

The squatting Turk before him send her senior a veiled look of indignation and he is quick to identify her scent of offence. “I know what I’m doing, I’ve taken care of plenty of kids this age before.”

The other’s scent spikes with warning.

The petty quarrel between Turks hold no interest to Sephiroth, Rather… “We’re going outside?” He asks pleasantly surprised.

The two Turks look at him and the brunette smiles. “Yes we’re going outside.” And with those words she stands and starts to make her way towards the Shinra building’s entrance.

The silver haired child glances briefly at the blond Turk who hasn’t moved from her spot since she first arrived, before he moves to catch up with the rookie. The senior Turk in turn follows them from behind at a measured distance.

A distance which bears significance to his soul. One that sends a subtle thrill through his blood.

With an unspoken tension in the air, they descend the Shinra building, the glow in the child’s eyes brighten and his pupils narrow ever so slightly.

…

It turns out they hadn’t been heading towards the Shinra building’s entrance, but rather the exit. A very inconspicuous side door.

And waiting for them out side is-

“I present to you Shinra’s latest technological marvel! The new Shinra private luxury car model!” Chatters the blond Turk, whom the silver-haired child has realised, is rather talkative. Her upbeat behaviour and pride in this Mako-powered machine suggests he should be impressed. But from his soul he experiences only indifference, and the slightest impression of something outdated.

He takes note of the square face of his hand-to-hand combat instructor, the one he’d also known as ‘the kicking Turk’ in the driver’s seat as he climbs smoothly into the vehicle and onto the child’s seat dedicated to him in the centre. His instructor simply glances back at him as the rookie Turk ducks in to settle next to him, soon joined by the severe looking blond on his other side.

“Aaaand were off!” exclaims the brunette besides the boy, as he feels the machine lurch forward.

Sephiroth had been out in the city on foot before with Professor Hojo and – in hindsight – perhaps a few trailing Turks. He realises now that the Professor must have pulled some strings to get a Turk escort to leave the building with him on such short notice for a private errand. Unless the older man had planned it in advance, but the latter thought is dismissed quickly. Sephiroth finds such behaviour from professor Hojo truly unlikely.

As the streets move by and the looming tower moves closer, green eyes lazily roam the surroundings settling every now and then on the female Turk with the short cropped blond hair. He can smell her hackles rise every time.

Her scent stirs the hunter from within, the only thing that offers Sephiroth a small respite from his monotonous life.

He wonders idly why she is so on guard beside him. Though many of the other Turks are wary, her reaction can only compare to Cane’s, his staff instructor who returned from his ‘mission’ recently.

The change that had come over Cane suggested Sephiroth’s goading last time had been too blatant. Though he doubts the man knows the true nature of the influence he held over him back then, the Turk must understand that something strange had happened.

Yet he had done nothing to antagonise this blond Turk, had he?

The younger female Turk draws his attention back to her as she speaks. “Isn’t the Shinra tower impressive? Though the upper floors aren’t finished yet most of the ground floors are. It’s a massive sprawling complex, many stories tall. It said that no other man-made building can compare to it, aside from the City of Midgar itself - which is also still under construction.”

Sephiroth listens with half an ear. Most of what she says, his soul seems inclined to agree with so he doesn’t question her trivial knowledge.

The car stops after passing a guarded gate and the the blond Turk is out in an instant surveying the surroundings. The other is slower to react, turning to give him a smile. “We’ve arrived.” She says happily. Though her scent is laced with some hesitation and concern.

During their short acquaintance it has shifted from a cheery confidence to the present state. Sephiroth is quick to dismiss this shallow girl and her wavering self confidence, however. His soul is not moved by her nor does he care about this.

His instructor drives away with the car as he is ushered, for the first time; into the Shinra tower through yet another side entrance.

As they move through a maze of numbered corridors the rookie Turk starts up her chatter again. “Right now this is being used by office clerks, but when the upper floors are completed, this place will be mostly used by the students who want to join the Shinra Public Safety department and the Shinra Science Research department.” She explains to Sephiroth as they move swiftly past a busy cafeteria filled with the costmary office employees Sephiroth is used to seeing in the Shinra building.

They continue to worm their way in deeper into the belly of the monster which is this unfinished Shinra building. Though familiar to his soul it is also alien, much like how Veld seems to him. The chemical smell of paint is too strong and the smell of mako from the lights is not strong enough. Everything is too new, the occasional furniture is too clean and pristine, the walls too bare from posters or paintings.

Finally they stop before a door, somewhat larger than the others in the corridor which the rookie Turk knocks upon and steps away. Sephiroth is quick to understand they have reached their destination and resigns himself to the fate which awaits him on the other side.

The big man in uniform that answers the door wears the dark hair and a rugged face of Heidegger. A distinct sense of destain for the man awakens once again from Sephiroth’s soul.

The big man cast a condescending glance at the Two Turks before his dark eyes slide down to the silver-haired boy.

Sephiroth’s fingers tingle from phantom sensations and his lips twitch into the baerest of smiles as the man’s scent hits him. Anger. Frustration. Animosity.

His pupils narrow further, but he suppresses himself even as the hackles of the blond Turk behind him rise, hypersensitive as she is to his mood.

“Your on time.” Mutters Heidegger, grudgingly.

Sephiroth peers behind Heidegger’s sturdy bulk to survey the room. He observes a long table in the centre, lined with padded chairs. Along the wall closest to the door are soft looking sofas and occasional picture frames while the other side is left mostly bare, aside from a rolled up screen hanging from the ceiling.

As his bright green eyes meet another pair of eagerly shining blues, his heart sinks. Bracing himself for his face off with the pest, he steps bravely into what must be a conference room.

Rufus has worked hard all day. He often tries to show Heidegger how hard he worked and how well he did, because then maybe Heidegger will tell father that he is clever and hard working. He wants to go over right this instant to show him, but every time he’d done it before, the big man had put on a scarier and scarier face, and last time he even growled at Rufus to go away.

But he has to talk to Heidegger, if father finds out he doesn’t dare talk to a man because he is scared of them father’s mood will become really bad and he will have that look that makes Rufus wish he is braver or smarter.

He wants so much to make father proud. Father is always happy when he is proud of something, and when father is proud, then he will spend more time with Rufus.

So Rufus works really hard to make father proud, and whenever father asks him something he thinks really hard to give the answers his parent wants to hear. Because when father thinks his reply is clever he praises Rufus and shows him new things!

Suddenly there is a knock at the door and Heidegger gets up to answer it.

Rufus stays where he is. Father often said that he should not answer the doors when someone knocks on them. Still, from where he sits at the conference table he curiously leans to the side to peek behind Heidegger, where he catches sight of the Turks’ blue suits.

Hiedegger shifts slightly to the side. And there peering into the room is him. Sephiroth.

A swell of happiness comes upon Rufus. He finally gets to meet Sephiroth again!

But he remembers to keep his composure. Father says he mustn’t show what he really feels on his face, so Rufus always tries to remember not to.

Sephiroth is ushered into the room as the adults talk to each other. He sees the younger boy glance in his cool way at the Turks so Rufus tries to listen too. But they only seem to be talking about being in the room next door if they are needed.

The door closes behind them and for a moment Sephiroth seems to observe Heidegger. Heidegger notices and turns on the little boy using his big scary voice – even scarier than the one he used last on Rufus. “What are you looking at?!” He almost bellows.

Unlike Rufus, Sephiroth doesn’t even flinch, but continues staring silently. Heidegger’s face turns red and his trimmed beard bristles. He raises his big hand, and for a moment Rufus feels a pulse of terror. But after glancing at the closed door, the big man lowers his hand. “I’ve got things to do. Occupy yourself with Rufus.” He commands grumpily before returning to sit before his papers as if he wasn’t about to hit a child who barely stood taller then his waist.

Sephiroth seems to acknowledge the instructions and turns toward Rufus.

Rufus is really happy again and lets a relaxed smile slip onto his lips, while walking over to the younger boy in a calm manner. He isn’t going to show that he was scared just a moment ago even if his heart is still beating rapidly. Nor will it do for him to be seen running up to Sephiroth with eagerness and relief like he really wants to do.

Beautiful green eyes flicker rapidly upon Rufus’s figure. Rufus has never seen eyes like them before. Their colour is so light and magical, and sometimes the black in the middle changes it’s shape a lot, making them seem so exotic.

Rufus gives Sephiroth his best cool smile. “Hello, Sephiroth. This must be the surprise that father promised. I kept asking him to let me meet you again, but he always said no. You must have asked to see me too right?” He concludes smoothly.

Sephiroth looks at him with an unreadable face, and for a moment Rufus is mesmerised.

His skin is really pale. So pale, it makes him think of his mother’s skin. His hair was really pale too, reminding him both of white and grey. All of it made the younger boy look all faded out, just like his mother did. But his eyes glow with light, even if it’s hidden under his cool demeanour. ‘Eyes are the windows to the soul’ she sometimes tells him, so even though Sephiroth often seems unfeeling, Rufus knows. He’s seen them burn with something he doesn’t understand, just like mothers’ sometimes does.

“I did no such thing.” Replies Sephiroth in his customary cold, unfeeling voice which brings Rufus abruptly out of his fantasy. His heart dips a little, but he doesn’t let it show on his face and briskly covers it up by moving on. “Really? Anyway, come with me. I want to show you something.”

Rufus grabs Sephiroth by the hand to lead him towards the long conference table. He doesn’t trust the younger to follow him of his own accord. Rufus learned that from the last time they met.

Sephiroth is funny that way. Most of the other kids Rufus met always did as he wanted, and the few that didn’t complained and wanted him to do as they said instead. But Sephiroth is different. He doesn’t want to play at all.

The last time Rufus had tried to leave the younger boy alone to see what he’d if left to himself. But the mysterious boy didn’t do anything. He just stared out the window. So Rufus has only one choice: bug and tug him until the younger child gives way. Or he finds out what interests the other.

Sephiroth is the hardest person to play with that Rufus ever met. Even adults are less difficult. But last time Rufus had found a topic that got a reaction from the pale boy. When he told him about the gift he got from his mother.

He hadn’t been able to get the same reaction again but that one time had made him feel so good. So Rufus would not give up so soon. Rufus really wanted to see those pretty eyes again!

He pulls Sephiroth under the table. And turns to the pale boy with an expectant look, watching those green eyes roam along the dark grain of the table, unmoved and unperturbed.

“Your wondering why I brought you here, aren’t you?” Says Rufus with a knowing look. As he watches those eyes that almost seem to glow mystically under the table’s shade. Their mysterious gaze turn to him where they stay.

He leans in, his eyes locking on the other boy’s green depths and whispers. “See, adults are so tall, they don’t always think about what is happening under the table where they can’t see.” Rufus smirks. “So if ever you get in trouble, you can hide here and they’ll leave you alone for a while.”

The other boy remains unfazed but his lips open to speak. “I don’t get in trouble.” The pale boy answers, so calmly and with such certainty that Rufus almost thinks he is telling the truth. But Rufus can’t believe him. How can a kid never get in trouble? He’d almost gotten in trouble a moment ago when he angered Heidegger.

All of a sudden Rufus feels a little resentment for Sephiroth. “Then your a sissy, because you always do what your told.” He can’t help but retorting, and regrets it quickly. He shouldn’t have expressed himself so transparently.

But the other boy doesn’t seem to mind and instead repeats one of his words. “Sissy.” Rufus doesn’t really know how to interpret him. If it came from someone else he’d thought they were insulting him but it didn’t sound like that from Sephiroth’s mouth. The younger boy must have sensed that he didn’t understand so he elaborates. “What does it mean?”

Surprised, it takes a moment for Rufus to respond remembering some words his father had told him. “It means your spineless.”

Sephiroth’s brow twitches a little. “But I have a spine.”

Rufus is left speechless. He can’t tell if Sephiroth is serious or if he’s just messing with him. From anyone else he would think that Sephiroth was trying to make him look stupid, but the pale boy did it in such a way that it could be either one for all Rufus could tell.

Frustrated, Rufus changes his approach. Rufus is careful not to show any of his inner irritation as he cooly responds. “Never mind.”

He leans away from Sephiroth and smirks. “I dare you to untie Heidegger’s shoe laces without him noticing.” He taunts softly.

The younger boy’s eyes drift over to the black boots that protrude somewhat under the table from where Heidegger sits, then return to his.

Rufus never expecting him to actually do it. Sephiroth has never been swayed by him before after all, so his face slackens in stunned surprise when the younger boy gets to his feet in a crouch and silently sneaks over to where the adult is sitting.

A thrill passes through Rufus as he sees the pale boy gracefully make his way towards that big scary man. As Sephiroth kneels before the boots, Rufus too, crawls closer. His heartbeats speeds up in excitement.

The younger boys nimble fingers both work on untying the double knot, but those green eyes are entirely focused on the green uniform that is visible above Heidegger’s green uniformed knees, his hands moving smoothly along every time the adults legs shift even slightly.

Then they’re undone and Sephiroth turns silently to Rufus.

Rufus, takes a deep breath, his heart beating even faster as he crawls next to Sephiroth and begins working on the other shoelace.

He glances up at that small gap every once in a while to see if Heidegger notices anything. It is in one of these moments when Rufus isn’t paying full attention to the shoelace that he feels a sudden pressure on his shoulder which brings him reeling backwards. In shock he sees a black boot inches from his eyes and feels the cold backdraft on his face.

Then he is looking at the bottom of the table top and somehow his back isn’t touching the carpeted floor because he is still being held by that hand on his shoulder.

He glances reflexively to his side and sees Sephiroth grasping him, and even more amazingly the smallest of a curve on the corner of his mouth as those intense green eyes stare intently in front of him.

And then Heidegger’s face appears underneath the table with a scary angry-face on an bellows. “Damn kids! Get out from under there! I’ll-“ He breaks off and continues on in a growl. “Go somewhere where I can keep an eye on you.”

A little scared, Rufus grabs the smaller boy’s hand that’s still on his shoulder and turns to scramble out from under the table, who follows him without a word.

They sit on the floor a ways away from Heidegger but in eyesight by the projector wall.

Rufus erratic heart soon calms and he feels wonderfully refreshed when he comes down from his adrenaline rush. He looks at Sephiroth who seems completely unruffled.

He’d challenged Sephiroth out of resentment. But the boy had actually done it. All along Rufus was trying to be nice and friendly and none of it had worked to get the boy to acknowledge him, let alone cooperate and play.

But when Rufus was being mean to him he actually complied. And it had been more fun than anything he had done before!

He’d been nervous when they were doing it and scared when he’d almost been kicked, but Sephiroth had saved him. Pulled him out of the way. So Rufus decides to let some of his true feelings emerge and a mischievous grin spreads on his face. Out of sight from Heidegger, of course.

The pale boy in front of him remains expressionless for so long that his grin begins to wain.

But then a spark lights up in those green eyes and a tiny curve returns to those unsmiling lips.

Rufus feels so good at the sight and a smug smile replaces his grin. This is his victory after all!

Chapter Text

Clean, white ceiling tiles.

Lying on the carpeted floor, Sephiroth traces their square lines. Unlike the cruddy tiles in the labs, there are no smudgy patterns that can hold his attention in these white washed ones. Too new, too unblemished.

“200.” Comes Rufus’s voice triumphantly besides him.

“You forgot the ones replaced by the ventilation grate.” Prompts Sephiroth knowing that his restful couple of minutes are soon over.

“Oh, umm… Then… 196 ceiling tiles.” Rufus is quick to calculate.

“Correct. Well done.” The silver-haired child responds monotonously. Still looking up at the ceiling. ”Then for the next question. If the ceiling were made up entirely of ventilation grates, how many metal bars would there be.”

From the corner of his eye, Sephiroth sees Rufus clutch his head and he mentally settles in for a few minutes of undisturbed peace.

Sephiroth had flipped through Rufus’s exercise books and had realised that Rufus’s calculus abilities were not superior to his own. To spare him from the Rufus ’s pestering he had come up with this method to stall the other.

“I don’t want to count anymore.” Says Rufus plaintively.

Pale lashes slide over green eyes, but the silver-haired boy doesn’t respond, trying to savour the little time which is left to him.

Silence stretches longer than usual between them, but is nonetheless, too soon broken by the eight-year old.

“What do you usually do when your alone?” Sephiroth hears him ask.

For a moment the boy is stumped by the question. Aside from Gast, no one ever asks him about his time off.

“I watch Clouds.” He finally answers softly, his eyes dilating gently at the thought.

“Really?” Through the sinister smog of Heidegger’s irritation and frustration, genuine surprise and happiness reaches the younger child’s sensitive nostrils.

Green eyes slide open and he slowly turns his head to take in the soft cheeks and cold but clear blue eyes of the young Shinra.

Those pale blues flicker to the carpet as he continues softly. “But there are no windows here.”

Sephiroth doesn’t answer. If there really had been a window he would not be watching gaps between ceiling tiles.

“Then, what else do you like doing?” Ask Rufus again, his questioning more lively.

Sighing, the unsociable child puts in a little more effort into thinking up an answer to this new question.

“Fighting” He says finally. It is the only thought that reliably stirs his soul. Fighting and Cloud.

Blue eyes light up.

“I’ve never heard of someone liking to fight before.” His face is calm but his scent betrays his excitement. “When you say fighting, you mean the kind in the stories right?”

Sephiroth doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know the story the young Shinra speaks of.

Undeterred the older boy continues his questioning. “Have you fought against a lot of people?” Voice nonchalant, but scent eager.

Slowly, Sephiroth rights himself into a sitting posture as he looks at the older boy.

“No, I have never fought against anyone.” He replies equally slowly. His soul sings with the voice of his companion as they sought the thrill within metal and flesh.

But Sephiroth, the five-year-old child, has never even engaged in a spar. Much to his chagrin.

“Then how do you know if you like fighting?” Rufus raises his voice accusingly, but his scent is curious.

Sephiroth gazes into cold blue before pulling up a knee to rest his chin on.

“You don’t need to know.” He answers honestly.

He can smell hesitation and a little disappointment in the other’s scent.

“But you know some moves at least, don’t you?” Rufus continues in a calm voice, no sign of his quiet eagerness on his face.

“Show me something!” The child, with a perseverance undeterred by a gods patience continues his pestering, only this time he manages to pique the silver-haired boy’s interest.

Hojo’s voice echoes in Sephiroth’s mind. ‘Especially Rufus. No Harm must come to him.’

Rufus seems to sense something in the air and inches closer, unknowingly further tempting him to defy the Professors instructions.

Sensitive nostrils are greeted by the scent of naive eagerness.

This blond, blue-eyed creature is so fragile - his soul knows. And for a mere moment, the thought whips up a cloud of maddening desire for the memory of a potent scent. 

Slitted pupils gaze at it’s prey, the glow from within reflecting the shattered figments of a forgotten adversary. His soul in pursuit of the musky scent of a man’s sweat and blood, spiced with Mako.

The young Shinra, suddenly mesmerised by the intense gaze, draws nearer. Scent filled with awe and appreciation where others are tainted by wariness and unease.

‘Especially Rufus. No Harm must come to him.’

For once, the memory of Hojo’s face calms him, perhaps because the scientist had been uncharacteristically placating at the time. As the young boy’s pupils dilate once again, he looks away and breaks his thrall over the other.

“Allow me to consider for a moment.” He sighs softly while inwardly reining in his impulse.

He knows his desire for the thrill of battle is slowly turning into something else.

At this point he must acknowledge that his formidable patience is waring thin. He has waited for five years and knows that he must wait a few more.

But in these moments where his patience stretches to the point of transparency, a dark lust is revealed within him. A lust his soul revels in with a maddening intensity.

Yet within those shattered recollections lie grains of regret.

He will not regret this time. His will is firm, his goal is clear: to find his purpose which lies within the shattered shards of his soul. The reason for it’s current state.

“So have you thought of anything?” The child’s voice breaks him out of his dark musings provoking a sprinkling of annoyance. If only that moment of peace had lasted a little longer.

Sephiroth rocks onto his knees and presents an opening as he challenges. “Come at me and I shall show you.”

A slight smile graces the rounded 8-year-old’s face which belies the victorious joy coming from within as he lunges forward with both hands outstretched towards Sephiroth.

The silver-haired child doesn’t bother to confirm what the older intends with this clumsy attack and grasps Rufus’s left hand gently with his own. Guiding it past him, his right smoothly circles around the young Shinra’s neck which he then folds into the crook of his left elbow, leaving the young Shinra’s arms free.

Resting his head on Rufus’s shoulder he holds on gently as the younger boy struggles within his restraining technique. This is the simplest one among among the ones that Sephiroth has learned. It would restrain without necessarily hurting the other - unless they hurt themselves, of course.

If he merely draws his shoulders back, however, this restraint would turn into a choke hold.

As Rufus lies with his back flush against the younger boy’s chest - his hands clawing uselessly against the other’s arm, his legs writhing futilely against the floor, breath ragged and cheek hot against sephiroth’s own cool one - the silver-haired child reflects calmly that he can so easily turn this into so much more than a choke hold.

With the right leverage - say if he clamps his legs around the older boy’s waist - he can pull his arm upwards until something gives way - probably the neck.

If he put in some effort and pulled hard enough he might even rip the head right off.

Green eyes stare blankly as these thoughts pass like the idle clouds in the fading memory of blue skies through the old Shinra mansion windows.

In spite of the morbid thoughts Sephiroth’s hold remains gentle, his demeanour peaceful, even as Rufus’s struggles gradually still.

He is in control.

There would be no point in breaking the boy’s neck anyway, not to mention popping his head off. This child’s fleeting presence in the life stream holds little meaning to him. And no doubt he might have trouble staying within Shinra, something which would be inconducive to his purpose in this point of time.

Finally, aside from his laboured breathing, Rufus lies completely still in Sephiroth’s restricting embrace.

Listening relaxedly to the pulse besides his ear the silver-haired boy savers the relative momentary tranquility.

“I give up.” Says Rufus breathily, and with a regretful sigh, the five-year-old releases him without further fuss.

But instead of distancing himself, the blond turns around and tackles Sephiroth - actually managing to rock him backwards before the younger steadies himself. The blond proceeds to pinch his supposed victims waist, but not hard enough for it to hurt.

“What are you doing?” Sephiroth asks, utterly baffled. There is not enough force in the fingers for the intent behind them to be pain, though there is definitely the scent of vengeance.

Cold blue eyes stare up at green. “Aren’t you ticklish?”

Ticklish. Sephiroth draws a blank. His soul also draws a blank.

Curious he reaches down to press his fingers into the others waist.

Rufus stiffens with a yelp. Still somewhat baffled the silver-haired child digs in his fingers again - a little more carefully then before - and feels the boy’s muscle tense as Rufus flops onto Sephiroth’s lap, laughing a little hysterically in the wake of the odd stimulation.

Intrigued Sephiroth watches as the younger boy writhes, occasionally and erratically attempting to  pinch Sephiroth’s own waist and even armpits with little effect. His scent a swirl of acute desperation and helplessness, but all the wile the child laughs deliriously; tears streaking his cheeks and noes, eyes wild and alive with a foreign joy.

After tipping the older boy onto the carpeted floor and dodging the occasional writhing arm or leg, the younger child straddles the others belly to… ticklish? Tickle? … his waist and even ribs. Now, very much intrigued he observes as the other screams, laughs and struggles even more intensely.

Something slams loudly onto the conference desk.

Instantly, Sephiroth is on his feet looking to the source of the sudden sound.

Rufus too is quick to scramble to his feet, tear tracks still lining his face, he casts an anxious look at Heideggar who stands with both palms firmly planted on the table breathing almost as heavily as the blond and glaring fiercely at the two children.

As the stout man straightens into his imposing hight he circles the conference table, but doesn’t approach. His face a sight to see to the five-year-old who watches somewhat impressed as the big man’s skin phases from red into purple.

He feels Rufus sidling up besides him, unnecessarily close, with a little fear and a lot of worry emanating off of him. Idly he wonders if Rufus’s face for once portrays his inner feelings.

When Heideggar finally speaks his voice is unexpectedly calm if horse with suppressed emotion.

“Here I am, keeping an eye on you - care-free children - all day. Doing my best to get some REAL work done. And what do you do?” The big mans voice deepens and rises in volume as he speaks.

Neither children answer.

“Scream and riot! Playing pranks like uncivilised whelps!” He almost bellows and Sephiroth senses a slight flinch from Rufus. The fear intensifying.

“Well then, what do you have to say for yourselves?!” Disgust coats his tone, but the smell which reaches the silver-haired child is filled with anger, frustration and vengeful retribution.

A slight prickling spreads on Sephiroth’s skin as what had been previously subdued stirs once again. A smile stretches the pale child's lips as he breathes deeply in the air of animosity. The smile reaches his eyes by the time his decision is made.

“You seem a little too angered by such a small disturbance. Perhaps something else weighs on your mind?” The child’s voice rings out clearly with a calm that contrasts the mood in the room. A knowing gaze stares from beneath silver lashes as he begins his search for a trigger.

“Sad you were left behind, to watch over us?” Sephiroth smirks mockingly as he recalls the man’s previous rant and connecting it to Gast’s last letter where he mentioned that Public safety would have a smaller role in Junon’s security during the conference.

“You SOLDIER brat!” Heidegger spits out the words with extreme prejudice and starts to step forward aggressively.

Sephiroth senses Rufus flinch again. With simmering blood in his veins he thinks quickly - pushing the older boy further behind for some space before hopping easily onto the conference table.

Even standing on the table he is still well below Heiddeggers eye level. But it does little to lessen the scorching heat of glowing green eyes which watches its prey.

The big man stops short, eying the silver-haired boy warily.

Seeing as the adult still hasn’t found his words, Sephiroth continues his goading. Mind racing ahead. Analysing the big man and his petty reactions. 

“So it’s SOLDIER which bothers you.” He continues voice calm as his mind turns once again to Gast’s last letter.

The Bigger man’s eyes start to heat up again. A spike of anger reaching the boy through the space between them

"So it is.” Sephiroth muses deliberately out loud. “Left behind because SOLDIER does your work in your place.”

“What do you know, stupid brat!” Heidegger growls and The five-year-old is sure he has struck a nerve.

“Why would I not know, as the future of SOLDIER.” He taunts, he knows what others think of him. Though he doesn’t care himself, he will use it against them. Successfully, he thinks as Heiddeggers animosity against him rises.

“SOLDIER is stronger, faster, more resilient, more adaptable.” He taunts using the words he had heard from the mouths of others. “Simply put, they are more effective.”

Heidegger’s trimmed black beard bristles as his expression contorts.

“How can monsters like you ever replace normal human combatants?!” He snarls, spittle flying.

Sephiroth’s soul shudders in guilt an alienation, but the boy himself gives little heed to those words as he continues to unearth Heidegger’s fears. For every heated word the general lets spill, Sephiroth will use as his next clue, his next blade.

“We are stepping in a new era, the era of Mako energy. The old ways will fade, replaced with what is more effective.” Sephiroth does not need to think hard to find his counter argument, as he uses the very same words Shinra uses for its own innovations.

“More advance machinery is constantly being made as a more effective replacement for the old. SOLDIER is merely another side of the developments brought about by Mako energy.” The child sneers as his small stature stands tall and proud on the conference table.

“With new ideas and new technology come new methods. The old ways you cling to will be cast away, as will you.” The last time he had goaded another he had tried to point out the other’s fear. But this time, Sephiroth will be its voice. The voice to the fear that lies beneath all of that resentment and anger.

“As you cling to your old fashioned ways and petty pride, you shall perish in the gutter of Shinra’s new world.” The child hisses viciously, unsheathing some of his contempt for the head of Shinra Public Security.

Something seems to snap within Heidegger as he lurches forward with a bellow.

Sephiroth’s pupils narrow into slits as he enters a combat ready stance. He is ready, he’d prepared by taking to higher ground to even out the other’s size advantage.

With a quiet intensity fuelled by his boiling blood and hissing soul, he watches the opening which will present itself.

And when it does he will finally sate his dark desire.

His blood sings in his ears.

His burning gaze only for his prey

“Shut your f-“ The big mans words are cut short as the door behind Sephiroth slams open.

The child’s sharp ears register swift footsteps on the carpeted floor and he has time to turn half way before the Turk is upon him with a thud from her knees on the table top and the creek from her weight.

Her arms crossed in front of her face, a long blade flashes in her right in a back handed grip.

The murderous intensity of her eyes sets his soul flame into an inferno. The blade dives toward his face, but his soul sings of a greater danger from behind.

With a step back the silver haired child ducks lithely, face almost brushing the table top as the Turks left arm swipes over him. Another dagger in a backhanded grip.

With no time to think he surfs on the swelling waves from his soul as he rises to meet her right arm with the blade still closing quickly in on his face.

As his fingers grasp the blond turk’s forearm, they register a hard, unyielding surface instead of soft flesh.

With a brief quarter of a second to think, as green slitted eyes observe the Turks left hand reverse the blade into a proper grip and strike for his unprotected belly, he makes a choice.

Pushing the right arm away from himself, he simultaneously kicks off from the table. His soul sings within him once again of darkened skies and silver blades. He moves to the thrum within, twisting in the air to meet the wall with his feet. Eyes on the situation within the room.

The Turk is rolling over the table. Hieddegger has pulled out a gun, but Sephiroth hasn’t heard the click of a safety switch. Below him to his right in the corner of his vision is a tuft of blond hair.

As his knees bend to absorb his momentum he considers his next target. Heidegger is moving for the safetyswitch, while the Turk has rolled off from the table, nocking a chair down along with her, but managing to regain her feet.

His legs tense. The Turk; she is the greater danger and is still reeling from the momentum of her roll. Hieddegger… probably negligible, there is no killing intent.

Just as the silver haired child is about to push off the wall, his ears pick up more steps from the door. Slitted pupils flick to the side in time to see a second Turk aiming a gun in his direction.

In this moment, gravity reclaims it’s control and the child slips off the wall - just as a gunshot claims the room.

…

The stillness that rules over the people in the room lasts but a mere second, yet this second stretches and warps into an eternity that would dwell within their mortal hearts for many years to come.

Only a second later this stillness vanished as a brunette Turk rushes into the room with her gun pointing at Heidegger.

“Freeze!” Shouts the rookie Turk.

A little confused, Sephiroth wonders why she is aiming her weapon at the Head of public security of all people. Though Heidegger’s gun was out and the safety off, it had taken him so long to get to that point.

The child doubts the so called general will be of any immediate threat before someone else chooses to act aggressively. Though Heidegger had proven to have an easily triggered temper, his finger doesn’t seem to be as trigger happy.

The other two turks, who’s attention hasn’t wavered from him even with their colleague acting as an embarrassment, are much more dangerous.

The Turk seems to notice the oddity of her actions and mimics her senior and yet another gun points in his direction.

Calmly, the silver-haired child returns his gaze to the muzzle which had unleashed the bullet. Holding it are the familiar calloused knuckles of his hand-tohand instructor. Lifting his gaze, the masculine Turk’s face is impassive, his eyes bearing an intense focus which would have had Sephiroth’s blood boiling only a moment ago.

But his blood has cooled and he finds that he is no longer in the mood.

Idly he resumes watching the young brunette Turk point her gun back at Heidegger in obvious confusion, but noticing her seniors unwavering resolve she becomes indecisive.

Curiously, he tastes the air for her scent as he sees her hesitantly move her gun in his direction again. Warring emotions, confusion, a dawning horror, denial. Sephiroth can sense them all from her, but still doesn’t understand why in the end she disengages and raises her gun to point to the ceiling.

 “What happened here?” She demands, seeming to forget that the only ones currently lower ranked than her in this room are children. One of which is the presidents son and future heir to the company, and the other has guns drawn and blades bared towards him by the Turk’s seniors and the head of Public safety.

Not that Sephiroth would even bother explaining himself to this small Turk.

And Heidegger, who might have spouted something just to defend himself and his petty pride, is as whitefaces as the knuckles clenching his firearm. Contempt sweeps through the child’s eyes. This time truly his own and not his soul’s. Is this, a fighter?

Suddenly, to Sephiroth’s great surprise, Rufus steps in front of the younger child.

“He- He didn’t do anything wrong.” The eight-year-old’s voice stutters uncharacteristically, voice small.

A soft hand clutches his shirt, trembling slightly against his chest. The smell of urine is in the air. Fresh and young and healthy within a mire of overwhelming terror.

Just as the brunette is about to open her mouth the beep of a telephone rings through the air. For once quick to react, the young Turk pulls out the bulky device, presses a button an presses it to her ear.

Green eyes narrow in suspicion, ignoring the two other Turks tensing as he pricks up his ears.

This moment is too convenient, to be a coincidence. Calling the only occupant in the room who has their hand’s free to answer. Further more, this Turk is clearly the most inexperienced between the other two. 

“Who is this?” Ask the brunette.

Sephiroth grasps Rufus, intending to push the other away from him, but stops as the killing intent towards him skyrockets. The Turks who’s aim had wavered in the face of the presidents son presenting himself in front of his target, braces and locks on once again. The blond female Turk even darting two steps closer.

Rufus flinches against him, sticking himself even closer to the silver-haired child to the latter’s great growing discomfort.

“Codename Zero, assigned to watch over the Turk operations in Midgard while the Head of Administrative research is off base.” Sephiroth hears a confident feminine voice transmit through the phone.

“How come I never heard you were in charge.” Says the newbie turk thoughtlessly, her attention on the brief commotion in the room.

“Maybe because your chicken-feed in the food chain?” The voice snarks back disdainfully and Sephiroth’s lips twitch in reaction as he sees the brunette begin to splutter.

“Now listen, I’ve got my eye on the situation and I’ll be there in 15 seconds. I want you to keep things calm until I arrive.” No further sound comes through the telephone speaker, the line broken.

“What did she say?” Asks his hand-to-hand instructor, but his attention still on Sephiroth and Rufus, with his gun pointing a less vital areas with the presidents son sticking so close to his target.

“She said she’s on her way.” The brunette answers a little surprised.

“Where trouble appears, Zero is near.” Mutters the blond woman under her voice yet still baring her blades in a ready stance.”

Suddenly Heidegger puts away his gun and crosses his arms. “Three turks, and they can’t even wipe their buts. What difference will a fourth one make?” He grumbles.

Just then Sephiroth’s eyes flick to the door as he hears swift footsteps approaching along with a familiar tapping sound. The two Turks tense but quickly relax as they too her the person approaching through the open conference door.

In a moment a redheaded Turk strides through the door with the bearing of one with power if with her noes planted behind the screen of a portable computer open in her arm. The tapping coming from rapid one-handed typing.

She looks up briefly, and as her eyes land on Rufus she stops short.

“What are you brutes thinking! Quick, take down your weapons! Don’t you see the president’s son is in shock.” She exclaims.

They obey, his turk instructor pointing his gun to the ceiling while the other blond goes out of a fighting stance. This doesn’t seem to relieve Rufus however since he is still trembling, his breathing slightly laboured. From where Sephiroth’s palm touches the boy’s arm, he can feel the faint pulse beat rapidly.

“Put away your weapons! Were all part of the same company, there is no need to resort to violence when infighting.” In spite of the fourth Turks, Zero’s, harsh tone the two senior Turks obey mechanically.

She then Turns to Heidegger. “Sir, may I request that you move to another room.” As the big man opens his mouth to retort she quickly adds. “For your own comfort of course. Room 1301R is currently unoccupied, we will bring your affairs over to you shortly.”

Heidegger humps but walks out of the conference room without further fuss.

Zero, sets down her portable computer carefully and turns to fish something out of a heavy looking black shoulder bag she is beqring. “Scissors, take pictures of the paperwork and anything else that could be evidence.” She fishes out a camera from her bag and tosses it to the stoic blond who catches it carefully.

“You, baby-Turk. Pick up Heidegger’s baggage when Scissors is done and accompany the big shot until I come over to get his statement on this fiasco.” The brunette’s face twists but before she can show her talkative side, Zero suppresses her once again. “I trust you know you must not talk about what happened here until you hand in your report. Do not talk to Heidegger about it either. If he talks about it, tell him that I will record his statement as soon as I can.”

With a somewhat wronged expression on her face the rookie Turk moves to gather the documents that the blond, Scissors, had finished photographing grabbed Heidegger’s briefcase and hurried out of the room.

Zero glances after the brunette. “Who hired that one? She acts like the world owes her something.”

“Speak for your self.” Murmurs the blond Turk under her breath once again, as she snaps a picture of the knocked down chair.

Though her comment is loud enough for Sephiroth to hear he can’t tell weather the other Turk heard her or not. What little of the red-heads scent has reached him, he has yet to decipher. He has seen her before on the Turk floor, but she is unfamiliar to his soul.

The short cropped blond turns towards the children and snaps a picture of the wall above them. He feels Rufus tensing against him again, but the other’s trembling has lessened somewhat. To Sephiroth’s surprise, after a brief hesitation the Turk snaps a picture of the both of them as well before handing the camera back to Zero.

“You go resume your post. While your at it you can write your report. You were the first on scene after all. I’d like to have something to give to the higher ups as soon as possible.” Scissors doesn’t even blink as she accepts her superiors orders and walks out the door.

“Fists, make a preliminary report to Malkhaz. But before that, take a look at the footage and make a quick draft.” The red-head pulls out a notebook from her bag and hands it to his hand-to-hand instructor. “Key words will do.”

Sephiroth watches quietly as this new element throws out commands with the irresistible force of a storm. His soul has no impression of her, but his curiosity is piqued as he recognises her excitement and amusement that contradicts the severity in her words.

As his hand-to-hand instructor, having taken a short glance at the other’s portable computer, bends over the conference table to write, the red-headed Turk Zero finally turns to him.

“You, Sephiroth…” Rufus’s fist clenches on Sephiroth’s shirt and the female Turk trails off taking a considering look at the both of them.

“Take care of the presidents son.” She finishes before turning to her computer.

Having finally received instructions, the silver-haired boy nods collectedly and looks into Rufus’s widened eyes.

He had been calm and in control all of this time, but he finds himself at a loss as he realises that he holds a trembling blond in his arms which he has been ordered to ‘take care of’.

‘Take care of’ How? His mind flickers through his previous experiences with the term, but his logic tells him he is not meant to dispose of Rufus with his identity as the Company heir.

“Just have him lie down somewhere and comfort him.” His hand-to-hand instructor advises mercifully. Perhaps because of being familiar with Sephiroth and recognising the child’s uncharacteristic distress.

With dilated pupils, the silver-haired child meets the serious gaze of his kicking Turk, Fists. The man’s face which had been hard and unforgiving a few minutes ago - cold-blooded enough to shoot at a 5-year-old - seems now somewhat softer.

With those words he promptly leaves. The red-head, Zero, also picks up her stuff but stops short at the door to turn around, taking a long measuring look at Sephiroth.

“We are going to leave you alone here for a while, so that the president’s son can be in peace. But you better behave yourself. Scissors, that crazy- I mean that blond, is right next door and will come in and take a look if anything happens.” She announces with a serious face before closing the door behind her.

Though Sephiroth senses that this lady would likely enjoy trouble, he has no mind to pay attention to her.

Instead he needs to comfort Rufus. Only, how does he comfort?

He scans the room for inspiration and his attention is quickly drawn by the long conference table.

‘ See, adults are so tall, they don’t always think about what is happening under the table where they can’t see. So if ever you get in trouble, you can hide here and they’ll leave you alone for a while.’

Rufus’s words come to him again and suddenly he knows what he needs to do.

Looking back at the young Shinra, he gently grasps the hand clutching onto his shirt. This draws the blond boy’s attention and dilated blue, look into dilated green.

Slowly the grips softens and the fabric is replaced by the younger boy’s somewhat calloused fingers. Sephiroth’s other hand slides down from where it had been on Rufus’s arm to gently hold the other hand.

Backing away he calmly guides the shaken boy to the large conference table. gaze locked on cold blue.

As he crouches, Sephiroth’s eyes flickers to a spiderweb of cracked plaster in the wall, close to the ceiling. His eyes narrow but he is quick to return his sight on to his current task. It is not the right time to consider where that bullet had been aimed.

Shuffling backwards and pulls the boy lightly beneath the table.

Lying down on the carpeted floor, Rufus curls up besides him. Though calmer now, there is still some distress remaining.

Comfort.

A faint memory of his time with Gast comes to him.

Following it’s cue he reaches up to run his fingers through blond hair.

He senses surprise from the older boy, but it slowly settles as pale fingers continue their ministrations and softly glowing green gaze deeply into innocent but cold blue.

Sensing the other winding down, the silver haired boy decides to give another push.

For the first time in a while he opens himself to the lifestream. Locating the soul in front of him, he approaches it slowly and carefully, soothing and calming. Carefully introducing his suggestion so as not to leave any obvious clues behind.

“Rest.” Murmurs Sephiroth softly as the young Shinra’s eyelids droop, breathing evening out.

When Rufus is fast asleep - only partially magically induced - the silver-haired five year old finally allows himself to roll onto his back, letting out a big sigh.

Chapter Text

Shortly after Rufus falls asleep the door to the conference room is slowly pushed open.

Resting on his elbows, Sephiroth watches a pair of legs clothed in blue pause at the door. They crouch and the blond Turk’s sharp eyes meet softly glowing green for a moment, before flickering to Rufus’s limp body.

The Turk straightens and stalks silently closer. Beneath the shadow of the table the silver-haired child scents the air, detecting the fighter’s caution.

She crouches again, taking a closer look at Rufus. He senses her relax somewhat, probably having confirmed Rufus as merely sleeping. Her noes wrinkle slightly, likely due to the smell of urine.

Her gaze returns to warily observe the young boy languidly lounging besides his charge, watching her.

A deafening silence smothers the space between them, before the Turk moves to stand.

“What is it you have under your sleeve?” The child’s voice slices through the air, giving the Turk pause. “Is it a prosthetic, or armour?”

While she gives him a long look, a heavy silence effortlessly drapes itself over the room yet again.

In the end, she turns and exits the room without uttering a single word.

Sephiroth’s brief fight with her had left a deep impression. She had been fast, decisive and yet, deceptive.

From this encounter he can judge that whatever his combat training had given him it had been woefully inadequate to prepare him for this adversary. In that brief moment of close quarters he hadn’t been able to think of a way to counter her moves, even with his opponent on her knees. A position which must have been awkward at best. 

He guessed she had purposefully revealed the blade in her right and hidden the one that would strike him from behind. Sephiroth’s sharp senses would not have been quick enough to interpret the danger, were it not for his soul’s vast experiences.

He could be sporting a deep gash in his back right now. Imagining it his memories fall back on the buster sword. He knows it must have stabbed through his flesh before. And it too had done so from the back.

All he had really known what to do in the conference room was where and how to strike an unprepared or unbalanced opponent. He knew well what to do to prey upon, but not when preyed upon.

However, it had been fun.

Beneath the heavy conference table an indifferent heart raced at the thought of danger. 

Glowing eyes bored into a shut door, narrowed in recollection of the thrill.

…

The Turk returns with a bundle of cloth, which she sets down on the floor a few meters away from the table.

Sephiroth waits for the Turk to leave before he retrieves it. He can sense the tension in the fighter and knows that she is skittish around him. For the moment the child deems it unwise to further prod at her nervs.

As much as he would like to fight her again, it would likely end up conflicting with his current task of taking care of Rufus. The older boy had been scared into his current state from the previous exchange, after all.

Further more, he also recognises that he is not fully her opponent.

She possesses greater bulk and weight than he, even if she may not be capable of the same raw physical output as Sephiroth. As long as the silver-haired boy had no leverage, the turk would be able to make more use of her strength. She was also armed and probably armoured, had more combat experience while he would have none of the advantage on the floor which the table had provided.

Collecting the bundle he finds two sets of clean clothes and wet-napkins, which he presumes are for Rufus and himself, though he doesn’t particularly need it. Nevertheless he slips unquestioning into the white garments.

A warm blanket was also provided which he is inclined to set aside along with Rufus’s clothing, but a memory of Hojo slumped on a desk with a similarly large cloth draped over the man gives Sephiroth pause.

‘Take care of the president’s son.’

With dilated pupils he unfolds the blanket and awkwardly pulls it over the older boy.

This should be sufficient enough to ‘take care’ of Rufus, thinks Sephiroth uncertainly.

His soul is silent.

…

Rufus wakes up slowly and groggily. The Turk had brought in some packaged fruit juice and savoury snacks, which Sephiroth passes to the boy who consumes it quietly.

Sephiroth himself is on a regimented diet and does not partake in anything offered.

The young Shinra is uncharacteristically silent. His scent suggests stress, but fluctuates irregularly with emotions Sephiroth finds difficult to identify.

Perhaps it is because he had grown used to the deep breathing and the young thrum of a living organism besides him as the blond boy slept, but he finds that the silent Rufus’s presence no longer aggravates him to the same extent as it had before.

“When they ask you what happened you must tell them that Heidegger was being scary and that you protected me.” The young shinra utters his first words abruptly, his voice a whisper.

Green eyes watch relentlessly until cold, guarded blue emerge from under the blond fringe.

Suddenly the ‘footage’ that Turk Zero had been looking at comes to Sephiroth’s mind.

Under the table’s shade, a green glow brighter in understanding, suspicions further confirmed.

“But I wasn’t.” He answers back softly.

The blond looks at him confused. “What?”

“Protecting you” Sephiroth clarifies.

“You weren’t?” Surprise followed by a little disappointment shifts like mist in the air. But it is faint, and cycles to other emotions quickly.

The silver haired boy shakes his head in confirmation of the faint dismay which dwells in the air between them.

“But you pushed me-“ Rufus starts in a somewhat louder voice, but quickly breaks off. Pursed lips and eyes roaming. Caution taking a greater part in the scent than whatever faint hope birthed the objection.

“That was merely to give myself some space to manoeuvre.” Answers Sephiroth, voice still soft.

The young Shinra’s gaze returns again to rest on the younger boy.

“What about that time when Heidegger almost kicked me?” The younger boy asks quietly.

The question gives Sephiroth pause. At the time he’d seen it coming and just moved. Much like catching a glass that someone knocked from the table. The possible mess and the commotion worth the effort of intervention.

“I hadn’t thought of it at the time.” The silver-haired child answers honestly.

Silence ripples between them. A different dynamic slowly weaves itself around them.

The older boy speaks again, quietly but the steel in his voice is unmistakable. Cold blue eyes unwavering:

“It doesn’t matter if you weren’t. Just tell them that you wanted to protecting me.”

Unfazed by the young Shinra, the younger counters coldly with a simple question:

“Why?” Though Sephiroth is not avers to lying, he rarely sees the need to do so. Covering up the lies with more lies to keep the story consistent in the face of questioning is also too tedious.

For a long time the blond doesn’t answers. Rufus shifts, pulling up his knees to wrap his arms around them.

At first Sephiroth doesn’t think the older boy will answer, his scent thick with a muted sadness and fear, weariness and stress covering the true depths of those emotions.

With back turned and whispering into his knees, Sephiroth’s sharp ears nevertheless manage to catch Rufus’s response. 

“I don’t want you to disappear…”

Pupils narrow into slits. Sephiroth’s suspicions delve deeper.

…

“Ok Sephiroth! Time to say goodbye. We’re going back home!” The rookie Turks appearance is as much of a surprise as her mention of home.

Though the silver haired child knows the term, he had never associated it with something which he possessed.

Nevertheless he gets out from under the table, stretching his legs. Used as he is to follow instructions he begins walking towards the Turk who comes to meet him.

An urgent wave of desperate fear and stress stops him in his tracks.

He hears Rufus scramble from underneath the table, small fingers grasp his arm hurriedly.

“Sephiroth stay’s with me.” The boys expression is calm, bearing an authority the silver-haired child had never heard coming from him before. Rufus’s facade is almost flawless, save to the other child who can smell the adrenaline in the air and the slightly accelerated heartbeat from clammy palms.

“Oh, I know it’s hard to say goodbye, but you’ll see each other again. Besides your father will be coming back soon.” The Turk says airily, smelling of mild determination which Sephiroth attributes to task orientation.

“Sephiroth stay’s with me.” Rufus is unmoved, his face as cold as the colour of his eyes.

The turk squats down putting a hand on the silver-haired boy’s shoulder. The blond’s grip tightens even further, though his eyes never leave the Turks.

“Don’t be like that Rufus. Don’t you want to be a big boy and make your father proud? Say goodbye now to Sephiroth.” The Turk smiles sweetly at the young Shinra.

Sephiroth senses a wavering in the other boy’s scent but it quickly reforms into an additional thread of determination.

“Sephiroth stays with me.” The child’s voice is much cooler than before bearing hints of his father’s authority.

The Turk smiles benevolently at Rufus before turning to the younger child.

“Won’t you be a good child and tell your friend it’s time for you to leave, Sephiroth?”

Green eye’s stare uninterestedly into the Turks dull brown.

“I hear Professor Hojo will be wanting to see you when he returns.” She tries again. Her scent unchanged, if mixed with grains of bafflement and the beginnings of impatience.

The Turks intention seem innocent enough as far as Turk tasks go, likely only to retrieve Sephiroth. They’d probably sent her in particular because she was the Turk who’d been the least antagonistic towards himself.

What strikes Sephiroth as odd with this exchange, however, is Rufus’s response. The young Shinra almost seems to be talking on another subject matter entirely.

But, Sephiroth is already partial towards leaving. He had spent long enough in Rufus’s company. In addition his scheduled time with the young Shinra is about to end.

The turk seems to sense something from him and she stands, pulling slightly on Sephiroth’s shoulder. Implicitly urging him towards the door.

A second hand grabs at his arm, the eight-year-old’s knuckles pale from its grip.

“Sephiroth stays with me.” The same intonation as before, the face of the child so blank it makes the silver-haired boy wonder if the other’s face has stiffened into a mask.

“Don’t be like that, Rufus. You must say goodbye now. Come along Sephiroth.” Her pull becomes more insistent on his shoulder. Her grip tightening. Rufus pulls on his arm. The older boy’s muscles tence along with an imperceptible increase in his breathing.

“Sephiroth, tell Rufus to let go. It’s time for you to leave.” The Turk commands him. Her voice sterner than before.

Rather nonplussed at the tugging from both sides Sephiroth contemplates why he currently finds himself in this predicament.

From Rufus scent it is clear that the blond perceives a threat. A threat to Sephiroth, judging by the warnings the other had given him.

From the brunette tugging at his shoulder her merely senses a task. Her intentions shallow, no deeper than what she had already stated. To retrieve him.

His soul is silent concerning this matter. It knows only obedience and a resentful disdain towards the company.

He had not cared to look deeper into her instructions before. He rarely ever does. But reflecting upon it he knows that this talkative Turk is a rookie. Chicken feed in the hierarchy from the Turk in charge’s own mouth. She would not know the porpoise of her own task.

That the Turks would plot against Sephiroth is definitely plausible, however, should he care? He doesn’t fear any attempts they might do against his life.

The young Shinra had expressed a concern that he could ‘disappear’. He would not miss the older boy’s company if he never got to see him again. However, if Sephiroth were to disappear from Shinra entirely, it would constitute a complication to his own plans.

Ignoring the older woman’s constant urging and more insistent tugging Sephiroth turns to his most credible source of information at hand.

Glowing green meet cold blue. Rufus has given up on repeating his phrase. His face a stony mask. His scent defiant, determined and afraid.

Within the cold abyss of the others eyes he sees a silent urging. No doubt fuled by self interest. 

But so are Sephiroth’s own decisions.

Cooly he returns his attention to the young turk. Shrugging his shoulder partially out of her grip to get her attention, he finalises his decision:

“I do as Shinra commands.” His voice as stony as Rufus’s face.

Stunned the brunette pauses in her verbal urging, but the silver-haired boy can see her nature will not be thwarted so easily.

“This is final. Leave.” He dictates pre-emptively. His firm gaze gaining a faint simmer of annoyance in the face of her possible persistence.

The rookie’s eyes flicker between the two cold-faced boys, before she releases his shoulder, turns and strides towards the door.

“What is this!?” Her voice bears the notes of plaintive indignation. Leaving the scent of confusion and frustration behind as the door swings shut.

Rufus lets out a quiet breath letting go of his arm and brightening the air with relief.

Both boys stay silent, aware of the unknown witnesses there might be.

…

Rufus is becoming more and more restless.

As for Sephiroth himself, he is thoroughly bored. Fortunately his fellow companion had not pestered him, but he had spent the entire afternoon in a stifling enclosed room with the blond and every additional twitch serves to remind him of it.

Meanwhile the short cropped blond Turk had managed to keep up a steady glower at him for the past few hours in the company of is hand-to-hand instructor who managed to keep a friendly if apologetic exterior. From time to time he had left the the room to provide refreshments and more salty snacks for Rufus. His scent betrayed his insincerity however.

Both Turks were were here on a task. They’d come in a some minutes after the rookie left and had half heartedly attempted to retrieve Sephiroth once again, before settling to keep watch over the children.

Since then a heavy silence smothered the room. Rufus, had attempted a few times to start a trivial conversation with Sephiroth with little success, an otherwise tried to keep himself occupied with whatever books he had. Once again with little success, judging by his scent.

Finally Rufus speaks up:

“I need to go to the toilet.”

His hand-to-hand instructor stands up. Unsurprised by the pronouncement.

“I’ll escort you there.” He informed the boy.

The blond makes no move to get up.

A spike of unease introduced itself to the growing discomfort which had been present in Rufus’s scent for the past hour.

“Sephiroth also needs to go to the toilet!” The blond blurts out.

Taken off guard Sephiroth begins to deny the older boy’s claim

“N-“

“-He really needs to go too!” Rufus interrupts speedily and with much enthusiam.

The glance the Turks give each other catches Sephiroth’s attention. A burgeoning suspicion begins to dawn once again.

His hand-to hand-instructor rubs his knuckles discreetly.

“Sephiroth doesn’t look like he needs to go.” The man responds, a genial smile on his face.

“He really, really needs to poo!” The Shinra proclaims emphatically. Now shifting from foot to foot but his face the picture of sincerity.

Sephiroth can sense the other urging him with his scent to corroborate his claim. Face impassive, he crosses his arms, not impressed in the slightest. He has a schedule which he seldom breaks, for such things.

Though he recognises the other’s concern, he will not dignify that excuse with an acknowledgement.

Fists, seems to accept this explanation though Sephiroth can sense his desecrate amusement. He exits the room and Rufus is quick to pursue.

The silver-haired child follows aware of the silent Turk watching him like a predator as she stalks behind him.

Arriving at the bathroom, Rufus quickly darts into a cubicle.

Instantly, Sephiroth is aware of the two Turks senses sharpen onto him, as he continues to pace into the bathroom.

Fists in front and Scissors behind, a formation catering to their strengths. The bathroom is not wide with cubicles on his right and sinks and urinals on his left. If he is quick, perhaps he can gain cover beneath the sinks or in the cubicles, but he knows now the difference that skill makes. In addition, these close-quarter fighters are already in close proximity which would leave him little time to react.

His most likely odds would come from disabling one of his opponents by breaking something in their legs, but would they let him?

Calm, and outwardly unfazed, pupils narrow into slits beneath a silver fringe.

Just as he passes Rufus’s stall the older boy darts out his arm and yanks a fist full of Sephiroth’s collar.

Surprised, Sephiroth manages to curb his reflex to jab his fist into the others ribs. An action which might at least cracked some bones.

Looking up into the blue eye’s with in that same blank face he can sense the silent urging once again..

Silver lashes slide over glowing green in a slow blink, pupils once again dilating as Sephiroth steps into Rufus’s cubicle.

The blond boy is quick to release Sephiroth and pull down his pants to relieve himself, meanwhile the silver haired boy latches the door then turns to watch unabashedly.

When done Rufus pulls up his pants and reaches for the flush, but stops himself then turns a questioning gaze at the other boy standing a couple of steps away from him.

Sephiroth crosses his arms in silent response.

The young Shinra flips down the toilet seat and sits down on it, releasing a shaky, but quiet breath. The stress and adrenaline is even more pronounced in the small enclosed space. He can see the other’s hands shaking where they rest on his white trousers.

Seeing the change Sephiroth uncrosses his arms and takes a hesitant step closer but stops short when Rufus looks up at him. Dilated blue meet with dilated green.

Sephiroth knows that the other boy is scared. Scared on his behalf. Usually the silver-haired child would not care about the other’s distress, but he has been tasked to take note of it.

An unfamiliar uncertainty causes him to falter.

He doesn’t know what to do.

In the end, all he does is stand uselessly and watch the young Shinra piece his courage together on his own.

Soon the fear shrinks into the shadows of a determination Sephiroth does not understand. 

He moves aside as the Shinra stands and makes his way to the door, unlatching it.

Sephiroth flushes dutifully before following the blond to confront the the two experienced Turks laying in wait for them on the other side.

…

The slight increase in the building’s activity, in spite of the evening hour is what gave their return away. A dozen minutes later, he can hear the familiar hurried shuffle. Indeed, professor Hojo bearing a brief case, soon appears in the lobby to which they had been relocated to.

The Professors pace quickens as he strides over to Sephiroth.

“I’m away for a single day and this is the mess you get yourself into?”

He kneels before the pale boy dropping the case uncaringly by his side. Quickly he examine for any injury by manipulating and palpating the boy’s joints.

“Did the assistant reach you?” The professor questions again.

Sephiroth shakes his head in response, but remains otherwise unperturbed.

Professor Hojo purses his lips, and Sephiroth’s nostrils flare as he senses doubt beneath the stress.

“Such incompetence.” The black-hared man sneers vehemently but his scent is half hearted in the sentiment.

“Fortunately I had the foresight to bring you something from the labs.” He opens the briefcase and pulls out a glass bottle of water and some crisp-bread hastily stuffed in a bag.

“What will happen?” The child asks glancing at the documents in the briefcase.

Professor Hojo is silent for a moment, stress and worry fluctuating while he quickly closes the brief case.

“I’m about to attend a meeting. Nothing has been decided yet.” Answers the professor dismissively.

Before Sephiroth can adress the evasion, Hojo leans in suddenly, hazel eyes bearing a severity to impassive green.

“It’s only because Rufus has been by your side all this time that his voice has any weight at all on this matter.” The man speaks in a low and urgent tone.

“Stay by his side.”

On impuls Sephiroth reaches out to grasp the Professors larger hand as he stands.

Sudden surprise lights the air at the boy’s uncharacteristic gesture and Hazel eyes glimmer questioningly down at him.

Thoughts turning swiftly Sephiroth looks away, eyes falling upon Rufus who is watching them with interest.

“Good luck.” The boy mumbles.

Professor Hojo jerks away, as if burnt. A tumult of complicated emotions which Sephiroth does not bother to read into, struggle in the air with each other.

The man leaves quickly with his brief case, not glancing back.

Picking up the bottle of water the five-year-old uncaps it to take a drink while Rufus approaches him surreptitiously.

“Was that your father?” The blond child asks innocently.

Sephiroth chokes.

Desperately concentrating on the new sensation of water flowing up through his noes, he doesn’t have time to examine the emotions seething from his soul.

Regaining his composure, the silver-haired boy wipes his face and turns to the young Shinra.

The silver-haired boy answeres, his tone fridgid and barron as the mountains of Nible:

“No.”

Chapter Text

Shortly after Hojo’s departure, Sephiroth acted.

Standing he faced the Turks. They were different from the ones who had spent the afternoon with him, but he recognised them as his firearm and sword instructor.

“It is time, I must go to the toilet.”

The two women exchange looks with each other.

Rufus perks up at Sephiroth’s words and is quick to add his own piece.

“I also need to go.”

As simple as that, the two Turks began escorting them from the lobby to the nearest bathroom. Taking measured paces, Sephiroth plots.

Evidently the workings within Shinra were more complex than he had previously cared to contemplate. Knowing this now he can not leave his fate solely in the hand of Professor Hojo while he wallows in ignorant boredom, waiting for whatever fate which might potentially shunt him out of Shinra or otherwise inconvenience him.

For this reason he now tracks a fragment of his own awareness which he had left upon Hojo during the brief moment he grabbed hold of the man. As much as he and his soul abhors the idea of attaching any part of himself to his guardian, he had never attempted what he was about to do and needed all of the precision he could get.

He must not be caught. For that same reason he needed a moment of privacy to commence his plan.

Entering the bathroom his eyes casually roam the room, only for the briefest instant locking onto the vent which was barely visible from above the endmost cubicle on the opposite wall.

‘You forgot the ones replaced by the ventilation grates.’

As the memory of his own voice whispers in Sephiroth’s mind, chiding Rufus about the little math’s exercise in a conference room, the pail-haired child’s gait remains unchanged as he paces to the farthest stall.

Shutting and latching it firmly behind him, he listens to the other boy entering a neighbouring stall. Sephiroth opens himself to the outside, although he has never done it before; his soul knows he can. The knowledge of what he must do is innate. A part of his awareness flows out and slips into existence before him.

The faint illusory image of himself looks back at him, observing its more solid counterpart, a child as tall as the handle behind him, hair of silver and eyes a glowing mako green.

Simultaneously, both identical boys turn to look unspeaking at the ventilation-grate far above their heads.

Sephiroth then turns away. Stepping towards the toilet stool and through his faint shade as it floats unheard too and through the grate, beginning its navigation toward the other shard of his soul which rests unobtrusively on his guardian many rooms away.

...

By the time Sephiroth exits his stall, it has found the ceiling ventilation grate to the conference room where the gathering is taking place.

Professor Hojo is there, as is Heidegger, and the red-haired Turk he now knew as Zero. She is accompanied by the dark haired, olive-skinned one whom had attended his status immunity experiments and intruded upon his goading of Cane, his staff-instructor. Through his shade, Sephiroth observes the presence of quite a number of other officials that Sephiroth’s soul doesn’t recognise. He takes notice of Palmers absence. The only other official he has met who has elicited a reaction from his soul, condescending as it might have been.

Briefly eyeing the large conference table, Sephiroth’s shade slips through the currents of lifestream to materialise slowly beneath the table and partially within the floor. Rising out of the floor, the shade carefully observes the polished shoes and variety of socked ankles peeking from beneath trouser hems. Though it can see, its vision is not as sharp as it would have been in Sephiroth’s own body. However, what Sephiroth truly desires is to hear, only his shade is not solid enough to hear anything beyond muffled muted sounds.

The other fragment of his awareness which he had attached to Hojo detaches itself from the man in this moment and like it’s shade melts into the Lifestream in order to bleed into it’s counterpart fragment, causing the illusory Child’s shadow to grow more distinct. With added weight and mass it is just dense enough to be able to hear…

“-a menace if left to roam free as it has. It’s a ticking time bomb!” Booms Heidegger’s voice. Even so, it sounds much more muted and muffled in comparison to Sephiroth’s own hearing which could at that very moment pick up the distant pumping in the pipes which brought him the water to the tap he was using to wash his hands with. “We should stick it down together with the oth-“

“Yes, yes thank you Heidegger.” The voice of president Shinra interrupts. The ghostly child glances down the legs lining the underside of the long conference table to the rich burgundy trouser legs and shiny black shoes at the very end.

There were less people at the table than when Sephiroth had first been introduced. Was their absence because of the late hour or the topic, Sephiroth wonders.

“I-, wh-, -even the Turks would agree with me!” Heidegger splutters.

“Yes, Heidegger, thank you. You may take your leave now and retire for the night.” Repeats the president again, not sounding impatient but firm. Sephiroth’s shade tastes the air but it could not distinguish much with its dulled senses. It throws sephiroth off, even now as he and his escort return to the lobby, he can smell that the Turk behind him, his blade instructor, is tired and distantly worried about something. A honed awareness he has come to rely on to understand the people around him.

In the end the shade watches Heideggers boots - the very same that he had unlaced earlier that day - when the conference room goes silent.

“Yes sir.” Says Heidegger, his voice a tad hoarser then usual. Instead of tasting the air uselessly, shimmering ghostly eyes watched as the green clad legs still, how fingers appear underneath the table to grasp the wooden hand-rests of his chair. How the knuckles tighten and go pale.

Heidegger stands and pushes the chair backwards, causing it to scrape against the carpeted floor. Those pair of solid boots stood glued to the floor for a moment before they seemed to be pulled away as if with difficulty, before walking awkwardly out of the conference room.

“Malkhaz, how do you judge this affair.” Continues President Shinra neutrally after the conference door clicks shut. The shade casts around for who this Malkhaz might be and caught sight of a pair of blue pant legs and shiny shoes taking a step forwards.

‘Turk’, Sephiroth thinks ‘seldom on active duty’, the shoes are not scuffed enough for that even though they are obviously not brand new.

“No harm has come of this affair. Aside from the expense of one bullet and a bullet whole in one of the walls - easily removed.” A deep, calm voice roles off the speakers tongue, a voice which Sephiroth recognises. It was the one who interrupted his spar with cane, the quiet presence during the status immunity experiments and the one he’d met for the first time when looking for Veld.

“There is concern, however, for… your son, sir.” The man hesitates before addressing the President. The shade tastes the air again but feels nothing. Instead it has to resume watching the legs move around it. They looked… nervous? … unsettled? Sephiroth speculates as he walks calmly down the corridor, pale eyes gazing inscrutably ahead. The Turk’s legs give nothing away, they are in a well-balanced stance. Unmoving.

“What happened to him.” The president asked. Listening, Sephiroth can only hear neutrality. It does not even sound like a question from the presidents mouth.

“Most of the day, Rufus spent well. He practiced his lessons until afternoon when Sephiroth was brought in. Rufus retreated with Sephiroth underneath the conference table where they proceeded to do mischief by untying General Heideggers bootlaces.” The man narrates, whatever his thoughts may have been, they were indistinguishable from his voice. But the legs beneath the table shift and the shade could barely catch breathy laughs of amusement from around it.

“What we have gathered from the little your son has said on this matter, it would seem that Heidegger performed a kick when he realised what was happening. According to Rufus, this kick would have struck him if it were not for Sephiroth pulling him quickly out of harms way.” Again, it was carefully and deliberately narrated. A stillness falls over the room. The shade tastes the air but leaves Sephiroth frustrated, instead it can only read into the absence of movement to gain any information.

Meanwhile Sephiroth and his cohort have returned to the lobby, the silver haired boy moves to sit on one of the plush new couches. Rufus curls up right beside Sephiroth, unnecessarily close. Having other things to think about, the silver-haired child doesn’t rebuff him.

“The boys proceeded to study the course work together until Rufus expressed his fatigue in continuing to pursue lessons. Rufus requested Sephiroth to show him some fighting moves, to which Sephiroth agreed and performed a restraining manoeuvre. He was gentle and no harm was done.” Silence filled Malkhaz’s pause once again, but Sephiroth manages to interpret interest from the way the legs around the shade are angled towards the speaker.

“Sephiroth released Rufus upon the latter’s request after which Rufus began attempting to tickle his companion. Sephiroth retaliated in kind, the resulting disturbance elicited Heidgger’s reprimand. It is at this point where hostilities began. General Heidegger claims that Sephiroth was deliberately provocative, while Rufus asserts that Sephiroth was protecting him from a perceived threat from Heidegger.” A quiet murmur arises but the shade doesn’t manage to make out any particular words.

“Hey, Sephiroth…” Rufus calls quietly. The child does not spare a glance at the Presidents son.

“Be still, I am listening.” Sephiroth murmurs softly back, hoping it will be enough to silence the disturbance besides him.

“And the Turks…” Prompts President Shinra.

“What are you listening to? I can’t hear anything.” Asks Rufus disruptively.

Annoyance flickers within the silver-haired boys eyes, but instead of acting upon it he uses it to sharpen his focus.

“It is beyond your hearing. Now, be still.” The pale-haired child’s tone is even and his words bear an exact cadence, sounding almost robotic in nature.

“One of my operatives sensed the situation was becoming dangerous and rushed in to engage. When her partner joined her, he observed General Heidegger and the Turk operative fighting Sephiroth and opened fire. The shot missed, but hostilities ceased. Rufus stepped in and defended his companion, claiming he was not at fault. My second in command took charge and cleared the situation.” Summarised the man. Sephiroth noted curiously that he did not mention the rookie Turk who had rushed in pointing her gun at Heidegger.

“So nothing happened directly to Rufus.” States the President, sounding neutral but through his shade Sephiroth sensed undertones- undertones, he belatedly realised, he could not confirm as the shade fruitlessly tastes the air. Yet again…

“You can hear things I can’t?” Asks Rufus innocently.

“Rufus, was shocked by the incident, sir.” Responds the Turk.

“Hey, what things can you hear?” Inquires Rufus, attempting to jostle Sephiroth’s shoulder to gain a response and succeeding in jostling the younger boy as Sephiroth’s attention is elsewhere.

“Not now.” Sephiroth responds in the same automated voice as he notes through his shade that the legs under the table are becoming uncomfortable in the silence.

“As would be expected of a child who went through such an event.” The Turk adds. “Even adults would be shocked should it be an infrequent experience.” He finished.

So focused on the events he is observing through his shade, Sephiroth doesn’t notice the streak of calculation in cold blue eyes, nor the scent of plotting that would have given Rufus away.

“Mmmm.” President shinra grunts. “What of Sephiroth?” The ghostly boy’s ears twitch, reacting to the subject.

“Will you tell me later?” Whispers Rufus in Sephiroth’s ear, the sound unnecessarily loud to Sephiroth’s sharp senses.

Sephiroth grunts in response.

“My Turks say he seems unfazed.” The deep voice of the Turk says measuredly.

“As is expected, he was made for this after all.” Hojo’s voice, Sephiroth knows it too well. He can tell the man is feeling anxious even through the shades dulled senses.

“Mm.” The shade barely hears the Presidents grunt in reply. “Show us the footage, I’d like to see how they performed.”

“Before, I felt that your hands were different, can I look at them?” Asks Rufus, his voice pitched a little higher than usual. Sephiroth is beginning to notice Rufus’s overly innocent behaviour which clashes with his conniving scent, but he continues to ignore it in favour of something more worthy of his attention.

“Sir.” The deep voice acknowledges. Another Turk with smaller feet - ‘female’ he thinks -approached and he hears a loud thud of something being put down follow by clattering, tapping and clicking.

The shade begins edging noiselessly nearer to the table’s edge, contorting itself in a manner which would have been painful had it been more solid. Nearing an unknown man’s feet it peers between stool legs up at the wall showing a projected image.

“We added the audio for you benefit, sir.” A female voice that Sephiroth recognises as the turk Zero’s.

In the lobby, the pale-haired child passes his hand slowly to Rufus in silent offering to his previous request, hoping it will keep the boy distracted for long enough. He turns his head towards the blond. His firearm instructor who is currently standing guard for Rufus and himself seems rather inattentive. Her companion, his blade instructor has a much higher perceptiveness combined with a low sense of presence, but her thoughts seem taken by other worries. However, they are both turks after all and it would inconvenience him if he further piqued their suspicions.

Meanwhile the shade gazes at the video footage, an overhead angle of a conference room showing a grainy image of Heidegger at the far end. A spread of papers lie before the man. On the floor beside the conference table a pale haired child straddles another. The sounds of a child’s shrill laughter comes through in a strange echo from the speakers.

A slam as Heidegger stands at the far end of the table. Though the shade cannot see the man’s expression from its vantage point under the chair it does see it’s counterpart jump to it’s feet, the movement too fast for the camera to catch making it look like he was kneeling one moment and standing the next. Rufus’s counterpart scrambles much slower and more clumsily to his feet, edging closer the already standing boy.

“Here I am, keeping an eye on you care-free children all day. Doing my best to get some real work done. And what do you do? Scream and riot! Playing pranks like uncivilised whelps! Well then, what do you have to say for yourselves?!”

Heidegger’s rugged booming voice comes across clearly from the speakers. The Children on the video footage seem small in comparison with the big man, especially with Rufus’s counterpart cowering by the shorter boy’s side. Meanwhile, said cowering boy had begun tracing the hardened skin of Sephiroth’s palms. Much like Professor Hojo had done when it first started developing.

“You seem a little too angered by such a small disturbance. Perhaps something else weighs on your mind? Sad you were left behind, to watch over us?” The Childs higher, smoother voice comes through the speakers surprisingly clearly. The legs around the shade shift somewhat in what seems to be intrigue.

“Your skin feels so thick.” Rufus said with interest, trying to pinch Sephiroth’s palm with his own soft fingers. The pale-haired boy besides him doesn’t bother responding.

“You SOLDIER brat!” Heidegger roars, commencing an aggressive but aborted lunge as Sephiroth’s counterpart swiftly pushes the cowering Rufus behind him before hopping onto the table. ‘the last movement almost comes off as floating in the cameras. There is no noise from the steps Sephiroth makes on the table, or at least none that the shade can hear.

“So it’s SOLDIER which bothers you. So it is. Left behind because SOLDIER does your work in your place.” Through the filter of the audio’s echo the child’s tone sounds mild.

“Sephiroth…” Rufus murmurs.

“What would you know, stupid brat!” Heidegger growl is harder to decipher, through the audio.

“Why would I not know, as the future of SOLDIER. SOLDIER is stronger, faster, more resilient, more adaptable. Simply put, they are more effective.”

“How can monsters like you ever replace normal human combatants?” Although Heidegger looks angry his question sounds more composed.

“Sephiroth.” Rufus calls again, this time jostling the other boy’s shoulder. Green eyes focus briefly on Rufus before seeming to look through the child again.

“We are stepping in a new era, the era of Mako energy. The old ways will fade, replaced with what is more effective. More advance machinery is constantly being made as a more effective replacement for the old. SOLDIER is merely another side of the developments brought about by Mako energy. With new ideas and new techno-“

Rufus leans in towards Sephiroth’s ear.

“Are you still listening to that thing?”

“-logy come new methods. The old ways you cling to will be cast away, as will you. As you cling to your old fashioned ways and petty pride, you shall perish in the gutter of Shinra’s new world.” The Child’s tone begins much as it had throughout the recording, flat and factual, but as his spiel continued, his tone softens, seeming to caress every word.

“Hmm…” Sephiroth grunts softly in response. Meanwhile the shade inches closer to the tables edge. It’s ghostly hands even sink into and through the floor to get a better view of the screen. There is a distinct tap of a key and the images begin to slow down

“Shut your f-“ Heidegger bellows, his voice distorted as he suddenly lunges forward the slowed pictures drawing out his intentions in almost exaggerated movements. The pale-haired child on the table instantly adopts a defensive position.

The door slams open in slow motion. A blurred figure darts through it. Sephiroth’s counterpart begins turning towards the door. Heidegger flinches away, once again his movements almost exaggerated. An outdrawn slamming sound comes across the audio as the dark suited Turk lands kneeling on the table. Rufus’s counterpart jolts away, plastering himself against the wall. The Turks left hand pressed to her right ribs reveals a flash of a blade which hones inevitably towards the boy’s kidney. Sephiroth’s counterpart is suddenly close to the table top, ducking under the hidden blade from behind. The speed of the movements translating into odd disjointed images on the video.

In the next instant the pale haired boy is on his feet again, blocking the blade from the front. Seemingly pushed by a force the turk begins to roll over the table. Suddenly air born and spinning the child rapidly blinks larger from the cameras perspective. The child lands on the wall in a crouch, head craned lithely in the direction of Heidegger who’s fumbling out a gun and the Turk who is regaining her feet after the tumble over the table.

Then the child is suddenly looking towards the door. Another dark suited figure appears, arms lifted with the tell tale dull glint of a gun. The child on the wall falls just as a drawn out bang rings out through the audio.

The Turk pauses the video feed. A pause before a collective breath is drawn by the people in the room. They had seemingly been so focused on the screen they had forgotten to breath. The legs beneath the table noticeably relax and stretch out. A low murmur rises between the employees.

“Promise you will tell me about what you are hearing.” Rufus whispers.

The silver haired boy makes a noncommittal sound while the shade agilely avoids one of the legs that stretched out, slowly beginning to retreat farther back under the table.

“Promise me, Sephiroth.” Whispers Rufus more insistently, grabbing hold of the younger boys shoulder in a tight grip.

“No.” Answers Sephiroth calmly, The shade finally having returned to it’s initial position after  stepping over a few more legs.

A slow claps cut through the low din of murmurs in the conference room.

“Indeed quite the performance. Highlighting both the Turk’s skill and SOLDIERS superior strength and agility.” The shade observes the president’s legs relax and shift forward as if he is leaning back in his chair.

All of a sudden Sephiroth senses the scent of animosity.

“If you don’t-“ Slit pupiled eyes flash to the boy beside him. Rufus cuts off in mid sentence, eyes transfixed on the other’s.

“Do not threaten me.” Murmurs emotionlessly the silver haired boy, so quietly it is but a breath. The only reason Rufus is able to hear it is because he is so close already.

“This does indeed seem to be an unfortunate misunderstanding.” Continues the president in the conference room, the shade silently observing the president’s large hands appear beneath the table top to grip the armrest.

The scent of what Sephiroth can only identify as excitement bursts from the older boy. He tastes the air just as the shade does the same under the table many rooms away.

Rufus is calm on the surface, but excitement is thick in the air to Sephiroth’s senses and with in it he distinguishes joy and a keen interest.

The shade finds nothing.

“From what I have seen, Sephiroth was indeed too quick in instigating aggression. Is this not somewhat concerning?” Continues the President. Hands press down on the armrests to adjust his bulk in the chair.

“Likewise, the Turks under you were also quick to escalate the conflict, Malkhaz.” Finishes the president sternly. A deliberate chiding in his voice.

Sephiroth’s attention returns quickly to the senses of his shade. Offhandedly aware that Rufus very quickly takes notice of his absence.

“This is not strange.” Interjects the voice of professor Hojo. The shade’s ears prick up and Sephiroth recognises veiled anxiety beneath the scientists facade.

Rufus moves to clasp his hands together on the younger boy’s shoulder.

“Sephiroth is designed to be a warrior, he is trained to seek out threats.” States the Professor with confidence. The shade turns to slowly glances at Hojo’s legs. They are still. Sephiroth knows the man has become better at hiding his true self. Sephiroth hears, never the less, a hidden uncertainty in the man even through the shade’s dull senses.

Rufus places his chin on his clasped hands watching with interest as the others’s softly glowing green eyes follow him. The pupils are back to their usual half dilated state with a strange absent quality about them.

“Sir President.” Voices a deep timber to the side. The shade’s gaze hones in immediately on the shiny shoes and the blue slacks of the male Turk.

“Please, I’m really curious.” Whines the presidents son, quietly. Eyes opened wide in fake plea to the uncaring silver-haired boy.

“The Turks in charge of training Sephiroth have reported-”  

“Tell meeee~” The boy whines quietly, attempting to shake Sephiroth’s shoulder with his clasped hands. An attempt Sephiroth resists with growing annoyance.

“-that he has increasingly desired to enter combat for the past months.” The shade slowly turns it’s etherial body toward the speaking Turk. Ears pricked, listening for any undertones.

Rufus rests his chin on his clasped hands with a quiet sigh, staring up at the absent green eyes. Tilting his head to the side he whatches with interest as the other’s eyes followed his movement. Still absent.

“Incidentally, Sephiroth was observed to have tried to instigate-“

Rufus straightens and lifts a hand to touch the side of the younger boy’s pale face. A gesture which Sephiroth decisively ignores.

“-a duel with one of his Turk instructors a month ago.”

Rufus hand trails softly against the pale-haired boy’s skin. His scent gradually betraying suppressed excitement and pleasure. Sephiroth’s eyes narrow slightly, but he does not have time to spare a thought for the older boy’s shenanigans. 

“According to the report of the Turk, Sephiroth attempted to provoke him using a rhetoric similar to the one recorded during this incident.”

Rufus’s hand begins trailing over the bridge of Sephiroth’s noes, and suddenly grabs it’s tip.

“Tell. Me. Please.” The child intones jerking the younger boy’s noes back and forth.

Green eyes sharpened dangerously onto the mischievous ones of pale blue. Sephiroth’s mouth falls open in tandem with the shade’s, drawing in a deep breath.

Aside from vindictive gleefulness of the boy in front of him he could also taste a mixture of repressed alarm and interest. From the corner of his eyes Sephiroth can observe his firearms and blade instructor watching them.

The shade could sense nothing from it’s dulled senses but it noticed from beneath the table that President Shinra had leaned forward and his hands disappeared from the armrest. 

In the end, the pale haired child merely scrunched his noes in protest of his treatment.

“Are you implying that Sephiroth deliberately provoked Heidegger into instigating a fight?”

“Tell me, tell me, tell me~“ chanted the boy under his breath. Rufus’s naughty hands turned their attention back to the younger boy’s cheeks and pinched them into a parody of smiling expression, which made Rufus snigger.

Having enough but under the scrutiny of two Turks, Sephiroth shook off the child's hands and gave in.

“Fine, as long as you stop pestering me.” He muttered darkly, hurriedly returning his attention to the events transpiring by his shade’s side.

“-Of course Sephiroth is looking for an opponent. He has been trained to fight them and has been ready for months to do so, yet we have not provided one for him. It is a given that he is restless-“ interjects Hojo with condescending vehemence.

To Sephiroth, however, there is no question of the fear in Hojo’s voice even through the shade.

Meanwhile a smug grin spreads surreptitiously over Rufus’s face. Rising onto is knees he drapes himself over the pale haired boy’s shoulder.

I knew you’d tell-“ Rufus cuts himself off when he notices the two guarding Turks staring at them. Sephiroth feels the boy go tense but quickly relax again.

“Yes, thank you Hojo. Malkhaz.” Interrupts the president. The feet slowly shift to look at The pair of polished shoes and blue slacks that have not moved since earlier.

Rufus pouts slowly at the two Turks watching him. As if on cue the Turks turn away, pretending to ignore them. This time the boy remembers to hide the smug smile expressed by his scent.

“Sephiroth is indeed remarkably accomplished in his combative skill set.” The Turk responds calmly, his voice slow and deep.

Sinking back into the couch, Rufus snuggles comfortably into Sephiroth’s side. Arm still slung over the younger boy’s shoulder.

“However, the Turks who are in charge of his training have expressed a concern regarding the safety of initiating duels.”

“We should decide a time to meet again.” Says Rufus conversationally, still speaking softly but not deliberately so.

“Can your Turks not handle a five-year-old boy?” Asks the president. The shade turns to observe the President’s legs but sees only that the man is leaned forward in his chair. Legs spread wide. The president’s words should have sounded condescending, but from the tone and posture Sephiroth thinks the man is genuinely probing for an answer.

Lifting a hand, Rufus begins twisting a finger through Sephiroth’s shoulder length hair. The seven-year old pauses as if realising what he’s doing. Mischievousness flares, and beneath that, a pure curiosity. Spreading his fingers into the strands he brings it to the light and begins to fiddle with it. Sephiroth ignores him.

“There lies part of the problem, sir. In a duel, rules are established to prevent serious injury or prevent the fight from escalate and become more aggressive.” As the man speaks the shade begins to notice the legs around the table begin to cross or close, only President Shinra’s remain open. “Can a normal 5-year old child be relied upon to not lose themselves in the heat of the moment? Can they understand the significance of restraint even when they want to progress faster?”

“Sephiroth has always been exceptionally disciplined and controlled.” Sneers professor Hojo.

“I’ll ask father to let you come more often to visit me.” Decides Rufus, pulling back his other hand from Sephiroth’s shoulders to continue to fiddle with the pale hair with both of his hands.

“If it really were a normal child, it would not be a big problem.” Continues the Turk, ignoring professor Hojo’s interjection. “A normal 5-year-old child is not powerful enough to do harm.”

“Maybe I can come and visit you some time too.” Pipes Rufus with enthusiasm besides Sephiroth’s ear. Beginning to untangle his fingers from the silver hair. The younger boy merely ignores the commotion besides him. Regardless of what he does he trusts that Rufus will do whatever he wants anyway.

“Sephiroth is an enhanced individual. His basic training, enhanced strength and reaction speed are evident in the footage shown just now. Notice this is the boy’s first live combat.” The shade listens quietly within the table’s shadow as the legs around him begin to move. ‘Discomfort’ interprets Sephiroth.

“If Sephiroth were to lose his calm he could do a lot of damage.” Finishes the Turk - Malkhaz seriously. Sephiroth makes sure to take note of him. The shade creeps closer lowering it’s head to for a better view of this Turk’s body.

“I know what we can do!” Shouts Rufus, executing a sharp slap to Sephiroth’s thigh. Sephiroth lets out a slow breath, controlling the flinch he’d just about managed to retain. With his attention elsewhere the boy’s shout and slap had succeeded in startling Sephiroth out of his focus.

 “Granted that Sephiroth is powerful, however, like professor Hojo said, the child seems disciplined and has great mastery of his strength. All I hear is that the Turks do not have the ability to train Sephiroth. Is this correct Malkhaz.” The president summarises severely.

“Disregarding the topic of ability-“ Malkhaz deflects smoothly. “My Turks in charge of training the SOLDIERS say that they are progressing well. Now that they have acclimatised to their enhancements, perhaps it is more appropriate for SOLDIER to take charge of combat with Sephiroth.“ Concludes the Turk. Though the shade can’t see the man’s face, Sephiroth thinks he can hear a smile in the man’s voice.

“We’ll have a sleep over!” Cries Rufus, jumping up from the  couch. Seeing Sephiroth’s slow blinks the boy leans over supporting himself on the younger boy’s thighs. 

“You can come to my place during the day and we’ll sleep together at night!” The blond explained with enthusiasm.

As the information registers, horror brings Sephiroth out of his daze. This sleep over sounds like a terrible idea.”

Just as he is about to protest, the shade - many rooms away - from the corner of it’s vision sees the knees of the second pair of turk legs bend.

Distracted as Sephiroth is it reacts by turning it’s head in time to see the woman’s head appear beneath the table.

Sephiroth’s attention snaps back and the shade is instantly back in the turbulent currents of the life stream.

Beginning to call the fragment of consciousness back to himself, Sephiroth wonders: had he been discovered?

As a shade, his presence in the conference room should have been much less than an actual persons, not needing to breath, or having the same mass. Further more, it’s semi-transparence should have been even harder to perceive in the darkness beneath the table.

“Right, it is decided.” Announces Rufus, just as the beeping sounds from one of the Turk’s pocket. 

“Mmm” hums Sephiroth disinterestedly as his Turk instructor pulls out a communicator. Walking quite a distance away she responds to the call.

“Yo Zee!” Responds the Turk cheerily.

“Are…” Sephiroth pricks his ears but can only make out faint electronic sounds which fade into the other ambient noises around them…

“They’re both here.” Answers the Turk unconcernedly.

“…they….”

“Fooling around mostly-, whispering a bunch like they have some big secret. I tell you, that little prince has no fear, he was just about picking the snot from the freaks nostrils. I can’t believe it put up with it. I’d’ve blown my top already. Guess the little press wouldn’t be such a pest if it wasn’t acting like a pretty doll, but still. So freaky.”

“….doll……look….?” Sephiroth could only make out a few words.

Distracted? Jeez , how am I supposed’t know?- Nah, it looked totally disinterested. Yo, why you- hey!” The other party seemed to have hung up and Sephiroth’s firearm instructor grumbled disgruntled under her breath as she put the communicator away. “Fuck you, Zee”

Sephiroth glances away as the Turk turned to walk back. Rufus who’s attention had also been drawn by the phone call turned back to Sephiroth.

“Did you hear what she said?” Still standing infront of Sephiroth he whispered, this time not approaching too close.

“Yes.” Sephiroth confirms. He saw Rufus focusing on his lips, not seeming to hear his whisper but, nevertheless, understanding the simple answer.

“What did they talk about?” Whispered Rufus still bent over with his hands resting on the younger boy’s knees.

Sephiroth looks back calmly, not intending to answer.

Catching on quickly, Rufus shakes Sephiroth’s legs his face encouraging, the scent of eagerness and frustration mixing in the air.

“Common, you promised you’d tell, me.” The blond wheezed.

The pale-haired boy stiffens. Recalling the formers actions, he really had agreed to tell the boy what he had heard in the conference room. With trepidation Sephiroth also recalls what else he seemingly agreed too in his distraction.

A small flame of anger comes alight as he realises how the young Shinra had taken advantage of his moment of weakness, divided in his attention as he had been. Yet, the flame of anger is soon smothered by a blanket of lethargy. In his short life he had never felt so defeated.

However, since their futures seemed further entangled, then Sephiroth would work to gain what he could from this Rufus.

Relaxing tensed muscles he beckons the othe, his posture making a complete turn about.

In his eagerness, the older boy practically sits on the younger boy’s lap, seemingly having dropped his sense of decorum around Sephiroth.

Sephiroth sighs before nearing the blond’s ear.

“The caller named ‘Zee’ asked about us.” Sephiroth felt the boy still over him, the eagerness fading, replaced by a focus and a very faint burst distinct wariness.

“The Turk answered that we had been ‘fooling around’ and whispering as if we had ‘some big secret.’” Sephiroth feels the older boy’s weight on his lap increase as the young Shinra sits down more properly. The playfulness in his scent was now completely gone. In spite of this the boy’s outer facade revealed little, still looking eager if a bit stiff.

“She also said you were being a ‘pest’ and that I was very patient with you.” Instead of perking up with indignation, Rufus weight became even heavier, as if reflected his mood. Strands of sadness and frustration introduced themselves to his scent.

In spite of himself, Sephiroth felt a faint intrigue emerge within himself.

“The Turk thought that perhaps if I had been acting less like a ‘doll’, you would have behaved yourself more properly.” Perhaps there some truth to this, but Sephiroth would not forget that Rufus had been trying to gain benefits at the time.

“‘Zee’ reacted to the word ‘doll’ and asked if I had seemed ‘distracted’” Sephiroth couldn’t be sure this was what had been said, but it was what he had deduced from the Turks response. Idly looking at the young ear he was speaking into, he slowly closed his eyes. Tilting his head he slowly breathed in that scent, the scent of awakening fear.

His soul which had been silent for a while, unable to recognise the events around it, stirred from the scent of it’s desire. Dark clouds swirled in a fractured memory and the pale reflection of light off metal. Sephiroth continued to speak absentmindedly as he revelled in the fragmented passion within.

“The Turk wasn’t sure but thought I looked disinterested instead, whereupon the call was ended.” He finished abruptly and put a hand on Rufus hip to push him gently off his lap.

Rufus got off cooperatively and sat beside Sephiroth, drawing his legs up and resting an elbow on them. A hand conveniently in front of his mouth.

“Do you think Zero is Zee?” Asks Rufus quietly, his scent wary. No doubt having taken notice of the guards once more.

Sephiroth tilts his head in the blond’s direction, taking note of the boy’s mention of the Turk. He indeed thinks the same, but mostly because it had been Zero who had almost caught his shade beneath the table. Rufus, however, seems more familiar with her personally, a complicated mess of emotions churn around him.

In the end he lets the topic rest along with his head on the couch behind him.

“I’m tired.” The five-year-old says out loud.

Rufus scent calms, parting way for interest.

“Why are you tired?” The boy asks.

“I’m tired of you.” Sephiroth states bluntly.

The young Shinra turns to pout at him, but his scent is amused.

…

When the night begins, a crowd of steps travel down the empty corridors of the Shinra tower. Sephiroth hears them from afar, and waits in stillness as they approach him.

As they enter the lobby, Rufus jumps up along with the scent of joy and relief.

“Father!” He cries and runs over to the man in his typical burgundy suit. The man smiles but he is to far from Sephiroth for the boy to make out his emotions.

Standing calmly, Sephiroth approaches the group, his eyes sliding to professor Hojo who stands farther back in the crowd.

The man seems tense and tired but not worried. In front of him are both the Turks that had been in the conference room. Zero and Malkhaz. The former staring at him with interest, the later inscrutable but for his deep, dark eyes drawn to the pale-haired boy.

Coming to a stop at a respectful distance Sephiroth cast his eyes back up at the president.

The boy is tranquil. Waiting patiently for his verdict.

Looking sternly down on the young boy, but his hand placed softly on his sons shoulders, President Shinra begins to give his verdict:

“In this incident, you have been found at fault.” The mans voice is severe, echoing with a loud clarity in the quiet lobby.

From the corner of his eye, Sephiroth sees Rufus look up at his father then back at the other child. From the mixtures of nervousness, interest and wariness that wafts to the boy from the crowd he  can identify the blonds acute concern. The only scent of youth among all the adults.

Unfazed, Sephiroth’s gaze does not waver from the president’s. Patiently, he waits for what is to come.

“You would have attacked a Shinra executive if not for the Turks’ intervention.” The man towers over the Sephiroth where he stands alone, facing a crowd of adult. Like a living creature the scent of the crowd adopts a mob’s a scent of animosity, only the sent of Rufus’s injustice cleaves through the smog. He could see the small pale hand gripping the burgundy lounge jacket.

The silver-haired boy remains tranquil and continues to blink calmly up at the President.

Gradually a scent distinguishes itself from the others. A puzzled interest.

“Taking in consideration your young age and the fact that there were no parties injured, I have decided to be lenient.” Continues Shinra with the same severity, but Sephiroth knows the scent of growing fascination belongs to this man.

Rufus’s relief peppers the potent mixture, even as the discomfort of the crowd grows.

“I hope this incident does not repeat itself.” With those words the President turns to leave and the crowd begins to disperse. Only Professor Hojo hurries towards him.

Sephiroth’s eyes do not leave the President’s figure, however. Not a moment later, the President turns back.

“Ah, Sephiroth. Answer me this: Who do you serve?” From the scent of warning and plea Rufus is projecting towards him and the nervous scent from the professor who freezes in his approach, the silver-haired boy knows this is a loaded question.

A memory stirs within Sephiroth and his soul, different but striking distinctly the same chord.

‘Aren't you a smart boy? Yes, I am President Shinra. But do you know what that means, Sephiroth? It means that I am your master. What ever happens to you, it is because I have decided it. Whatever you do, it is because I have told you to do so. Do you understand?’ In this life those were the words the President had spared him when they first met.

Before replying, green eyes drift to wide pale blues. They bear a hidden message and plead for him to understand and use it.

Returning his gaze to the older man’s equally cold blue eyes, Sephiroth answers.

“I serve the Shinra.”

‘for now’ from the darkness within, his soul promises.

Unnoticed by most of the executives which are bustling off to their beds, a tense quiet settles between man and child. But Sephiroth knows his words have won favour. Amusement and fascination give the older man away.

A rich chuckle releases the tension, Hojo and Rufus both relax visibly.

“Brilliant! Indeed, there is no better answer!” The president chuckles. Until he narrows his eyes and sneers at the five-year old “I could even say, too brilliant.”

Hojo clasps Sephiroth by the shoulder pulling the boy against his side. Wariness in his scent, seemingly for the president, but from the tremble in his body and the hesitation in his movement Sephiroth knows the professor bears a secret unease for the one by his side.

From President Shinra Sephiroth senses no animosity, however. Just like his son, the man seems drawn where others would be repelled.

“Rest well.” The man says, before turning around for real this time, towing his son along with him.

Rufus throws a last careless glance back at Sephiroth but leaves a note of relief and satisfaction through his scent.

By his side, the child hears the Professor let out a sigh but he still smells concerned a bout something.

“Let’s go Sephiroth. I’ll sleep with you tonight.”

Green eyes glance quietly at bloodshot hazel ones. Professor Hojo rarely sleeps at the old Shinra building. He always retires to someplace outside.

“I’m tired.” Is the only thing Sephiroth says, in the end.

Chapter Text

Dear Sephiroth

Of course I will tell you about the conference. It has become big new. Shinra announced that they are repurposing the Department of world exploration and will be renamed the Department of space exploration.

This is a huge opportunity for many people because it offers a stable job for the next 10-years in many different fields. The competition will be fierce, however, especially for the old employee who have to prove that their skills are still useful and not obsolete.

My goodness! Space exploration! I can barely recognise what the world has become! This is a huge project of course and it will take up to a decade to finish researching, testing and finish constructing the first Rocket to space. It is going to require people from multiple fields to come together and work on this! Of course the space department can’t purely focus on developing a rocket because, well, who knows if it’s going to result in any financial returns. So there will be sub departments which will focus on developing and building aerial transport! Their’s talk about building an airship. This is a massive construct capable of carrying an entire squad of soldiers, not to mention cargo! Imagine. They will also work on several other possible ideas like boards that can hover in the air or contraptions strapped to the back to let you fly! Though similar feats have been achieved before it has always been accomplished by ingenious combinations of rare Materia, like the ball the old scientist I met in Cosmo Canyon was using. However these are difficult to make and produce in large numbers because they rely so heavily on Materia. What Shinra is proposing I a means for transport that relies soy on Mako energy which can be mass produced. This is leagues ahead of what is currently possible with today’s technology!

As far as I can tell, the conference went peacefuly. It was my first time seeing a SOLDIER. Their eyes reminded me of your’s, a bit. The only disruption during the event, really, where the crowds who either rushed over to the SOLDIERs with curiosity or hung back gawking at them from a distance. They even had to remove a number of the SOLDIERs from the 13th unit because the disruption from their fans was too great. Perhaps when you are older this will also be something that you encounter. It was a bit of a strange mixture of people unsettled by and those fascinated and worshipful of SOLDIER. It is because you are different, though human you are also something more now. Throughout the ages people have never really known how to behave around those who are different. But do not let this put you off, though people can act unpleasant when they are unsure, it merely stems from the fear of the unknown. Once education is improved and access to information becomes easier, people become more openminded. In fact Shinra’s education has already shown results during this conference. In my childhood, people mould not have been as trusting towards SOLDIER.

As for the next part it is both good and bad news I have to offer. My partner now bears our child! I shall marry her soon! I should have known sooner, but love can make fools of us all I suppose.

As for the bad news, I am sorry Sephiorth, It looks like I won’t be in touch with you for a while. My companion an I will make haste to the northern continent before the roads become impassible. We will not have time to stop, nor will I be able to send you any letters for a while. I’m Sorry I wasn’t able to come to see you in Midgard this time, Sephiroth.

Your’s Truly

Gast Faremis

——————

Receiving the letter from Veld, Sephiroth goes to find a quiet spot to read it as usual.

He’s been looking forward to this.

No one has told him anything about either the result of the conference in Junon or his fate after his confrontation with Heidegger and the Turks. He had, however, over heard some Turks sighing in relief about his training being handed over to SOLDIER after the ‘Heidegger incident’, which Sephiroth was going to use as an excuse in his letter to Gast for his knowledge on the matter.

Unfolding the letter green eyes alight expectantly on the familiar handwriting. The space exploration program is familiar to Sephiroth’s soul, but it did not lend much interest to the topic, though space itself held a quiet longing.

They’ed cover space in class already. Aside from noxious collections of gasses and barren bodies of matter there only seemed to be one thing in great abundance. Space.

What was lost out there in all of that empty space which could awaken a quiet longing in his soul?

Seeing the mention of old employees who are going to need to struggle to retain their position and image of Palmer enters Sephiroth’s mind. He’d been absent at the meeting regarding his fate. Though both space exploration and world exploration doesn’t seem to have much connection.

The usual disdain and indifference makes itself known from his soul. Sephiroth knows that Palmer will survive this ordeal, but he had never considered the man would need to struggle to retain it.

In fact Palmer comes off as someone who seldom needs to, Sephiroth rarely sensed any stress from the man. Contrarilly Hojo is constantly on the move, unkempt and stressed. The only thing Palmer seems to struggle with is climbing the stairs. The boy had heard him often enough in the stairwell on his way to his next class or examination. Palmer was in fact one of the few who actually used the stairs to get from floor to floor.

When Gast describes the peoples uncertainty towards SOLDIER. A faint shiver of annoyance and frustration permeates his soul just as a familiar pulsing alienation awakens This alienation he has felt before; the whispers of freak; the strange looks some of the employees give him; the uncertainty and dissonance in the the scents that awaken at his sight.

Sephiroth has always known he is different from others, this understanding only grows over time. Able to perceive things beyond the senses of the humans around him. To perform feats humans are not supposed to perform, use of magic without Materia being the least of them.

Perhaps SOLDIER will indeed be different in some of the ways he is. Perhaps he will find something familiar, a feeling of ‘same’ among SOLDIERs. But the silver-haired boy knows that even in SOLDIER he will be different. Because, even as he indulges in the hope of belonging and companionship from his soul, there is still the ever present sense of alienation - of ‘other’.

But Sephiroth doesn’t care, he has his own purpose this time. To find Cloud. To find the purpose for his obsession.

Tensely, Sephiroth reads the next paragraph. Anger wells up. His soul has now Gast would never see him again, but every time Gast mentioned that he might come by hope awakened within him only to inevitably wither.

Further more, his old friend is now rushing off to the norther continent in winter to be with this strange woman where he would be inaccessible for probably the next few months.

Eyes glow menacingly, but the hands on the letter stayed relaxed. Holding the pages gently pithing his grasp.

Reading the letter again, there was something strange about the writing. Not unusual, sephiroth always has a sense of dissonance when reading the letters. Only this time the strangeness is a little different. It seems rushed somehow. The first part is fine but the last parts are written as if in haste.

Had something happened that forced Gast to leave abrupptly?

Reading the letter a few more times, Gast seems indeed much more cryptic concerning his future plans than he had been in previous letters. Privacy flashed through the boy’s mind. Sephiroth knows his letters are being read by Shinra, perhaps something Gast had written to Sephiorth in his previous letters had lead to Shinra’s reprimand. It could explain why he was being more cautious with the information he revealed in this letter.

In an isolated corner in the old Shinra building a five year old child stands alone. Gazing blankly down at a friends letter in his hand.

Listening to the noises echoing faintly through the buildings old vents Sephiroth notices it is not as lively as it used to be. They are gradually moving their operations to the Shinra tower as more and more of the giant complex is further completed.

Folding the letter and tucking it in a pocket, the child begins striding towards the stairwell. With his keen awareness for time, Sephiroth knows it is time for class.

…

Down a poorly lit corridor in the old Shinra building, a child is leaning by a door with private sign on it.

The sounds of wheels and rattling instruments come down the adjoining corridor.

The child perks up and shuffles down the corridor to peer after the sound. A door opens and Sephiroth sees the familiar thin-fluffy, pale hair of the Janitor as he pushes his trolly into a broom closet.

Sephiroth doesn’t know why he came here to wait for this stranger. In spite of the moments they have shared there is still a distance between them. A distance that the Janitor maintains and that Sephiroth had chosen to breach on occasion.The broom closet door closes after the old man exits, palming a light switch in a habitual motion. The lights flicker off and the man trudges down the corridor in the dark. Only faint greenish reflected light filters through the twisting corridors.

Sephiroth knows the moment the man sees him because he comes to a faltering stop. Even within the darkness Sephiorth can make out the man’s face clearly, his faded blue yes fixed on the small figure ahead of him. The man probably sees the glow of his eyes, thinks Sephiroth. He’d already long understood that most people could not see well in the dark.

Faded blue eyes flicker to a corner along the ceiling. Sephiroth glances up in that direction. There is a videocamera, a read light signalling it’s recording.

For the first time, Sephiroth takes notice of the fact that the corridor down to the Janitor’s room is in the blindspot of the surveillance.

There really was not point to servile it since it lead to a dead end. But Sephiroth has become more aware of the importance of such blindspots after hearing how much of his actions had been recorded. It wasn’t that Sephiroth had never noticed the cameras in the building before. He had merely not noted their significance and thus disregarded them.

The old man continues down the corridor, a lone figure in the empty halls. It strikes Sephiroth that he has never seen this man with another. Most Shinra workers can be caught gossiping with other employees.

Much like Sephiroth. This man is always alone.

Reaching the junction, the man passes Sephiroth without acknowledging the boy.

Not discouraged, the boy stares intently as the man walks by. Delicate nostrils flaring. There is the ever present scent around the man that Sephiroth has come to identify as sadness.

What is it like, the child wonders as he begins to shadow the man’s steps down the pitch black corridor, to be perpetually sad.

Opening the door to his tiny home and pulling the string for the sole dangling lightbulb in the man turns to look unspeaking down at the silver-haired child, who’s eyes have turned slitted from the sudden light. The man’s face remains inscrutable, as does his scent.

Suddenly, Sephiroth feels flustered. He doesn’t really know himself why he came here. He’d been acutely aware of the emptiness within after Gast left. He yearns for something. Something familiar…

“I want some tea.” The child says without thinking.

The words end up surprising Sephiroth more than the janitor.

…

The smell of Fennel tea greets to boys nostrils. Familiarity is kindled. Familiarity from Sephiroth’s own memories and not from his soul.

Back on the cot in the tiny room, paper cup of fennel tea warming his hands and the emptiness within assuaged, Sephiroth listens to the slow heartbeat besides him. Perhaps they’ll be a better indicator than the mans scent.

“I’m afraid I will never see my friend again.” He sighs softly. The heart beat increases an inkling, but not more so than initiating any other social interaction would.

He sent me a letter when he was in Junon. He didn’t say mush except that he wants to marry someone and live in the Northern continent. Because of the weather there he wont be sending me any letters for a while. I don’t even know where to send my reply.”

The Janitor doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the wall in front of him, tea I hand. His scent doesn’t betray anything. His heart is still beating at a normal rate but at the same rhythm as when he first started speaking.” In site of his blank exterior, perhaps he is turning thoughts over in his mind.

Sephiroth turns his attention back to his tea and takes a sip, the distinctive taste of fennel flooding his senses. Closing his eyes the boy lets it fill the growing abyss inside of him.

Sephiroth has almost finished his tea when the old man speaks in his strange sing song accent.

“If it’s the Northern continent, send it to Icicle inn.”

Glowing green eyes settle on the janitor beside him.

“Why Icicle Inn? Have you been there before?” Asks the silver-haired boy, a strange feeling coming across him but he can't put finger on it. Sephiroth tastes the air. He thinks there is a slight change, but can’t decide on it’s significance.

Why is this man so much harder to read than the rest? Frustration is about to ignite in Sephiroth but then the janitors shoulders lift slightly then fall back down as if shrugging tiredly. The frustration abates.

He doesn’t mind this man’s oddity nor does he mind his company. Perhaps he could tell this man some of the things he wouldn’t be able to tell Gast.

“I’m beginning to see and hear things I probably shouldn’t.” Starts Sephiroth, as he scoots further onto the cot and leans against the wall, staring sideway at the back of the Janitors head.

“What will happen if I don’t pretend I didn’t see or hear them?” He asks, keen eyes on the man.

Another half shrug.

“What would happen to you, I you saw something and didn’t look the other way, or heard something and didn’t pretend you didn’t hear?”

Finally the man slowly turns away from the wall faded blue eyes look at the lounging boy on his cot.

“Disapear, probably.” The old man answered back in his sing song voice. His heart rate doesn’t change, nor does his scent.

Rufus had also said he was afraid Sephiroth would disappear.

A sudden thought strikes Sephiroth.

“Is that what my friend is doing now? Disappearing?” He asks with concern.

The Janitor doesn’t reply, but neither does he shrug.

./.

It was a rainy day when Veld brought him to the old Shinra building’s car park. Small squads of Shinra troopers marched to vehicles or rolled in on trucks. Veld and the silver-haired five-year-old seemed quite eye catching to the troopers since they would turn their heads and stare, some even breaking step with the others. Their three lensed helmets a familiar sight to Sephiroth soul.

There were shinra troopers patrolling the floors Sephiroth frequented, however, they were often old veterans who often had a slight limp or stiff shoulder and tended to be more relaxed with their uniforms. Seldom wearing their helmets. The rookie turks were also frequently posted as a guard detail to one of the scientists, though they were not allowed on site during any of the experiments unless they were to take part in it themselves. Such had been the case with Veld during Sephiroth’s status-effect immunity experiments or his instructors during some of the measurements of his physical capacity.

Malkhazes presence during that time had been a bit of an anomaly though. Perhaps it had only been part of company politics, though…

In the end they stopped by a car which seemed outwardly like a common model for the present time Midgard streets. Veld first opened the boot, pulling out what looked like a smaller seat which he placed on the passenger seat. Stepping back he gestured for Sephiroth to climb in.

Curiously Sephiroth climbed in and found that the seat was more comfortable for his small stature allowing him to also peer more easily through the car windows. Veld bent in and fastened Sephiroth’s seatbelt.

“This was never used before.” Observes the child.

“An understandable oversight, but one none the less. And one I will not make.” Is all that Veld says before slamming the carder closed.

In a moment veld is sitting on in the driver’s seat next to Sephiroth, starting the car.

“The company has decided to afford you a little more trust. Your martial classes will be held by SOLDIER from now on. You will be permitted to leave the Shinra building to attend these classes with a Turk escort…” Relays Veld. He seems to pause as he rolls the car out of its parking space and down the bustling car park then up a ramp. Throwing a sever glance at the silver-haired child, he adds:

“I hope you will prove yourself worthy of this trust, Sephiroth.” As the car exits from the carpark they are treated by a rare downpour of rain. The battering sound is oddly loud in the car. Sephiroth has seldom been outside, save for his journey to Midgar, to the Shinra Tower, and the few time Hojo brought him outside. But this sound of battering water agains a vehicle is familiar to his soul. In forgotten memories, countless rainy days on the move echos in chorus with the present.

“How may I prove myself worthy.” Asks Sephiroth without batting an eye. He had been expecting this all along, after all. The scent of faint surprise exudes from the man.

“It means you must make the job of escorting you easy. Don’t walk off on your own and don’t try to provoke any of the Turks escorting you.” He explains plainly. Severity in his voice, but a more complex tangle of emotion in his scent.

“Understood” answers Sephiroth, wondering if the Heidegger incident caused Veld to highlight the point on not antagonising the Turks or whether it was a consequence of that encounter with Cane, his staff instructor.

“Are we going to the Shinra Tower?” Asks the child after a quiet minute, seeing the skeleton tower loom closer.

“Not exactly. We’re going to the SOLDIER base.” Surprised green eyes land enquiringly on the Turk who is squinting between the windscreen wipers at the road. The rain pours the colours of the street lights. In the somber illumination the Turks tanned skin seems to darken, while creating a sickly highlight of the Childs paleness. Only the vaguest of echoes thrum through sephiroth’s soul.

“The SOLDIER Base was built in anticipation of SOLDIER, to house and train them while the SOLDEIR floor and quarters are bing built in the tower.”

Stopping at a red light The Turk glances at the silent child.

“It is also meant to be a prototype for the tower’s future SOLDIER floors.” The car begins moving again, the rain lightens, Veld leans back in his seat. Hands resting lightly on the wheel.

“We’ve never had any problems with you, but many SOLDIERS tend to forget their strength and end up damaging their surroundings. Even other employees.” Veld’s mind seems to drift away. Curiously Sephiroth tastes the air. Ignoring the scent of old blood, sweat and gunpowder within the car he focuses on the man who had become familiar to him but was not yet familiar to his soul.

“They hurt people accidentally?” Prompts Sephiroth. He is always gentle when he handled others. His soul had always warned him of the necessity of this. Otherwise he would not have been able to restrain Rufus without hurting or crippling him.

“A few civilians received minor injuries from the SOLDIERs placed in charge of the security during the Conference in Junon.” Sephiroth’s pupils narrow his thought’s sharpening. This had not been mentioned in Gast’s letter. Veld would know this since if he didn’t read the letters himself he was at least informed of it.

This is a contradiction. Had Gast not known or had he not mentioned it? Why was Veld bringing this up now?

Seeming to sense the boy’s intense stare Veld glanced at him, his scent highlighting concern at what he sees. A question arises silently.

“All injured were compensated and the news kept quiet, in order not to scare the people. Do not share this information with others.” Veld reports briskly. A warning in his scent.

It seems the Turk is getting better at reading Sephiroth. Or perhaps he had simply anticipated this conversation.Perhaps Veld had been tasked to talk about this with Sephiroth since there is still a slight timber of determination in his scent.

“It has been decided that SOLDIER should avoid physical contact with all people outside of SOLDIER. Mandatory classes are being set up to establish a routine around physical contact with non-hostile, unenhanced humans.” Faint conflict arrises in Veld’s scent.

“In theory, this includes you, Sephiroth.” The words weigh between them. Sephiroth soul corroborate Velds words. The boy himself doesn’t mind. He doesn’t really touch anyone anyway, and those who initiate contact with him are mostly scientists. And Rufus. Which in hindsight might be somewhat alarming now that the board realise just how easy is for Sephiroth to hurt the boy.

“The only person you have ever been part of hurting severally was when you were very young, before your enhancements.” Inner conflict is thick in the air. Sephiroth still somewhat remembers that assistant. He supposes that breaking his neck could be called ‘hurting severally’, though he doesn’t think the man had been in much physical pain before Sephiroth had seen him off to the Lifestream.

“In recognition of your exceptional track record, we will not scrutinise your contact with others to the same extent a SOLDIERS since you have proven yourself trustworthy so far. Please keep it in mind, however.” Veld finishes just as they approach the checkpoint of a walled off zone.

“Noted.” Responds Sephiroth flatly. He has always been in control.

…

Corridor after corridor with SOLDEIRs donning strangely familiar uniforms, they passed. Strange because they were not quite the same as his soul seemed to recollect.

Glowing blue eyes follows the the silver haired child. Whispered conversation awake in their wake. This time, Sephiroth can not make out what they are saying since the SOLDIERs have adapted their voices for acute hearing.

They enter a hexagonal room. Sephiroth can tell right away that the floor beneath his feet is made from a resilient material. For every step he takes his soul thrums quietly with the information even though Sephiroth had never come across this kind of flooring before.

A maze of screens and platforms of various hight’s and materials is arranged in the room. Leaning against one of them is an unarmed SOLDIER with softly curling brown hair staring pensively at the floor.

The man looks up as Sephiroth and Veld enter the room and a smile melts onto his lips, his posture relaxing as he pushes away from the screen and approaches.

“Heya little guy! I’m the Captain of the 13th devision, Nicolas Crane.” His presents himself cheerily. Squatting before the child, his smile turns into a grin.

“You can call me Nick.” The man finishes.

Sephiroth tastes the air. He smells nervous.
His soul doesn’t recognise this man. He would probably die within the coming years, seeing as there is no way Sephiroth’s soul wouldn’t recognise this high ranking SOLDIER if he hadn’t.

The silence between them stretches as Sephiroth stares disinterestedly at the man.

“I will be leaving the two of you for now.” Coughs Veld and exits the room.

‘Call me Nick’ stands and smiles at the departing Turk before looking down at the boy, hand on hips.

“Well, uh… Sephiroth. Lets get started.” He turns and waves for the boy to follow.

“We won’t be doing any fighting today, I want to get a feel for how well you use your SOLDIER strength. See all of these platforms and walls.” The man gestures widely. And hops onto a relatively low wooden platform. “They’re made to simulate the real deal. See, even though we can run really fast or jump really high, if we want to. It’s not going to do us any good if we accidentally kick through the floor while we’re doing so.”

“That’s because…” Turning to the the silver-haired child he lifts a knee and makes to jump straight up. But before his foot even leaves the platform the Woden planks he stands on snap and give way.

Nick stumbles relatively gracefully off the platform. His scent is not surprised so he must have anticipated the result, perhaps most of his awkwardness is even just for show.

“Not only might you not get anywhere and fall on your face, broken floors or walls will be dangerous for any non-SOLDIERs that are passing by.” Explains nick with a smile. Soldier eyes glowing softly.

Sephiroth squints at the SOLDEIR.

“Isn’t this obvious?” He asks hesitantly.

Nick stares blankly before making a noise that sounds like a cross between a cough and a chuckle. His scent; incredulous.

“You really did grow up with these enhancements.” He shakes his head with a smile but uncertainty lingers in his scent.

Sephiroth doesn’t offer anything further so after a pause Nick continues.

“Well, practice can’t hurt. Bet you don’t have that much opportunity to explore your SOLDIER strength anyway. Let’s see what you can do.” The SOLDIER continues easily. Jumping lightly onto the wooden platform again, he gesture for Sephiroth to follow.

Curious in spite of himself, Sephiroth hops up onto the platform as well, making sure to avoid the hole the man had made before. The man is right. Sephiorth indeed doesn’t have a lot of opportunity to explore his abilities.

What we’re going to do is jump from one platform to the next. There are various ways of landing but to start with try to land from above with both of your feet. Afterward we’ll try landing at an angle using in various positions. Then you’ll have to thin about how slippery the ground is as well as how much force it can sustain without breaking.

The man jumps without further ado and Sephiroth follows. Faster and faster

“If you kick off with both feet you’ll be able to jump farther without damaging the surface.” Nick would sometimes call out advice to sephiroth in mid jump.

“Now use the walls!” He shouts and they begin jumping from platform to wall then back again. As time flows by Sephiroth begins relying less and less on the queues given by his soul but rather his own senses. Judging the material by sight, fine-tuning his strength from the feedback reverberating though his legs on first contact. Then using the accumulated knowledge for the next jump.

When pushing off the wall to seek hight the walls will be able to handle a greater force!” Nick throws out another tip.

Green mako yes glowed brightly and pupils slitted Sephiroth let his body twist through the air. aiming for a brick wall. On fist contact, he knows that something is wrong with it. He spread his landing stance and and uses both his hands to try to disperse the momentum. But the wall is really to flimsy. He felt the bricks shift beneath him. Following the instincts of his soul the child wills his body to stop.

And so it does. Knowing Nick is watching, his thoughts darted past in a split second. Jumping off the wall to another platform isn’t feasible. The wall would probably collapse if someone happened to lean on it. There is only one thing he can do. He drops to the ground.

“Well done! You’re a natural.” Calls Nick sounding impressed, while jumping over and landing on the floor. Some surfaces are tricky. They aren’t as solid as they look.”

“Next exercise” Nick goes to retrieve something behind the flimsy wall. “Is this.” He says and tosses what looks like ball at Sephiroth. Sephiroth catches it carefully. It is indeed a ball which looks like it is made of a foam like material. It is very light.

“Perfect catch.” Observes Nick admiringly. The scent around him no longer uncertain. He smells happy.

“This is to help you control the force you use when you grip something. If you press your fingers in you’ll see that it’ll leave a mark.” Just like Nick said it did, though it returned gradually to it’s original spherical shape.

“Throw the ball to me.” Nick instructs and Sephiroth does unspeaking. “Great, you controlled your grip even when throwing it.” Offers nick taking some distance before throwing the ball back at Sephiroth.

“Treat this thing as if it were fragile.” Sephiroth doesn’t really need to be told. It is not a difficult task for Sephiroth. He is always in control, always gentle.

“Now begin jumping from the platforms. And try to catch the ball.“ Nick calls after a few back and forths.

Without hesitation, the child is back in movement, twisting through the air and skipping off of platforms and walls. Nick tosses him the ball while the child is in mid air. Catching it careful the silver-haired child lands on one of the more interesting platforms, a huge granite rock. Jumping off immediately he tosses it back to Nick who is still on the ground.

Nick begins tossing the ball towards trickier locations. Urging Sephiroth to use the trickier surfaces he’d been avoiding. Like one made out of compressed wood chips, and another which was essentially a broken plaster wall showing the insulating foam within. Although the foam dampened the force of his landing somewhat it served more to dull his awareness of how much force the wooden planks behind it could bare. Once one of his feet snapped the board on the other side though fortunately he didn’t misgauge his strength enough to go right through it.

All of a sudden Nick was airborne and also jumping off the surfaces.

“We’re working in a team now. Think about throwing the ball where I will be able to catch it.”

The challenge is upped again. Having to judge strategic manoeuvring to catch the ball gently while paying attention to the moments of the other, deeming where they would or could go next.

Faster and faster they went, the thrill within Sephiroth grew greater as he began to ignore his soul entirely and make split moment decisions for himself.

All of a sudden, Nick misjudged his landing on a deceptively brittle wall just as he was throwing the ball. The shot went wide as the wall shattered.

Slit puipils are glued to the ball. The child bolts backwards onto a reinforced concreat platform, then shoot off of it in a steep angle. The next wall he is heading towards is the flimsy brick wall but Sephiroth will not land on it directly. Ricocheting off if it by a fraction if a degree to reach a deceptively resilient glass wall. Managing to change his angle he shot toward a rickety scaffolding platform twisting in the air to snatch the ball which had bounced off another wall and was falling to the ground. He barely clears the platform. Letting his shoulders greet the metal plate, he flexes them to give himself a little more lift as he bounces off. The child continued to dart off walls and platforms trying to reduce his momentum. An incongruously happy Childs laugh echoes in his wake. Catching sight of Nick who is standing on the ground grinning, Sephiroth passes the ball to him.

“Alright Sephiroth, exercise is over!

The child is quick to comply angling himself to shoot towards the granite rock. Killing most of the momentum against its side and letting the rest of it back him up to the top.

Nick walked over still grinning though it faltered somewhat as he got a better look at Sepiorth’s eyes. Sephiroth’s soul takes notice of it immediately, but Sephiroth himself doesn’t let it dampen his mood.

Nick’s smile quickly recovers. His mako eyes glow warmly at Sephiroth.

“You enjoy a challenge don’t you?” The man laughs softly. Amazement and a little incredulity colouring his scent.

“It was… fun.” Sephiroth realises letting the smile stay on his face as he basked in the thrill of the exercise.

“Well, I think you’ve proven that you have this exercise firmly under your bed. But, we can do it again some time.” The man says warmly. But Sephiroth doesn’t understand.

“Why would we do it again since you say there is no point?” Asks the silver-haired child confusedly.

Nicks smile stiffens.

“For fun of course.” He says easily. But there is hesitance and doubt in his scent.

“I could even get some other SOLDIERS to join in that, they need the practice more than you anyway. And I think they might learn one or two things from watching you do it.” He continues a determination solidifying in his scent.

“Aright… sounds fun.” Answers Sephiorth. The words sounding foreign in his mouth.

Chapter Text

It is late, but Sephiroth is restless. He has been so for the past month. Sephiroth, like for many things has a sleeping schedule, however sometimes he breaks this schedule. But frequently enough that anyone would reprimand him about it.

Silver lashes slide over mako green eyes. Nostrils flare.

The scent of grass lingers in the corridors.

Occasionally Shinra employees will bear the scents from the outside world. Although some awaken echoes in Sephiroth soul, most of them he does not recognise.

Quietly the child follows the trail to indulge in the past. Grass, mako, paper, inc and disinfectant. The warmth of an embrace, the white in blue of a sky through windowpanes.

Gast is a weighty presence in Sephiroth’s mind. His soul foretells ill tidings.

But he has yet to reunite with Gast since they first parted. The letters are not enough. So he passes the corridors restlessly even though it is past his scheduled bed time.

The scent of women greets his delicate noes. Gast is a man though. He hears them now,  breathing heavily. Along with the sounds of sloppy eating. One of them mewls… The other whispers something with great fervour.

There are no sounds of mastication.

The child comes to a faltering stop and opens his eyes.

Soft smacking sounds scatter into his sharp ears. The laboured breathing begins to be punctuated by suppressed moans.

‘What are they doing…?’

The child’s gaze slowly gains focus, pupils narrowing into slits.

His soul is urges him to ignore it, but he wants to know what they are doing.

On silent feet he prowls into the office landscape, honing in on the noises and the now much more potent smell. A sweet scent lies thick in the air. He had noticed it on women before but not quite as thickly.

As he approaches the sounds only become more and more intriguing.

A lone heeled shoe, lying on it’s side, peeks out in the office landscapes corridor and Sephiroth knows he is close. Glowing eyes lock on the cubicle from which the noises stem from.

He turns the corner. Pupils abruptly dilate.

One blond woman is almost sprawled on the table. Seemingly both pulling and pushing the red-headed woman who is leaning, almost lying over her. Her hand is wrapped around the other’s lower back, the other hand pressing against the woman’s chest. Yet her neck is craned upwards baring her throat to the the woman who has both her hands up the other’s skirt and in an awkward looking position.

The blond woman on the desk gasps and arches her back, pressing her stomach closer to woman.

A sucking and slurping sound punctuates the moment and Sephiroth’s eye’s look back to where the redheaded woman removes her mouth from the blond beneath her. A glaring red mark is left in her wake. Her eyes are hungry and she licks her lips before freezing.

Alarm disrupts the sour sweet smell of whatever is going on and the redheaded woman jerks to look at the silver haired boy staring up at them with big green eyes. Pupils blown wide.

Sephiroth notes belatedly that he recognises her. It is that Turk, Zero.

The blond notices her partners reactions and also startles out of her state. Blue eyes turn in Sephiroth’s direction a deeper red flush covers her cheeks. This time it is Sephiroth’s soul who recognises her. A conflicting sense of disdain, annoyance and a very grudging respect. But there is a dissonance, she is not quite what his soul remembers.

Casting a brief glance over her apparel, she seems suitably dressed in this office landscape, looking no different from many other office clerks.

His gaze returns to the red mark on her neck. Eyes no longer as dilated, even as stress and fear begin to well in the air.

The Turk pushes away casting a smirk at the blond, a slick sound of something like lubricant reaches the boys ears as she removes her hands from beneath the blonds skirt who suppresses an “eep”.

The sent of something sweet and sour thickens the air and Sephiroth’s eyes are briefly torn away from the mark on the girls neck to Zero’s glistening fingers.

“Don’t fret Scarlet.” she murmurs while licking the wet fingers with hungry eyes, but a playful scent. “Be firm, be goal oriented and all will go as you desire.”

Green eyes return to the blond, Scarlet, as his soul confirms. She straightens herself smoothing her skirt self-consciously. Cheeks still retaining a deep flush. But the silver-haired boy’s gaze is drawn back to the mark on her neck.

“Come now, back straight, there is no use in being ashamed. You are not in the wrong.” Zero lectures the blond. Before turning and walking past the boy towards the exit.

“I believe it is past your bedtime, Sephiroth.” The turk calls over her shoulder with something that sounds like a jeer in her voice. Glancing at her back Sephiroth tastes the air. Through the thick scent of whatever they had been doing he could sense that Turk’s special brand of amusement.

Scarlet looks down at Sephiroth uncertainly, hesitation in her scent, but she scurries quickly past. The child’s glowing eyes remain locked to the red mark on her neck even as belated exhilaration begins to colour her scent.

Then the boy is once again alone, he sweetly sour nectar much fainter now.

Slowly the boy looks at his own shoulder. Pulling on his shirt collar to bear the skin he closes his lips awkwardly on his shoulder. Thinking for he moment he tries to lick and then suck.

But when he removes his lips, the skin is unblemished with only a faint glistening from the slickness of his saliva. He pulls up his sleeves and try’s again on his wrist. Sucking harder and longer. Pulling away his skin is still bare.

He tires again on his shoulder, trying to get as close to the nape of his neck as he can. But to no avail.

Sephiroth gives up. Frustration quickening his steps as he heads off to bed.

Gast would know. But his soul foretells that he will have to wait a long time for any answers.

… 

It is very late when Sephiroth comes to knock on the door down a darkened hallway. Even Sephiroth is beginning to feel sluggish.

But the emptiness inside of him is awake so he can’t sleep.

He has always known that he must wait for the answers to come to him. He has been patient. He is still patient.

The silver haired five-year-old nocks once again. Then listens.

Still no response.

The corridor is unlit and the building is still. Asleep.

Only Sephiroth is awake.

Alone.

The child glances up at the ‘private’ sign. Eyes dilated to their widest, he can make out the words even in the gloom.

Nocks again. Louder.

No responce.

He feels empty inside. He wonders if the room on the other side is just as empty.

Small fingers reach up to touch the door handle. A thin circle of softly glowing green glances up at the ‘private’ sign.

All is still.

Eyes flicker back to the handle. The metal is cold against his palm.

Again his gaze is drawn back to the private sign.

Slowly he leans against the door. His small hands still grasps the door handle loosely his head resting besides it, eyes staring into the paint on the door as if he can look through it. His body is plastered flat against the cold surface.

Gast has been absent for so many years. Just like his soul had promised he would be from their first parting.

Turning his head to press his ear against the surface the Silver haired boy listens for life on the other side. He hears nothing.

His child sized fist lifts again…

“Knock, knock, knock, Knock.”

The sound is loud in his ear, pressed as it is agains the door.

But he seems to have been the only one who heard it.

There is still no sound his sharp hearing can perceive.

The child’s hand tightens against the handle.

Slowly, ever so slowly it pulls down.

Sephiroth watches it as if the hand belonged to another.

When the handle will go no further green eyes turn to look up again.

‘Private.’

He feels like he is being surveyed, which isn’t unusual. Only this watcher gazes right into his heart. Judging his awareness of what he is tempted to do. What he will do.

Even though, the sign is only a sign.

Not looking away Sephiroth slowly slides his body towards the handle. Grasping it with both hands he leans carefully away from the door.

It opens on silent hinges. 

Sephiroth grasps the handle on the other side, in a single move he is inside, the door closed behind him.

Total darkness. Even Sephiroth can’t make anything out.

Slowly he lets the handle slide back up.

Staring at were he knows the cot should be he tries to distinguish something from the various shades of black. He is unsure.

There is no snoring or heavy breathing.

In a moment sephiroth becomes intensely aware of his own breathing and thundering heartbeat. It deafens and he can’t hear anything besides it anymore.

The emptiness deepens inside of him. What if he is alone in this tiny room after all?

Slowly, hesitantly Sephiroth takes small steps forward trying to use his other senses. There is the smell of a deep sadness which has saturated into everything around him.
He tries to identify something else. A body, a living being, but doubt clouds his judgement.

He feels the cot’s metal edge against his knees. He reaches out palm open. The  course material registers against his skin even though he isn’t truly touching it. Following the contours the child can tell there is indeed something lying beneath it.

Sephiroth tries to sense life from it, but he is unsure. Weather the heat from the blanket is from the body beauty it or Sephiroth’s own body heat reflected back at him.

With the room being so narrow and the backpacks lining the other side of the wall there is barely any leg room for Sephiroth to manoeuvre closer to where the man’s head should be.

He just wants to check, to make sure, and then Sephiroth will leave without disturbing the old Janitor.

Carefully he leans on the cot’s metal frame and reaches a leg over to the other side. Crawling up he he tries to sense signs of life from the other. Usually this should not be a difficult task but for whatever reason his senses are failing him and only serve to betray his own suppressed anxiety.

From what Sephiroth can tell in the completed darkness; the man is lying on his back. If the man is breathing it is so shallow and quiet the boy can’t pick up on it. He reaches out a hand towards the man’s neck, not to touch but just to sense more clearly the body heat, the electromagnetic feedback of a beating heart.

It is a bit warm. But no feedback.

A shadow crosses Sephiroth’s mind. That man he had killed so long ago. He had also still been warm.

The child’s fingertips touch the man’s neck.

The Janitor jerks and wakes up abruptly with a horse gasp.

Sephiroth is jostled and falls abruptly onto the man’s chest.

The janitor stills as he looks down the length of his body and sees the thin circle of glowing irises staring back at him.

Silence falls between them, but Sephiorth feels inexplicably relieved.

“Sephiroth?” The janitor whisperers odd emotion’s colouring his voice. But Sephiroth is not in a mind to taste the air.

“I thought you were dead.” Whispers Sephiroth back, a strange emotion welling from the emptiness inside of him.

The Janitor doesn’t respond for a long time. But Sephiroth doesn’t mind. Instead he lets himself be rocked by the rise and fall of the man’s chest. The child’s fingers discreetly gather the folds of the blanket, pulling it down until the boy can rest his head on the man’s night shirt.

With his ear resting against the man’s breast he can hear a heartbeat. It is slow but clear. And it is not his own.

He senses the janitor let’s his head fall back against the pillow.

“Why are you here?” Asks the man, finally, in his sing song accent but his voice much hoarser than usual. He doesn’t sound angry, only tired.

Sephiroth relaxes on to the body he is straddling.

“I saw two women doing something to each other, but I don’t know what.” Blurts Sephiroth, just saying the first thing that comes to mind. The janitor doesn’t respond other than letting his breast rise and lift the child higher than before, to let out a slow breath. Sephiroth takes it as a cue to continue.

“One of them had her mouth on the neck of the other and it left a red mark.” There was that sour sweet scent which had been particularly potent, but he wasn’t sure if he should mention that. He wasn’t sure if it was something humans could smell.

There was a long pause and Sephiroth noes twitched. The janitor’s scent has changed into something he can recognise.

Embarrassment.

Sephiroth looks up at where the janitor’s head should be in the darkness.

“This matter… You will understand after a few years.” Croaks the old man.

Disappointment fills Sephiroth. The concept that knowledge will come with time is one he understands to some extent. He knows his soul knew what Zero was doing with that woman Scarlet. But he doesn’t understand it.

All of a sudden a burning anger light’s up in his chest. Retaining information, his soul whispers. Frustration entwines and awakens a desire within him. Pupils constrict. At the same time Sephiroth tenses his limbs. He is in control.

Sephiroth knows this thirst, this hunger. He’d felt it during the Heidegger incident and many times before. But he won’t harm this old man beneath him.

The janitor must sense something from him because he tenses too, drawing his arms out from beneath the blanket with scent of awakening alertness. But then the janitor relaxes letting his head fall back.

Even in the darkness, Sephiroth can sense the old man’s throat is bared as if in surrender.

The boy lowers his head and rests his forehead back onto the Janitors chest. He will not hurt this man. Not this night, anyway.

Feeling more relaxed he does allow himself to impulsively bite the nightshirt with lingering resentment.

Though Sephiroth had never done anything like it before, he does feel slightly vented afterwards and turns his head to rest again on the man’s chest.

The janitor had been the one to tell him it was common for children to be petty. Gast had implied it too.

Listening to the slow heartbeats Sephiroth let’s his limbs curl more closely to the old man. He is a little warm. It reminds him of a time passed. Of blue skies and white clouds and warm smiles.

“You should sleep in your own room.” Comments the janitor.

Sephiroth is quiet for a long moment, letting himself rise and fall with the tide of the man’s breathing.

“I miss Gast.” The child whispers.

The darkness shelters their silence once again.

Sephiroth senses one of the Janitor’s arm’s move hesitantly. After a pause, the weight of a hand rests on the young child’s back.

Mako eyes close slowly. Sephiroth takes whatever comfort he can from this man’s sad scent and feeble warmth, to fill the void within.

…

Sephiroth doesn’t know how long he had been lying on the janitor but he was drawn back to awareness by the janitor sitting up slowly and jostling him gently.

“Sephiroth, you mustn’t stay. Go sleep in your own bed.” The janitor murmurs.

In his groggy state, his soul provides him a faint answer to the scent which colours the sadness.

Compassion.

Without thinking too deeply Sephiroth climbs off of the janitor and his cot and walks off to his quarters, half asleep already.

./.

Nick’s eye’s meet Sephiroth’s from where he is leaning against the wall outside of their usual training room.

The child tastes the air. Nervousness. Doubt. Curiosity.

A smile quickly warms the SOLDIER’s lips.

“Hey there little guy!” He calls as he saunters over to squat besides the five year old.

“Today is going to be a bit of an experiment.” Grins Nick with apprehensive anticipation in his voice.

“Oh.” Laments Sephiroth. He sometimes enjoyed his training sessions with Nick. But if It is going to be an experiment today then it’ll probably end up being a dull experience. Scientific protocol has always been a long tedium for Sephiroth.

He senses Veld stiffen behind him, a complex of suppressed conflict arising. Hesitation and a different sort of doubt begins to emanate from the man crouching besides him. The boy glances at the SOLDIER. His smile has stiffened and his eyes no longer mirror his lips. The beginning’s of a frown between his thick brown eyebrows.

The Captain of SOLDIER stands quickly and strides towards the training room.

“I was a bit hesitant at first but your previous instructors tell me that you have practiced with full-sized weapons before, so I guess we can give it a try.”

The boy’s eyes narrow at the mans words and he follows, now curious in spite of himself of what is to come.

He casts a final glans towards Veld who’s expression is inscrutable. They are in a public place after all, especially since there are a group of SOLDIER’s peering semi-surreptitiously into the corridor.

The training room door slides shut behind the child with a hiss and click.

Nick is standing by a stand the boy hasn’t seen before. Approaching it he sees two long double-edged broadswords.

Taking one of them and planting the tip against the floor gently, Nick smiles softly towards the pale haired child, who’s eyes have narrowed into slits.

Sephiroth is aware of the discomfort his eyes awaken in the people around them. He senses Nick’s lingering unease, but there is an added warmth to his scent when he sees Sephiroth’s eye’s constricted in excitement.

Because Sephiroth’s soul recognises this sword.

“This is the standard SOLDIER sword which as been developed for new recruits.” The man squats before the sword.

“Shinra’s weapons development have been with SOLDIER to discover what weapons work best with us.” Explains Nick as the boy approaches the weapon which is as tall as himself.

“Although a lot of more experienced SOLDIERS pursue and experiment with a second fighting style we have found that this kind of long broadswords generally works well with soldier enhancements.” Explains Nick with enthusiasm. “Though Soldier’s can do a lot of damage with their fists alone, there is a high risk of them hurting themselves, especially for the new SOLDIERs.”

Pale childish like fingers touch cold metal. Running his hand down the blade he lets it’s song vibrate through his bones. It is not the companion which echoes within his soul, but it is none the less, familiar.

“Generally, the added weight of the blade helps us take more advantage of our SOLDIER strength- be careful there, little friend…” Nick broke of abruptly as Sephiroth began fingering the swords edge.

“This is a real sword, although the edge on this one is a bit blunt it can still cut through someones skin.” Lectures the SOLDIER severely.

Green eyes turn to look slowly at mako blue. Why does this man stop him on account of this matter? Sephiroth would need to try a lot harder to cut his own skin.

A flicker of uncertainty passes through the man’s scent before he clears his throat.

“I know that sword is very big, and thought about finding you a smaller sword to start with, but your Sword instructor said you might like to have a go with a longer and heavier blade.” Continues the man smoothely, flicking a brown curl from his face.

Setting down a knee on the ground, Nick picks up the blade, placing the flat of its blade in his other palm. Holding it out towards the silent child he grins wildly.

“As the captain of the 13th squad, Ragnerock, of SOLDIER, I present to you, your first sword.” Sephiroth tastes the air. The man smells nervous, excited and a growing embarrassment wells up in the air as the boy’s gaze stays fixed on the SOLDIER and not the sword.

Nick gestures once more with the sword lying across his palms.

Taking the hint, the boy looks down at the silver blade.

Small fingers reach towards the hilt. It is so wide his fingers don’t even manage to wrap fully around it. Never the less, Sephiroth merely tightens his grip and lifts the sword which is as tall as he. Whitening nucleus the only indication of the strain.

Nick stands up and steps away grin still on. “Give it a few swing, get used to the length and weight.” Instructs the man.

Feeling the weight on his wrist, which in turn pulls his shoulder joint and adds a new strain in his lower back Sephiroth adjusts his posture as his soul mandates.

His soul knows this burden. Although not quite the same it is more similar than anything he has felt before.

The child’s foot slides back somewhat, knees flexed slightly waist straight and centred. Back aligned and both small hands grasp the hilt and bring it up in an angle over one shoulder. His toro shining with it.

A defensive stance which promises an aggressive counter. Or if he lifts the tip, an aggressive opening attack.

Deflect. thrust. Thrust. Thrust. deflect, step forward and one handed swing. pivot, double handed revers grip. Step forward, block. Step forward, thrust. Changed grip, thrust. One handed thrust. Upward slash. Horizontal slash. double grip. diagonal slash. Swing bak into the defensive stance.

His muscles flex and relax rhythmically. Letting the centrifugal face carry the blades weight then sensing to master it’s momentum into another course.

The blade sings to him.

It’s voice is dull, not like the one which echoes in his soul. But it nevertheless speaks to him through the humming in his bones.

It is not the same, he fumbles sometimes because of the weight, or the grip or his instincts alerting him to his souls habit to grasp the second edge. But it is close enough.

He’s practiced many other combat forms, some of them even with Nick. But nothing is like the sharp steel in his hand.

Pupils narrowed in to a narrow slit. Mako eyes glow brightly. Fractured shadows flicker around him. Broken sounds ring in his ears. Illusory scents tease his noes. His souls sings a dissonant harmony in remembrance. He dances to it’s tune, together with his new companion.

…

“Here, this is for you.”

A silver key dangling on a string sways in front of the child’s face. Green catlike eyes slide from left to right, following the key’s movements.

Sensing amusement and anticipation from the Captain of Ragnarock, Sephiroth glances up at the smug grin far above him.

“It’s the key for your locker. Your not allowed to bring your sword out so you’ll need to keep it here.”

Surprise echoes through Sephiroth, receiving a sword is one thing, but a space of his own no matter how small it is, with its own key is another matter entirely.

“Where is it?” Ask the boy, the brightening of his eyes betraying his interest as he receives the gift.

“It’s this locker here, 507” The SOLDIER saunters over to one among a dozen of sturdy looking lockers and taps on it casually.

“They’re reinforced to stop SOLDIERs from accidentally breaking them. Have a look inside.

Following the man, Sephiroth caresses the thick metal which whispers it’s resilience through his fingers. Reaching up with the key, he is just able to insert the lock of the locker which is as tall as a grown man.

“I have a spare key, just in case, but try not to forget it. I put a string on it, so you can hang it around your neck if you want. Maybe you-” Nick prattles on as Sephiroth lets the door of his of his own privet space swing open. He is listening, of course, he had already expected there to be a spare somewhere. Even if there hadn’t, the Janitor had mentioned once that it wouldn’t stop those who really wanted in.

There are shelves at the bottom of the locker. A space beside it which seems meant for tucking weapons away, another set of shelves hang far above his head and a rail, probably meant for clothing, is welded underneath it. 

Even if there is a spare key, it is still a space where he can squirrel things away, where Hojo can’t get at them. Not, unless he goes through Nick or the Turks.

Sephiroth eyes the pegs that might have been meant to hold weapons, but they are clearly designed with an adult in mind. Sephiroth could place his sword to hang on the pegs if he grabs the sword by the blade. But Sephiroth’s training tells him this is bad practice.

An idea strikes sephiroth, without further ado he tightens his back handed grip on the hilt of his new sword and hops easily onto the shelf in his locker from where he simply slides the sword into it’s place.

Nick breaks off mid spiel in reaction.

Ignoring the older SOLDIER, Sephiroth glances at the rail above. Though he lands softly on the shelf, it doesn’t feel as sturdy as the locker’s outside and he doesn’t really want to risk denting it over time. Placing his hands on the sides he lifts his legs up to brace them gently on each side of the locker wall. After a quick evaluation of the material and structure he lunges upwards to grab the sturdy rail. It would probably be easier to reach the rail from the floor outside, but it’s not much more of an effort regardless.

 Lifting himself easily, the five-year-old boy peers into the shelf at the very top. He can put his letters from Gast here. They were currently in a box under the bed in his sleeping quarters. But he knows that Hojo sometimes goes in there and had probably read all of his letters even though he no longer gets them directly from the Turks.

Sephiroth has tolerated it until now because he gets to reads them before that man does, but now he has a place of his own to keep his things. Not that it will matter anymore, the child thinks bitterly to himself. Who knows when Gast’s next letter would reach him.

“Having fun?” The voice is familiar but Sephiroth can’t pin point it immediately.

Looking back he finds himself eye level with blue mako eyes set into the square but soft featured face of Annael Hewley.

The man has a small smile on his face as he watches the boy sticking partially out from the top of his locker.

Green eyes slide to the red clad hilt peeking out from behind the man’s broad shoulders. Without a word the child hops down from the locker.

“Annael, how was the mission.” Calls nick cheerily.

“Captain, Mission successful, minor injuries sustained by a fellow SOLDIER.” Responds Annael. He salutes in a relaxed manner, but his eyes are serious when he looks at the other SOLDIER.

“Did Clayton sprain himself again?” Sighs Nick, a light tone in his voice, but there is concern in the air.

Sephiroth glances at the two men before his eyes lock back onto the sword behind the man’s back.

“How about you?” Asks Nick seemingly without really caring. Sephiroth ignores the dialog and approaches Hewley. Slit pupils fixed on the metal peeking from between the SOLDIER’s legs.

“A bit achy, but nothing serious.” The boy hears the vague response, but he is already mostly listening to his soul whisper forgotten stories he can’t quite grasp.

The buster sword.

“You sure it’s not just muscle pain from lugging that huge slab of metal around?” Jokes Nick, the cent which wafts over is halfhearted.

Sephiroth wrinkles his noes, the feedback around him is distracting him today. He doesn’t really care what they are talking about, it has nothing to do with Cloud after all.

All of a sudden, his pupils constrict.

That is it, this sword is a clue. It possesses an integral connection to is deepest desire.

He want’s to hear it sing for him. 

A pale hand reaches out for the cold metal, but the SOLDIER sidesteps.

Anger thrums in Sephiroth’s veins but he keeps a tight leash on it. Carefully, he lifts his brightly glowing eyes to stare up at the dark haired SOLDIER through his silver lashes.

Annael looks at him oddly, concern and worry briefly passing in the air.

“Oh, you wan’t to see my sword again?” Queries the dark-haired-man with a deliberate slowness. There is a wariness which he emanates.

Bright mako glow flashes with Sephiroth’s want.

The tall SOLDIER gives a stilted chuckle before pulling off the sword from his back, seeming to put quite a bit of effort into it. He brings it around an plants the tip against the ground with more grace than he had wielded it last time.

“I can’t believe that you’re using the weapon harnesses weapons development are experimenting with. Those things are a menace.” comments Nick. “Better not to use them at all if you ask me. I’ve seen SOLDIERs swords drop from their backs or have the sword tangle in their legs. There was even a SOLDIER in the 9th squad who kept getting shocked by his. And another in the 4th squad cut his, uh, -flank -on his own sword.”

Sephiroth let’s the SOLDIER prattle go over his head as he stares mesmerised at the blade, his surge of anger assuaged. Pale fingers reach out to trace the grooves, his soul echoing faintly remembered lines along side him.

Again, he lets the memory of piercing pain shake his body. This is cloud, it must be.

The child casts his head back, savouring the ecstasy transmitting through his soul. The all consuming, but forgotten purpose… Cloud.

“It’s more convenient than going to the locker every time, besides, they’ll get it right event- Sephiroth… are you alright?” Annael breaks off with a frown on his face. Sephiroth lets his burning eyes drift to the SOLDIER. Still indulging in his soul’s lingering obsession, a slight curving of his lips is the only reply.

“You really like the buster sword, don’t you?” Injects Nick with his customary smile, having come to interpret the child’s constricted pupils as happiness. “Maybe you’ll want to use one of those when you get older.”

Sephiroth lowers his head to look back at the familiar blade before him.

“This sword?” He asks his soul.

An indistinct silhouette after silhouette is juxtaposed one over the other in confusing echos, distorted voices colours. All different, but also similar. All familiar to his soul.

“No. This sword belongs to another… No. Others…” Pale brows furrow in frustrated confusion as he stares hard into the metal.

‘What… Who… is Cloud?’

Confusion and a dash of unease reach Sephiroth’s senses along with a faint happiness.

Sephiroth looks up and around, quickly spotting Veld at the far end of the lockers.

“Looks like your Turk escort has come to get you. See you next week then kid.”  Remarks   Nick with good cheer.

“Don’t forget to lock your locker.” Reminds Annael gently.

The pale haired child casts a glance at the two SOLDIERS, and a lingering look at the buster sword which the dark-haired man slings onto his back again. Then turns to close his locker without a word.

Hesitation emanates from Annael along with a rising disapproval, but Nick claps him on the back and they move away.

“How is your sword coming along.” Sephiroth hears Annael ask Nick after a pause as they walk of.

“It’s still in the works, but it’s going to be something to see when it’s done.” Responds Nick with the same upbeat voice.

Sephiroth pulls out the key of his locker. Then looks at the string which is attached to it.

His instructor had suggested he put it around his neck, but Sephiroth thinks it’s a stupid idea. It would be like asking someone to try to strangle him with it. Making a few loops he slips it onto his wrist. Shaking his hand a few times, he ends up deciding to tuck the key under the string against his inner wrist.

He is unaccustomed to the sensation, but he would rather keep his key close.

“It’s nice to see you talk to others more.” Comments Veld who approached the child when the SOLDIERS left.

“I do, do I?” Responds the child disinterestedly, beginning to walk towards the exit without looking at the adult.

Sephiroth still doesn’t understand why Veld cares.

Chapter Text

Holding a mug of coffee he idly massaged the calloused and scarred skin of his knuckles.

Grey light filters in through the cafeteria windows in Midgar’s smoggy dawn. Rumours had it they were working on a climate project to filter the smog elsewhere.

It was actually a more pressing issue than most people thought. The mako fumes from the reactors was being filtered, but in time, what escaped could build up and cause light levels of mako poisoning. The sort that built up slowly over time.

According to Zero anyway.

Civilians were still in the dark about it because what could be automated by machinery, was, and the military and maintenance personnel where rotated out at the first sign of poisoning.

But it could be a problem if it started affecting the urban areas over the coming decades-

Something nudges his leg.

“What are you thinking about?”

He glances at her. His partner Scissors.

She is a decade and a half younger than he. He’d thought it was a strange paring at first, after his partner died. They work both in close quarters and specialised purely in combat, though scissors favoured stealth while he did’t mind going in from the front.

Among the senior Turks, Cane and Ropes were a good team with a steady temperament. Cane had the skill and endurance to confront multiple combatants and prolong a fight while Ropes ensnared the targets with traps.

He didn’t really get along that well with Riffle. She was a few years older, but he was a decade senior to her as a Turk. A former Mercenary, Shinra had recruited her secretly and she’d betrayed and ultimately killed her employer at the time.

She was vicious under her easy, cheery guise and hadn’t had a steady partner for most of her career. Shinra valued her though, she was a Turk killer.

“Just thinking of the past.” No one would ever hear him talk about those though. He was valued because he didn’t spread dangerous gossip even within the Turks.

“You worked a time with Rifle, didn’t you?” She makes a face.

“She was the one who’d asked for it.” Her grimace is gone in a moment as sharp glint of wariness hides in her eyes. “She thought I was like her.

Fists eyes her without comment, wondering if Scissors knew why.

The younger woman likely had the most vicious fighting stile among the active Turks, but that wasn’t why. Most of her partners had died in action when on mission together with her.

Not because she was inept, however. She’d joined the ranks of the Turks at one of the most turbulent times, when Shinra had been waging a silent war against the land lords and senators of the 8 city alliance.

Many Turks had died, but somehow she’d survived against harsh odds. One mission in particular, her team had been compromised and they’d been captured, she’d freed herself using a pair of scissors from the dungeon, killed her mark with it and then hid.

From there she’d unscrewed the scissor blades and assassinated her way out. She’d been named after that.

What she’d been like before then he didn’t know, but after that she was bitter and prickly, but professional.

“Rifle seems to have taken Ken under her wing.”

“And Ken puts up with her.” He nods at the blond, ignoring her acerbic tone.

Ken had only been a turk for 4 years, but she was talented, competent and hard to dislike. Her record was also about as clean as a Turks could be, having been recruited from the Shinra military academy.

Rifle had dragged her to Malkhaze’s office on the second month as a new recruits and badgered him into making them partners. No one thought much of it at the time, but strangely enough they still remained in a teem.

“She’s become a valuable asset, and I hear an idol of the Academy.” Fists had always thought the serious but quiet suited the regular army more. Most recruits from the Military Academy never manage to become senior Turks, but they died well for Shinra’s cause. Of course, he’d never tell them that Ken only survived to live this long thanks to Rifle.

Scissors blue eyes flicker as he takes a sip from his coffee.

“How long have you…” She pauses, hesitating. They’d become partner after she returned from Nibelheim. She’d been aloof and had had a sharp tongue when she was not. But he hadn’t minded.

She’d been insecure, of course. He’d seen it before. But she occasionally peeked out of her shell. He enjoyed seeing her take the initiative, so he indulges her question. Even if it was a touchy subject.

“I was among the first Malkhaz Recruited after he took over.” She does a double take, taking in his square ruggedly handsome features. He smiles at her genially to soften his lines and welcome youth back into his face.

“Doesn’t that make you older than Veld.” She squints at him. “You don’t look that old.”

He chuckles quietly, enjoying her attention.

“Old is a cruel word to use on a Turk, little miss.” He teases her. She gives him a potent stink-eye, which contrasts with the stiff pout of her lower lip. It was cute. She’d thrown a punch the second time he’d called her that. The first time, she’d been too shaken. He’d known what it meant when he saw it.

Sometimes he wondered who’d used it before.

“I’m only a bit older than Veld.” He clarifies. Truth is, he’d aged well. And joined the Turks young.

“Where…” She hesitates again, but he smiles at her knowingly, encouraging her to finish. “…did you live before.

Idunhall, but he wouldn’t tell her that.

“From one of the towns that was here before they built Midgar.” He smiles knowingly as he sees the curiosity in her eyes.

“Which one?”

“Sector 7.” He hadn’t thought about it in a long time, In his mind, Idunhall no longer existed. Scissors hesitates, her eyes flickering over his face.

“Was it good?” She shouldn’t have asked him. He’d been born into crime, joined a gang at the age of 7 and been a leader of one at 12. He’d lied about his age to join the Turks to survive both law and underworld.

“Not particularly, the 8 towns were constantly fighting each other for space and resources.” And there had been a lot of resources, enough to let the towns become a conurbation and melt into each other.

The militia fought for the land outside of the city while the gangs fought over the borders within it. They’d even built walls to try to stop the inevitable mingling.

“It doesn’t matter anymore though, it’s a different place now.” The treasures of the land his town had struggled to keep were gone and the land barren. But he’d never tell anyone about that.

“They used to be Sinra’s biggest clients back when we were Weapons Manufacturing.” They had been so busy fighting each other they hadn’t noticed Shinra’s growing power.

“That’s how sector 0 came to be. A giant mako spring. The towns were originally built around it because it produced a lot of materia. But materia takes a long time to form naturally and there had been less and less to be found. It was beautiful, but dangerous. Mako springs were bad enough, gazers were worse. The land was otherwise useless because they couldn’t build or grow anything on it.” He explains to his blond companion, admiring her interest emerging from behind her guarded expression.

There’d been a lot of mako springs back then, so they’d thought it was a good deal.

“The constant conflict meant there were a lot of high levelled individuals and their military was better armed, and larger than most cities. A power-hungry lot, they turned on the company when Shinra started poaching their talent.” And when the wastes appeared and started to grow. But that was an unrelated issue as far as Shinra was concerned and he would never imply otherwise.

He takes a bite of his sandwich and Scissors looks away politely. He doesn’t, watching her sharp handsome features.

He sees her shoulders tens suddenly and he follow her gaze, seeing a flash of silver at waist hight disappear in the first wave of the morning crowd.

Sephiroth was a weird kid, even for one with a twisted upbringing. And he’d known a few back in the day.

A former gang member of his had mutilated her siblings while her parents had been indulging in their mako addiction. But she hadn’t been that bad.

One face in particular used to give him nightmares. He’d been a cheerful if slightly withdrawn street kid from Bjorhall, what was now sector 1. He’d fixated on one of the members of a rival gang and followed them around like a chickabo. THey’d easily adopted him into the fold.

He and few other friends had snuck into their territory to teach some of their members a lesson and steal some weapons.

They’d accidentally dropped in on the scene where the kid was sodomising his friends corpse with a- 

He grimaces, putting down his sandwich, his appetite lost. He remembers all too clearly how that child had looked up at them, his gaze gloomy and empty, completely different from his usual sunny disposition. Then turned and ran, never to been seen in the area. His gang had been too stunned to pursue.

They’d later found out he’d left a trail of dead corpses in his wake. He’d been seen in other part’s of Idunhall, befriending kids, who’d turn up dead with the same gruesome injuries. When he was discovered he’d flee to another hall and begin all over again.

Sephiroth was growing up in a more sterile environment than the one he’d known, but there were certain similarities.

What made him different was that he hadn’t learned to hide it.

Fists had thought it was a bad idea to put Sephiroth in Rufus presence. Sephiroth had shown his eagerness for violence a couple of times before, the only reassurance was that he seemed to be triggered by people who could put up a fight.

Since the incident with Heidegger he’d been, oddly enough, more reassured. Because when the silver haired child showed emotion, it was genuine. And that bewilderment on his face. It was a good sign.

Scissors abruptly flicks her eyes over to him.

“Today’s your last day with that… her eyes return to the child, kneeling on a chair and eating quietly in the centre of the cafeteria clamour.

He hums back in response. Meeting her blue gaze steadily with his own.

Her eyes narrow.

“You’re up to something, aren’t you? You’ve been brooding all morning.”

This was probably why Scissors had survived for so long. Her intuition was unparalleled.

He gives nothing away.

“Just don’t die.” She mutters looking down and he smiles.

“We’ll all die someday.” Besides, he may not have Scissors sharp instincts but he made up for it in experience.

He threw down the last of his coffee then stood. Heading over to the probably very deadly 5-year-old sliding off a chair with his tray.

Fists knew it with ore explicit certainty than any of the other Turks.

...

He stands by quietly. Arms crossed and muscles tugging annoyingly against the armoured blue cloth of the suits, watching the silver-haired child go through the moves stoically.

Its movements are fluid and graceful, Its posture more solid than most other adults. Fists can admit to himself that it is unnerving to see. Sephiroth had the precision of a machine, yet still retained a dexterous and quick organic motion.

Once it gained more weight, it’d be a heavy hitter. 

Without a word Sephiroth turns to the mannequin he would usually practice the grappling moves on.

It really was only weight he needed. At this point, the child was most deadly when grappling. With the strength and durability hidden in that small body, it could break that dummy with supposedly non-lethal grappling techniques. That’s why he’d refrained from teaching it the lethal ones.

Fists catches himself. It was the last session today, he’d resolved to do something else. Be something else. See something else. Something that might, just maybe, be a little meaningful.

He uncrosses his arms.

“That’s enough.”

The silver-haired boy pauses. Then slowly releases the mannequin stands and turns to the Turk. There is no surprises, the child only gazes back. Eye’s calm like a lake on a windless day, possessed of a seeming boundless patience.

It gives him chills. He catches himself when the child’s eyes flick momentarily to his hands.

He makes them still, ignoring the powerful urge to rub his knuckles.

He’d crossed his arms to stop from giving his nerves away, but the child’s observational skills might be sharp enough that it- he already had an inkling. 

He very deliberately breathes evenly. Then he catches himself again. He’s falling back into bad habits. He knows well, that the more he tries to hide the more transparent he’ll be, especially to kids like Sephiroth.

Even now the child stands, still as a statue, save for his calm breathing. Green eyes boring through the Turk.

With a sigh Fists plops to the carpeted floor, shedding all his pretences.

“Let’s do something different today.”

The child blinks, and something stirs in those eyes. Fists smiles inwardly. Yes, that is what he’d wanted to see. Even though the child remains standing like a puppet, waiting for its strings to be tugged.

“Come here.” He commands.

The child strides over, and halts a respectful distance from him. His small back straight and feet parted to shoulder length. Face a blank mask. But today, he’s going to try to meet the kid on the other side of that mask.

“Closer.” The turk beckons- “halt. Sit.”

Gracefully, Sephiroth follows the instructions in its- his habitual manner. Fists half expects the child to kneel like he’d been instructed to do once and done ever since, but instead the child folds himself into the crossed legged sitting position, mimicking the Turk.

A trill of pleased surprise and wariness rushes through him. He knew the kid was more perceptive than he let on, something that drove scissors up the wall with alarm, but this is what he wanted.

The child’s delicate nostrils twitch as Fists musters his courage, inwardly giddy with anticipation.

He’d not been much different from the other Turks before, but when he’d seen that lost expression faced with the daunting prospect of caring for Rufus, he’d suddenly known.

“Now we talk.” He says, because today, he was going to invite that kid to come out.

Sephiroth’s ears perk up, he’d only noticed it because the child was otherwise so still.

“What do we talk about?”

He studies the silver haired child. He’s no there yet. It wouldn’t be that easy, but… He knows the child will be studying him as well. He’s tempted to be unnerved, but… It’s a good sign.

“This is our last session together. I have taught you all the basics and can’t teach you any more without simulating combat - which is not part of my assignment. Thus I give you the opportunity to ask any questions you may have pertaining to combat.” He explains in his usual clipped fashion. He didn’t want to raise the kid’s guard by going too quickly off the usual script.

He searches those alien, strangely intelligent but blank eyes, then he finds it.

“None of the others did this.”

His mind races, trying to figure out the best thing to say to let the kid’s guard down. Then he catches himself, knowing the kid would see right through him if he lied or told half truths.

He sighs, trying to breath out his nervous tension and allowing himself to relax and indulge the itch in his knuckles. Trying to think about how to best express his desire instead.

He sees the child’s eyes flicker and there’s the slightest stirring in that mask of his. He’d chosen right. But being too quick to spill the beans probably won’t lead him to anything.

“Why do you think they didn’t?” He ask back, making sure to put a smile in his voice. A slight challenge slips in as well, betraying the thrill he’s still riding on.

Green eyes studies him from below silver lashes, the pupils slowly narrowing. It awakens an unease back into him, but he suppresses. He can’t be too quick to judge, this time. The child doesn’t answer him, but that’s not a surprise.

He offers the kid a rueful smile.

“It’s fine to say it. You’ll probably be right.” The child lifts his head incrementally, small delicate tells, warm those childish features. 

“They were relieved it was the last day, and were impatient to be done with me.” The child answers steadily. Eyes boring into his own un-enhanced blue eyes.

A chill wants to creep its way up his back. But Fists, calms himself. He’d known Sephiroth was perceptive. Scissors had even told him that she suspected the child enjoyed the Turk’s unease around him.

“Do you think I’m the same?” He asks the kid challengingly.

The kid’s nostrils twitch. Fists would never have paid attention to such a little thing if it weren’t for the fact that Sephiroth rarely indicated anything else with his face.

“No.” Respond’s the child softly, and Fists feels his chest warm as he sees a layer of that mask gradually melt away. It’s like seeing years fall away, and approaching his true age, though Sephiroth doesn’t quite manage to pull off the look of a 5 year-old.

“Since it’s our last day together, we will do something more meaningful. You can ask me anything.” The child is quiet for a moment. He is sure, that the kid isn’t thinking about his question.

“That Turk with the daggers, Scissors, how would I go about defeating her?” A chill passes through him as he stares down a shrewd cat-eyed gaze. Sephiroth may be a kid, but he is still dangerous.

But he has one thing on his side, experience, and he knows the game the child is playing.

“You start with a difficult questions.” Those childlike eyes narrow. Not a good reaction.

“You do know she is my partner, right?” He answers, keeping himself cool.

Those nostrils flare and the child tilts his head ever so slightly, thoughtfulness creeping into his expression. He is sure the kid isn’t wondering about anything Fists had said.

But the emotion is good, so he marks a point to himself.

“I’d feel guilty if you used that knowledge to hurt her.” He’s got a feeling this kid would not react well to any lies.

“I would only fight her if Shinra ordered it, or in self defence.” Answers the kid smoothly, his mask returning.

“Of course you would.” He replies knowingly with eyebrows meaningfully raised. But careful not to hold it against the child.

The child remains stoic, giving nothing away.

He sighs.

“What did you notice in your encounter with her?”

Those eyes which had dimmed flare in remembrance and interest.

“She had some sort of armour under her sleeves.”

“Which would mean…”

“Breaking or injuring her lower arms would be much harder.”

Fists, doesn’t wince, but surprises himself with the urge to do so. He’d really changed a lot over the years. Noticing the boy’s attention on him he continues.

“What else? The boy pauses, thinking.

“She might have Materia slots under her sleeves.” Fists neither confirms nor denies.

“What else can you say about her combat stile?”

“She’s a close quarter combatant, she doesn't have much reach, but she’s quick.” Fists nods, pleased that the child seems to be relaxing.

“She’s good at using feints and hiding her true attack.” He nods again, wondering how the child had known to dodge that. His reaction speed had been superhuman, even by SOLDIER standards.

“And she doesn’t hesitate.”

Fists pauses.

“What do you mean?”

“She is sensitive too intent and once she is engaged, she is ruthless.” There was an intricacy to the reasoning which constructed that sentence. He stares, at the kid not knowing how to feel, because yes, Scissors was sensitive to other’s emotions, an she trusted her senses. It wasn’t just instinct.

Those green eyes glow brighter, become more distance the narrow slit pupils narrow even further, until only a thin line of blackness cleaves the brilliant iris.

That is not a look he wants to see.

“How would you defeat her?” He moves the subject forward, trying not to dwell on his discomfort.

 “Close the distance and incapacitate her before she draws her blades.”

“That would be difficult. You’d have a better chance of using a ranged weapon” Comments fists. Scissors was a quick draw and she was always on guard around Sephiroth.

The child makes a face, not the sort of face a kid would usually make, instead his features become more pinched. Fists lets himself chuckle at the sight.

“Not fond of fire arms, are you?” Cool eyes gaze at him before they slide to the ground. For the first time Sephiroth changes his posture. Pulling up his knees to rest his chin on them and arms curl around his legs.

“No.” It is a strange sight, to see him in such a child like posture. The child’s nostrils twitch and his eyelids flutter.

“Let me guess, It’s because they’re not as exciting.” Slowly those strange eyes rise to look up at him. Then they narrow into a dark smile. It sends bad chills down his arms.

“Fighting her… it felt so good…“ He sees, the kids breathing pick up and his eyes both sharpen and drift away boring through Fists’s chest, gazing at something that isn’t there.

“I guess I ruined your moment then.” He jokes weakly. He’d never usually joke about shooting at a kid, with said kid. But he think Sephiroth wouldn’t mind.

The child refocuses, glancing up at him from beneath his silver brows. The other Turks hated when he did that but Fists takes note of the pupils which aren’t as constricted and the dimming glow. Good signs in his book.

“Stupid guns.” Murmurs the kid back, unwrapping the arms around his legs and leaning back on them instead.

A grin tugs at his cheeks and he lets it spread over his face, both surprised and pleased the kid had joked back. That was good.

Leaning back on his hands the child looks more relaxed than ever, but still ever observing, studying. He is talking to the kid now, but he isn’t careless enough to forget this kid is also the one who acts like a soulless puppet with a secret master.

“What were you aiming for?” The child’s voice rings out, light, casual, but his gaze is shadowed by his brow. It accentuates the eerie Mako glow.

This might have been difficult to answer for another, believing it was a loaded question. Fists is sure the kid is waiting to see if he’ll trip over it, though he doesn’t know how consciously Sephiroth is doing it.

He spreads his muscular arms and raises his brows.

“I hate guns too, you know. I’d obviously aim for the biggest target.” He smiles knowingly at the boy.

The boy tilts his head back up, the overhead lights bathes his face once more.

The face is smooth as a doll’s, but he doesn’t let it shake his confidence. The boy straightens his posture maintaining eye contact.

“The company would have been displeased if your bullet had hit.” Answers the child measuredly.

“I was doing my job.” He lowers his hands with a shrug. “Besides…”

“You like us Turks the most.”

Fists thinks that he sees a brief moment of surprise flicker through those bright eyes. And there might have been the briefest of smiles that passed though them.

He can’t really tell, though. He’d never been good with these sort’s of fine readings, not like Scissors or Sephiroth. But he could make predictions based on his experience.

That’s why he was going to talk to this monstrous kid about the best way to cripple his partner, who, he was kinda attracted to.

There was nothing that could be done to change things now, but he hopped there could be a moment in their conversation that would make a difference in the future.

He knew, best of all, the importance of such small moments.

He’d been one of those kids, after all.

But he’d never tell anyone about that.

Chapter Text

The subdued din of voices and catering cutlery envelops Sephiroth as he serenely eats his breakfast. It is the usual nondescript bean porridge which professor Hojo favours. It’s yellow with darker hues of some kind of meat. He’d heard the speculation made by other cafeteria frequenters who almost all seemed to agree is that it looks unappetising.

Sephiroth doesn’t care. He is accustomed to it and would continue to consume it as instructed. Though silently, the child prefers the rice porridge. His soul agrees with him in silent solidarity.

Most of the other Shinra employees consume other forms of food during the breakfast hour. Ranging from bread, cereal, fruit, jams, milk, that horrid coffee, and some kind of sour smelling white slime.

He makes a face, thinking about a certain vanilla cream muffin he’d received on his birthday.

The porridge Sephiroth eats for breakfast every day is not readily available at the counter. The kitchen staff had a portion left aside for him and Hojo, though Professors was often packaged for ease of delivery rather than expect him to make time for eating in the dining area.

In spite of the posted fliers by laboratory doors forbidding food and drink from being brought in and consumed, offices adjoined the the laboratory seemed to be the exception, for he had witnessed through sight or smell the infraction of this rule.

The child’s nostrils twitch, enticed by the scent of bitter wariness. 

Pale eyelashes lift as he casts a languid glance over the sudden flurry of movement at the doors. A group of researchers walk in. On their tail paces a blond female Turk.

His pupils constrict and his stony countenance softens to his child like features. Nostrils flare to indulge in her special brand of hatred which spikes at his bright eyed attention.

It is the Turk, codenamed Scissors. Though Turks frequent the cafeteria, especially among the new recruits he has rarely seen this particular one. Even less so after their last encounter during the Heidegger incident.

Her hair had grown out since their last encounter, no longer short cropped, it revealed a whirl which curled her fringe from one side of her face to the other.

One of the researchers stand up to greet the new arrivals with an obsequious smile.

“Dr. Burrado, I read your paper on the potential of enhancing Blood tastes! Welcome to Midgard.”  Sephiroth recognises him with distaste as one of Professor Hojo’s assistants who had tried to scold him once.

After casting another glance at Scissors and locking on to her scent to brighten his mood - she s eyeing him surreptitiously with a sour expression - he returned to finishing his bland, salty breakfast.

One of the researchers sitting near Sephiroth stands up and approaches the table where this Dr. Burrado and his crowd of admirers had settled down. He’d probably been transferred from another city, or perhaps he was a guest researcher, judging by the earlier greeting, which would also explain the Turk presence.

New researchers usually had a guard detail for a while, probably to ease them in to the vicious Shinra henpecking.

Sephiroth glances as the man who’d left returns, recognising him as a new intern, “Seems like his father was once one the team that created the Guard Hounds. He gossips to a grizzled grey-haired researcher who frequently sat in vicinity of Sephiroth.

The old man had done a double take when he’d encountered the child at the cafeteria for the first time. But not for the usual reason. He’d asked about where Sephiroth had gotten his usual gruel, then wandered off to talk with the kitchen staff.

He’d been eating the porridges with relish ever since.

“So that’s why he is making such a stir. It’s not like Blood Tastes will lead to anything.” Sneers another man, by the smell of him he is from weapons development.

“What are you implying.” Blinks the younger researcher, seemingly taken aback.

“Blood Tastes, require regular feeding, their kennels stink and they leave their shit everywhere.” Sneeres the Weapon’s developer. Taking a drink for his glass of water, Sephiroth tastes the air idly, he senses irritation, and frustration sobering into malice. Maybe he’d been snubbed by his wife, Sephiroth had overheard tales from other employees who smelled similarly.

“But Troopers need to eat and defecate too, they even need to get paid…” said the young researcher in bewilderment, blinking innocently. Watching him cooly Sephiroth sifted through the cafeteria scents to find his. It is calm.

“And shinra needs to pay handlers and other people to take care and clean up after those dogs. That is why battle robots are the future of Shinra.” Retortes the the other man cooly. Petty satisfaction oozing from him.

The young researcher blinks.

“A-are you talking about those… Red Saucers?” Stutters the young researcher in confusion. Scent as calm as ever.

This intern would do well in Shinra. He hid his emotion’s and was friendly with everyone. Especially with the grizzled researcher who was watching their dispute with detachedly, scent mild amusement. 

From Sephiroth’s understanding this man doesn’t have any important duties or achievement in the Science research department. But he had served under the previous President, and had a lot of connections within and outside of Shinra. Sephiroth had even seen him exchanging some words with dark haired Turk who’d been at the board meeting during the Heidegger incident. 

“There are more impressive things in the works.” Bites the Researcher out. Sephiroth, having had enough of Company intrigue, stands up with his tray. The Grizzled researcher casts a slow look his way, as he prowls away to stow his tray on the cafeteria’s trolly.

Tossing a final glance over the cafeteria, the child leaves on his own. Quick to reach the cafeteria doors while weaving past a gaggle of shinra employees who’d just entered as a group. About to step out into the corridor-

A shock rips through Sephiroth’s chest. Momentarily stunned, he staggers backwards running an inward scan of his body.

There is nothing.

Still, he can feel it. A throbbing in his ribcage, but it is distant, as if a mere echo…

Pupils dilate, a slow realisation dawns. His soul rings with the memory of a forgotten day when the wold came crashing down.

He casts a look behind him. The Cafeteria is much as it had been moments before. The Office clerks have noticed nothing and are congregating towards an area with several empty tables. The Grizzled researcher’s attention is back on the argument going on between the intern and the weapons developer. The rest were still crowded around Burrado. One of the newbie turks is sitting in the corner finished picking his noes and flicks his snot into the slow-eating partners cereals. The only thing that is different is Scissors. Her eyes are locked in his direction, ignoring his former firearm instructor - Rifle’s - chattering.

Tasting the air he could smell her sweet alarm. His dilated pupils constrict, but just a little. But he can’t stay to indulge.

He needs a private place. An image flashes in his mind and his mood calms down further. Turning on his heel he leaves without further ceremony. His mind racing to calculate the repercussions of what he is about to do.

His soul has warned him something like this would happen a long time ago, but in the end, it still happens at an inopportune moment.

However, it isn’t unsalvageable. There had been a moment where everyones attention had been drawn away from him, even Scissors’s had been distracted for a moment by his Firearm Instructor’s approach.

He might raise some suspicions, but if his trace is faint enough, people will not believe.

Turning a corner he stops short, dilated eyes fixed on a blinking light close to the ceiling.

A camera.

Behind an expressionless child’s face, thought’s race.

Where were the cameras in the cafeteria?

In two corners, he thinks, each facing one of the two exits. The Trolly for the trays was located by the side door to the kitchen, he can’t recall seeing a camera facing that door. Considering it’s distance from the exit he should have been just outside of either cameras' range.

There might have been a camera facing the cafeteria on the other side of the kitchen door, but he would be too short to appear through the window placed in it regardless.

Looking down, the pale haired child resumes striding forward. In a short few moments he is by the entrance to the stairwell. Pulling the heavy metal door open with ease, he slinks in and begins ascending the stairs. He is half way up towards the second landing when the same door he had come through swings open.

Pausing for a second, he tastes the air. He knows this scent.

Grasping the banister he leans over it to look down at the landing below. His hair slips over his shoulder to hang down.

It’s the female Turk, Scissors. He hadn’t noticed her following him.

Sephiroth slowly shakes his head, all of a sudden realising that he is not calm. Suddenly, hearing his own hurried breathing, where it had previously been deafened by his raging thought.

Meanwhile, the Turk steps into the stairwell. Hesitantly. He can smell her suspicion beneath her unease as she looks up at him.

Leaning more of his weight on the banister he breathes deeply, trying to sooth his nerves with the Turks distress. His soul shivers in glee from the woman’s scent.

His pupils briefly narrow, but widen once more leaving a narrow growing green line to circle his eyes.

The heavy stairwell door swings shut with a clang leaving the two in silence for a brief moment staring at each other.

“Weren’t you on guard detail for that new scientist, Burrado?” He asks.

Now that he has stopped to think about it, he doesn’t need to rush.

The Turk doesn’t respond, looking warily up at him with her guarded blue eyes. Sephiroth’s soul stirs faintly, but not for her.

The child looks at her consideringly. Given what he is going to do, whatever he does now should not have any repercussions on the future.

He can savour her fear a bit longer. Time is on his side after all, isn’t it.

“What are you up to?” She asks him, glaring up at the child peaking over the banister. Her stance shifts and hide one of her hands.

Sephiroth’s eyes glow, thinking she may be reaching for a weapon.

He leans further over the banister, weighing her reaction. He could tell her couldn’t he? It would be interesting to see how she would react.

He relaxes against the metal below his belly and lets gravity pull at him. Letting him slide down along the painted metal.

“I can feel it…” He whispers, though the sound is clear in the quiet stairwell along with the quiet hiss of his clothes against metal.

“Feel what?” She asks coldly. Staring with a hardened gaze into his rounded pupils.

“Feel my friend dying.” He can, he feels the seals to the lifestream trembling and unraveling as if they are his own. Only very, very distantly.

His decent come to a stop at the landing above where the Turk stands. He slides off it and ducks under the banister

Scissors blues eyes flicker uncertainly but she shifts her stance to match his position as he rounds the banister and begins stepping down the stairs.

Suddenly he remembers. She had been there with him and Gast in the mansion, hadn’t she?

“Someone is killing Gast.” He whispers. Frustration and anger suddenly surge within him, his soul not slow to share its helplessness and loss that only enhances his own emotions. His gaze bores into widened blue ones.

“How do you know?” The Turk asks, keeping a wary gaze fixed upon the child. The thin ring around those abyssal pupils flash.

“I already told you, I-“ The child cuts off, the glows dims and he comes to a stop a few steps away from the landing.

The stairwell falls silent

“He just died.” A child’s shaken whisper brakes the silence. Sephieorth looks down, suddenly feeling the emptiness inside of him very keenly. He’s known this would happen, but…

The hollow inside of him grows, falling gape like a giant maw, beckoning to embrace him along with the world.

From the core of that abyssal darkness, his soul emerges.

It illuminates the emptiness with in him with a dark light, envelops it, then suppresses it it into the heart of a scorching but icy inferno.

Sephiroth curls his childlike fingers into a fist. Slowly his head rises, his hair falls out of his face and his gaze lifts to the shocked blond’s.

He’d also always known what lay at the heart of that anger which burned his soul. But now, now, he understands it.

His eyes burn with it as they lock on the Turk on the landing below.

Hatred.

“Distract me.” He croons horsely to his prey.

Scissors whips out a knife before he can lunge at her.

He feints to the side, then leaps towards the banister to gain higher ground. A blur of movement from the turk, a whistling in the air, he reacts quickly, twisting, his hand darts out his eyes tracking silver.

His fingers meet cold metal and he pinches it hard, keenly aware of the edge, just in time for his back to meet the banister, his body tucking with the combined reflexes of his training and soul’s experience to volt over it.

Fists had been right, he thinks as his feet meet the stares going down. He’d been unable to reach her before she drew her blade.

He sees a flash of light in the corner of his eyes. He tenses, but the magic swirls and quickens around the Turk as he casts his gaze in her direction.

Haste.

Of course she would have Materia.

She pulls out a knife with one hand and a phone with the other, all the while closing in on his position, trying to corner him on the stairs, with the odd jerking of a hasted motion.

He darts for her. She slashes at him, and he dodges right. A kick connects in a lighting quick motion with to chest, pushing the wind out of him. He lashes out with the dagger he’d snagged from the air at the Turks leg as he’s thrown back. It slices open her pant leg, but with surprising resistance, leaving only a shallow cut on her calf.

The wall of the stairwell connects with his back. He lets himself bounce off of it, still on the stairs.

He watches her, keen eyed as she rights herself from the spinning back kick. His nostrils flare, tasting the blood in the air. Feeling at his chest, he listens to the singing go his soul of battles yet to be fought.

His eyes burn, pupils thin slits. A smile spread across his face. He hasn’t felt this good for a long time.

Her attention is wavering, torn by her phone as she taps out a series of number in a hasted motion.

He darts forward, and she slashes. He ducks it, then twists away from her quick stab, then retreats down the stairs, pulling his head away as she stabs again in a low crouch. The clunky PHS is now at her ear.

He tastes the air reverently, indulging in the smells of adrenaline and blood. Her panting echoes deliciously in the stairwell, egging on his soul’s remembrance of battle thrills. Fractured recollections of light and dark. Broken noises, disjointed muscular impulses. But there, always there, is the smell of blood and metal and battle lust.

An electronic beeb interrupts the moment, then a click.

“Zero here.”

Sephiroth dashes forward.

She thrusts her dagger, he blocks it with his own stolen one, then ducks under her arm. His soul sears a warning awareness through his consciousness at the tilt of her blade against him and he twists, managing to draw his blade out of engagement, or risk losing either his fingers or weapon.

“It’s Sephiroth!” She shouts at the machine by her ear, retreating, preferring to give him back some ground rather than being pushed down the stairs that he’d just managed to escape.

“He’s done it!” She darts in slashing at him and dodges backwards then feints towards her, not wanting to be pressed too close to the wall. His mind analysing as her wide, alert eyes are locked on him.

It was indeed difficult to close the distance with her, and she was currently one-handed, even if hasted. 

She backs away from him in a crouch, dagger at the ready. Fists had said to use ranged weapons,  the only thing he had on him was the dagger but - his soul is not the kind to hurl a weapon.

“He’s -“ Sephiroth’s hand flicks up and the concrete come’s alight with white light. A thunder’s crack rends the space.

She falters. Sephiroth is upon her. She swipes at him, eyes still bulging from the shock.

He ducks but sees a knee come up to meet him. He plant’s her dagger in her thigh.

A gasp rings out, but her arm flashes back in a back handed stab, still hasted. But he’s close enough now to use the floor as leverage to strike up at her armoured forearm, diverting the blade to whistle over his head.

He kicks her injured leg from under her. She goes down.

Without hesitation, he grabs the inside of her thigh and calf and braces his knee against hers.

Scissors eyes remain wide, she wheezes with horse horror, flailing to sit up. Knife flashing for his vulnerable neck, movements no longer hasted.

The child’s muscles tens.

The snap is unexpectedly loud, surprising even Sephiroth. Like a breaking of a rubber band but with the volume of a gun shot.

Scissors screams and falls onto her back.

Slowly Sephiroth stands, snagging the dagger and wrenching it out of her though to the beat of another agonised yell. He tastes the fear in the air.

“Ohh-, Zero. He- he got me.” She gasps into the PHS, her voice much smaller than he’d ever heard it.

His soul curls in delight, while he looks at those wide blue eyes. A lock of blond hair had fallen down into one of them.

She sits up and brings up a knee. Using her remaining good leg to slowly push herself away from the child. A trail of slightly less dusty floor is left in her wake.

Sephiroth follows quietly but stays out of range of her knife which still raised defensively.

“He just took, my leg and-“ she continues, pushing herself back, “what was that even- thunder Materia?- he’s not supposed to-“

“Focus- how did this start-“ Sephiroth hears from the machine pressed against the Turks ears.

“He- suddenly seemed upset, I followed him and-” Her legs shoves away and her back meets the other wall of the staircase, her eyes locked unblinking on the silent child. “He said Something about Professor Faremis dying and then-

Sephiroth darts forwards abruptly.

She lashes out, but he ducks then twist and catches her arm under his own, pinning it against his side. Before she can twist her arm out of his grasp and stab his flank, he wrenches her arm upwards and stomps a foot down on her ribs.

The crack is almost drowned out by her scream this time. Suddenly, she breaks off, coughing violently.

The PHS shouts questions, but Sephiroth has only eyes for her agonised face and ears for her choked pained noises.

His soul is remembering something. He can feel it, but the shards of memory swirl around and slip out of his grasp. Only the emotion is vivid, the pleasured ecstasy swirls and courses within him, warming his cold chest.

“I- I don’t know why-“ She breaks off to cough weakly and wetly. “But he thinks he can get away with this.”

There’s a rasp in her voice, and she gasps in a shallow sob.

Sephiroth shifts the captive arm in his grip. Even now, she’s trying to stab him.

He lifts his own dagger and presses it steadily into her shoulder, just below her collarbone and neck by her right arm. His eyes remain fixed on her face as as she groans with a dcrechendoing volume, breaking off just shy of a shriek with violent wet coughing.

Her dagger clatters to the ground.

He kicks it away carelessly then drops her arm just as negligently which falls limply to the ground, her fingers tremble  but remain otherwise limp.

He straightens to his full, short hight allowing him to look down at the prone Turk. Indulging in the sense of victory, his soul simmers with a dark delight.

“Oh. Dear. Shiva. He’s staring right at me with-“ She gasps shallowly.

Sephiroth steps one leg over her abdomen, where she is crumpled on the floor.

He drinks the air deeply, soothed by the blood, fear and horror.

She looks away from his gaze, weakly. Blood begins to die her suit black by her shoulder.

“I have it, Zero, I have it.” She whispers feebly to the machine, still clenched tightly in her one good hand.

Gently he grasps her chin with his small, childish fingers and pulls her gaze back.

His other hand rises towards her own.

“I’m going to die.” She confesses to the machine as his fingers slip into her clenched grip.

He pinches the irksome thing.

The machine creaks. Cracks grow on the surface, spreading, then pieces begin to fall off, until it falls apart entirely slipping out of her hand and down her shoulder and onto the cold floor.

“Now, you are mine alone” He murmurs to her, feeling the cold twist of possessiveness in his belly. His soul feels it for another, but he- he hungers for her.

A tear trickles down her cheeks and a thrill rushes to his head, constricting his pupils even further. He can barely see though his euphoria.

It is there.

He breathes in deeply.

Veraciously.

It is delicious.

It is despair.

She coughs again and her eyes dart to the dagger in her shoulder. He laces his fingers through her own gloved ones.

“I wouldn’t want you to die, too soon.” He purrs to her. Eyes hooded. The puddle of blood on the floor grows quietly.

Brokenly she whispers to him. “Your sick.” Her face twists beautifully. More tears streak down her cheeks. His soul shivers in remembered triumph.

Sephiroth can hardly believe it is real. Even with the scent of blood and fear and-

“You twisted freak!” She snarls lowly, coughs then hiccups a sob.

“Tell me. Tell me what you really think I am.” He croons fervently, smitten by her bloodshot blue eyes. He can’t believe this is happening. It is too good.

“You’re a monster.” She sobs.

“Yes, I am a monster.” He breathes against her wet cheek, his soul confesses the truth as he speaks it.

A primordial terror, bleeds into her scent. He tastes salt on his lips.

It is real.

His soul want’s to stare into the angular features of her face, still trying to piece together a puzzle to which he has yet found the pieces, but he knows enough. He is, for once, sated.

“You have beautiful eyes.” He tells her rapturously. He feels her body shiver between his calves. He is giddy with her yummy smells, high on the fumes of her terror.

“Good girl.” He praises, In this moment, he’d never appreciated anyone more than her.

“Sharing your despair with me.” He’d never been this happy before.

He sinks down onto her belly. Lowering her captive fingers and changing his grip to hold three of her fingers with his small hand.

His soul urges him to continue to look at that face. But he wants to feel her, his Cloud, breathing in her horror fuelled revoltion.

“All, this time. You were like this.” She sobs weakly, then coughs up some blood.

He lets his weight rest against her front pressing his ear against her bosom hearing her heart beat and rattling lungs.

He used to do this with Gast. Though his coat hadn’t been wet with blood.

“But you already knew, didn’t you? I could tell.” He murmurs to her softly. She shifts her head to look down at the child cuddling her broken torso. Her own blood stains his silver hair and pale hand red. 

Sephiroth hears her swallow thickly.

“How did you know?” He asks, genuinely curious. Looking up at her from her chest. That constant fear and wariness. In some ways she’d been more attuned to his emotions than even he himself.

“I-“ She takes in a slow breath, grimacing in pain. “I just had a feeling.” Regret wells up in her voice.

Sephiroth pauses, her fear is waning. Her heart beats more softly under his ear.

“You should have believed in yourself.” His hold on her fingers firms, squeezing more tightly.

She scoffs bitterly, then her expression crumples with tired pain.

Sephiroth looks down at his bloodied hand on her chest.

Suddenly a coughing fit descends over her. Her chest heaves lifting Sephiroth with it and blood sprays over his face.

But he stares down fixedly at his hand. His own hatred and anger are long gone.

The coughing calms. He can barely hear her rattling breath.

He looks up. Face neutral. She meets his gaze calmly. Her face relaxes slowly  and her despair, ebbs away.

Gently he brushes away a few locks from her brow with his bloodied hand.

“You look much nicer with your hair long”

Bitter dislike colours the residue of her scent.

But her eyes slide tiredly closed and chin sinks to her collarbone. Her hand is heavy in his. 

He lets her fingers slip from his grip and it falls limply to the ground.

Slowly he stands. Just a head taller than her, where she is sprawled against the wall.

He feels nothing.

His soul tells him nothing.

Not for the death of this nameless Turk who’s blood pools out over the stairwell landing.

The emptiness inside him is a sea of void silence.

The stairwell door slams open.

Sephiroth’s head snaps up. A Turk barges in.

“Contact!” she bellows. Sephiroth is already on the move after her first syllable. Not a moment too soon, because bullets bury themselves in the concrete wall which his head had been obscuring.

More bullets follow in his wake as he runs up the wall and leaps up and over the railings for the next flight of stairs.

“Comeback here you beast! You’ve been caught red handed.” His former firearm instructors instructor yells as she storms up the stair after him.

Another Turk runs in after her. Sword bared.

She pales when she sees the Turks crumpled against a wall in a pool of her own blood by the stairs going up. She runs over, pulling out a tuft of golden feathers without hesitation. The magic already activates and unravels the feathers before they have a chance to land on the Turk.

With an abrupt suddenness the blond Turk takes a breath, then coughs violently. The Black haired Turk splashes to her knees in the pool of blood, fumbling for a potion, face pale. “Dear Titan, Scissors…”

But the bloodied Turk just fumbles for her pocket, as her colleague yanks out the dagger and pours a potion over the fatal wound.

“I have it, I have it.” Scissors mumbles wetly, coughing out more blood.

The dark haired Turk hesitates briefly. “Zero said you had something.”

“You must take it”. She whispers desperately. “Quickly.” She heaves a breath “He’s going to do something.”  She coughs, blood dribbling down her chin. “He’s much worse than anyone thought.”

“But-“

“Ken, You must.” She sobs desperately.

The dark haired turk hesitates, then her expression firms. She slips a hand into the pocket Scissors is fumbling at and pulls something out. She places a hi-potion in the injured turks hand before standing.

“Stay alive, scissors.” She says firmly, sheathes her sword and  goes running down the stairs three at a time.

…

Some floors above, Sephiroth slips through a door. Jumps up a wall and anchors himself in the the corner above the stairwell.

It bust open, his fire arm’s instructor storms through gun barking. She stops, registering the empty corridor.

Sephiroth dives down, curling his arms around her neck. His weight makes her stumble. He can smell her shampoo where his noes is pressed against her thick curly brown hair. His soul, howls with forgotten motions.

His knees clamp down on her sides. Excitement runs like liquid strength through his veins as he braces to snap her neck.

Her arm lashes out, touching his arm.

The shock makes Sephiroth’s head go blank and loosen his grip, his legs slip.

The Turk is stunned for a brief instant, but she recovers faster than he, twisting out of his grip. She strikes hi sides with a small object.

The same jolt course though him again, shocking him.

His feet hits the ground and he stumbles.

Without looking his fire arm instructor lifts her gun as she twist and jumps back with unexpected agility.

Sephiroth flings himself against the wall leaving a bloody handprint there.

He dodges a second bullet as he bounces off of it.

He twists behind the closing stairwell door with quick footwork, just as two more bullets thunk into the fire proof material.

His sharp hearing catches a cartridge releasing. The instincts of his soul jolt him into action. Without thinking he shoves the door wide open and runs back onto the floor at full tilt. His gaze fixed on the Turk.

She turns and runs, cursing while sliding the fresh cartridge into her gun and twisting her torso to shoot back at the pursuing child.

Sephiroth tilts his head, a bullet zips past his ear, then ducks another, which passes over his head.

He jerks his shoulder out of the way, the bullet rips through his shirt. Then skips over another aimed for his feet.

“Ifrit’s balls!” she bellows into the corridor, stampeding past a Secretary who drops her papers and quickly retreats back into the office she’d been leaving. Sephiroth ignores the secretary as he closes the distance between them not caring when his foot steps on a corner of the scattered white paper and leaves a smear of scarlet. His eyes are locked on the Turk turning to look ahead.

Then she twists around and Sephiroth’s eyes dart to her other hand, registering an automatic rifle which she’d pulled out from under her oversized suit blazer.

He darts to the side, bounding up the wall. A hail of bullets pelt in his wake. Reaching the ceiling in a moment he pushes himself away from it, shooting for the floor and bracing his legs for landing.

Rifle had turned around completely to run backwards with her arms crossed. His pupils dilate suddenly, catching sight of the metal barrel braced under the rifle arm, aiming for the position he was going to land in.

His soul supplies the spell and he casts up his hand.

The bullet fires, his feet hit the ground - another bullet barks, and they both ricochet off an illusory barrier.

“Fucking die! Freak cockroach!” She screams, blasting her semi automatic at the crouching child.

Sephiroth grits his teeth, feeling the strain, his mind races for a solution. Behind the Turk, an elevator door opens and helmeted troopers spill out.

The Turk drops her pistol to the ground, still firing her rifle to pull out something else.

She brings it to her mouth, then tosses at Sephiroth. But it lands short,  rolling to a stop at his feet.

Slitted pupils focus on the grenade. His mind snaps to a decision. He kicks away from his position. 

The grenade explodes, blasting Sephiroth off his feet and back down the corridor where he’d come.

Glowing green eyes are fixed on the metal door which is still in the midst of closing.

His ears are deafened, but the thunk of bullets has stopped. She must be changing his cartridge.

She’ll be done before he lands.

In the air, he can’t dodge.

The child twists, urgently reaching into himself, the power building. Rifle lifts her automatic with both hands this time, her aim steady unlike before.

The power releases, a trail of Ice leaves his hand, almost gentle. Almost harmless.

“Perish, monster! The Turk bellows, pressing down the trigger.

A wall of ice blooms in the corridor.

Sephiroth doesn’t hear the bullets hit, still deafened by the grenade.

He lands on a wall, kicks off, heart racing as the opening to the stairwell narrows. He reaches out with his hands and slaps it wide enough to pass through. He twist in the air, bringing his feet up, but doesn’t quite manage to stop himself from ramming into the banister of the stairs that bends from the force of his landing.

Panting, he pricks up his ears, his hand stinging from the impact. He hears only the ringing.

He’d had enough, he had better things to do. He bolts up the stair, towards a higher floor, knowing that his impromptu ice barrier had already shattered.

Abruptly Sephiroth breaks, slamming into a door leaving only trace amounts of crusted blood on the metal.

Quickly he, reaches up for the handle and flings it open. Then he’s running down another corridor.

He zips past a somewhat familiar veteran soldier with a slight limp who stumbles with a curses an unheard expletive.

Shinra employees drop their papers and bags or throw themselves out of his way, or stumble from shock after his wake.

Seeing his desired intersection coming up he leaps onto a wall and kicks off it to bound onto the wall of a poorly lit corridor. A layer of plaster cracks and crumbles from the impact of his landing. An office Clerk falls to the floor shocked by the small figure who’d flown over his head.

But Sephiroth is already away, sailing a good distance down his favourite dead-end and comes to a running stop before a nondescript door with a private sign on it.

Without hesitation the child wrenches the door open and throws himself onto the small cot, bumping his shoulder into the wall after having misjudged the strength needed.

He curls up panting. His nails scrape against the taut fabric, clenching into fists. He tries to relax, to slow his breath.

His hearing is still muffled which helps him concentrate so he closes his eyes. But the smell of blood is in his noes and he can feel the grit of clotted blood in one palm, tugging against his skin.

He pinches his noes with his unsullied hand and takes deep breath’s through his mouth.

Calming down, he slowly opens himself up into the lifestream, trying to remember how he’d done it before. Or rather, how his soul had done it.

…

 Meanwhile, Ken burst into the office panting and holds something out to the red headed Turk.

Zero grabs it and flicks a cap off of it.

“I don’t know what it’s up to.” She murmurs as she sticks it into a portal on her computer. “But it won’t get this off the net even if it managed to destroy all of Midgar.”

With some rapid clicking and typing, a window reading “Uploading” pops up, under which percentage numbers rapidly begin to ascend.

…

On some floors above, a brunette Turk busts out of the stairwell. Her suit is disheveled, revealing a criss cross of holsters, framing her rounded bust.

“Where’d that freak go!” she bellows.

She points at the nearby guard.

“You! Did you see the kid?”

He narrows his eyes then points, beginning to run with his limp along the corridor linked by startled paper pushers and palming his gun. The Turk is quick on his heels, but panting.

They turn down a dimly lit dead-end hallway and slow to carefully approach the open door at the far end.

Holding her rifle at the ready the Turk prowls closer, signalling the veteran to fall back and cover her.

The Turk suddenly surges forward. Scanning the dark interior of the room with the barrel of her gun, no sooner does she spot the figure curled up on the cot, then does she pull the trigger. The bullet leaves the rifle with a contained explosion and flies true, zipping for the prone child.

The world stops.

In the office some floor below the ascending numbers on a screen stop at 81%

An error sign appears, the the Turk pulls the recording device out of the computer. Returns the cap on the USB along withe her words and hands it back to a Turk with a high pony tail, who promptly retreats backwards out of the room. The door unslams itself shut.

On the floors above the expended bullet frozen in mid air zips back into its barrel, unbirthing the explosion which had projected it. The busty brunet retreats backwards along with the older guard down the corridor.

In the dark room the child resist the pull of time and remains curled on the cot.

The plaster on the walls outside of the room floats up and resets itself in the wall. An office clerk unscares himself along with a hole cohort of other employees. The Veteran guard unstartles himself and takes back his crass cursing.

The door to the stairwell, closes itself abruptly, the banister in the stair a few floor below unbends itself.  While the door diagonally across from it swings slowly open.

Shattered ice picks itself off the floor along with numerous bullets to form a wall of jagged ice. The bullets retreats and the Ice wall shrinks into nothingness.

A grenade assembles itself, the unleashed explosion retreats back into the container where it rolls back to pounce into a gloved hand which reclasps it to her holster. Bullets pick themselves out of the walls and floors, following a trajectory where they rickoshey off nothing and return to the firearm which birthed them.

A discarded gun returns to a hand and a Turk runs back the corridor, turning to run backwards more bullets returning to her firearm

One of those bullets returns from its trajectory of ripping past something. But the cloth which would be torn is not there for the string to untare.

Nor do the sporadic  and fading scarlet prints on the walls and floors disappear, for there is no hand or shoe for the blood to return too.

A cartridge is unspent and more bullets return until the Turk is back at the fire-door that was undented.

The Turk twists back into the grip of something which is not there, the taser in her hand never sparks with the charge it would release - twice - for the electricity it birthed has nothing to return through.

Doors shuts and opens again as the Turk unchases an absent quarry. But the more defined, wet hand and shoe prints remain on the walls and stairs

The blond woman propped up against a wall returns to deaths embrace only to emerge out of it once more, she inhales coughed blood, but most of it never returns, for it is still splattered on the face of a child curled up on a cot in a dark, closed room.

Blood slowly seeps back and words return to her mouth. But the things which were said by the absentee she stares at with fear and despair are never unspoken.

The phone in her hand repairs itself, crushed by an unseen force. Screams return down her throat and the Turk’s injuries close, her bones unbreak by themselves and she unfights her invisible opponent with a dagger. A call is uncalled a haste spell uncast. A thrown dagger is returned her grasp and then sheath.

She unspeaks her question posed to a child who isn’t there to take back the thing’s he had said.

The woman retreats out of the corridor and into the cafeteria taking back her excuses and calling back her favours. Until all is as it would be, save for a lone child who is simply not where he used to be.

…

In the Lifestream, Sephiroth stops. He’d marked the only time he’d been sure no one would notice him disappear. Slowly he lets go of time and the planets sighs as it once again flows as it wills. Except it is disturbed by a dark presence, for which it makes way, like water before oil.

Sephiroth, had never been this far in the lifestream. It tares at him, but he stays resilient, not letting it steal away any part of him as he stretches towards a distant beacon.