by Kitt
Disclaimer: Square owns everything from FF7. Sadly I do not.
"Come away, human child
To the woods and waters wild
With a faerie, hand in hand
For the world's more full of weeping
Than you can understand."
---Heather Alexander, "Stolen Child"
The game of make-believe is perhaps the oldest game played by children anywhere in the world. Every tot tries it at least once in his or her life, and the first Jenova experiment of ShinRa Inc. was no exception.
His day today would be nightmarishly identical to all the others that had passed, but right now he was unaware of it. He was lost in his own little world, playing his imaginary role to the hilt. It was all he could do to occupy himself. He'd lost interest in what little toys he'd been given a while ago. His imagination turned out to be far more exciting than little plastic racing cars or stuffed toys or the like.
His caretaker for the afternoon was absorbed in watching a sordid soap opera plot unfold on an old television set. Occasionally she'd get up off the small sofa in the room and rap the side of the old box whenever the picture got fuzzy, and occasionally she'd gripe about one character triviality or another. Aside from that however, she was quiet...and generally neglecting her four-year-old duty.
He, meanwhile, was crawling around on the gray carpet feverishly, a look of intimidating determination set into his eyes. Nothing mattered save the game he was playing, and nothing in the world could stop the game.
In the midst of one of the more passionate scenes of the soap opera, the caretaker's eyes wandered, straying from the television screen to the creepy little boy on the floor. She'd only just remembered he was in the room with her. It was easy to lose track of something so quiet. Her gaze followed him for a time, eventually falling upon the numeral I tattooed on the back of his right hand, in black ink.
It was a constant reminder of the child's importance. He was no ordinary little boy. She'd heard rumors about him before she'd been assigned to watch him that afternoon. Some were true, while others weren't, but all of them were just strange. He had the silver hair---though under the yellow light it could very well pass for white-blond---and he had that chilling ability to stand perfectly still. But what about the voices? Did he really hear those?
Maybe. Jenova was a Cetra they said, and the boy had been infused with its cells even before he was born. Cetra could communicate with the Planet, so those voices were more than likely just the Planet talking to him. The Planet talking... God, how many of those "Ancients" were probably just schizophrenics? the caretaker wondered.
But then the soap opera scene changed and her eyes were drawn back to the television. It was at that time that the boy padded over to the sofa and sat on the floor beside it. He stared up at the woman who was supposed to be watching him. His gaze was distracting. At last the caretaker found herself compelled to look at him again.
"What're you doing anyway, crawling all over the floor like that?" she asked absently. "You'll wear the knees of your pants through that way." She broke eye contact with him and returned to the soap opera. If she ignored him for long enough, maybe he'd stop that unsettling staring.
"I'm lookin' for mice," came the little voice, clear as a bell. As innocent as the boy sounded, his voice held a touch of something authoritative and cold, like he was speaking to a peer.
"Mice?" the caretaker repeated with a bit of a chuckle. "Might as well give up while you're still ahead. You won't find any of those in here. It's rare we find mice running around."
"But I have to look for 'em anyway," the boy insisted. "Cats always look for mice, don't they?"
"Cats?"
"Yup. That's what I am. I'ma cat."
The caretaker's eyes parted from the television for the umpteenth time. Again she found herself held fast by the utter power of the child's green eyes. Strangely enough, they were like a cat's, large and tilted up at the corners. Their pupils were completely vertical, alien. Their look suggested that their owner was far too old to be indulging in such horseplay, but at the same time hinted that he was too young to even understand what he was doing.
What was his name again? the caretaker wondered. Oh yes, she remembered now. She thought it was an awfully horrid name; in fact, that was the first thing she thought when she heard it. Sephiroth. Couldn't they have given him a more normal name? One that didn't make him sound like a specimen, or a monster?
"'S'at so?" the caretaker said at last, slowly. Spooky little thing.
Sephiroth nodded assuredly. When his caretaker's eyes shifted back to the television, he remained there, just staring. The lady twitched a little under his gaze, but she didn't pay him any further mind. He turned and crawled away, finding both the woman and his mouse hunt to be bores. He ended up before a bookcase at the back of the small room. Cats climb bookcases and things and they sit on top, he knew. And since he was a cat today, he would have to climb the bookcase and then sit on top.
It didn't occur to him then that once he'd gotten on top, he'd have to find a way of getting back down again. He was always so sure of himself, so sure that he had made the decision to climb on his own. For all the intelligence he was endowed with, it never hit him that his decision had been influenced. He was playing the role of the cat; ordinarily, climbing a bookcase would be out of the question.
He started with the bottom of the bookcase, putting one foot up onto the lowest shelf, then grabbed at the next shelf and lugged up his other. He stole a glance over his little shoulder, wondering if the lady who was supposed to be watching him was doing as she had been told.
She wasn't, and Sephiroth wasn't surprised. She seemed to have no interest in anything he did. The television seemed to dominate most of her conscious thoughts.
He got his left foot up on the shelf above after much struggling. When the right foot followed, he heard the lady watching him call out halfheartedly, "Stay out of trouble." Again he looked over his shoulder. Her eyes were glued to the television screen. Silly lady.
His hands were on the third shelf and his feet were on the second. He was a foot above the floor and he knew it. He looked down. No, he was too far up for even his own liking. He didn't care much for heights. But he was a cat, he told himself. Cats don't care about heights. Cats just climb. So he tried to drag his feet up to the third shelf, his left hand reaching for the fourth.
"Damnit, why don't you just come out with it, you idiot," the caretaker growled at the television. "Quit beatin' around the bush..."
It was time to surmount the fourth shelf now. After that, there would only be one more shelf to go. Sephiroth reached for the fifth shelf while trying to drag his leg up, but by then his muscles ached and the mere act of stretching forced a bit of a groan out of him.
It wasn't enough to pry his caretaker from the television screen. "Yeah! That's it! You tell 'er, sister!"
Sephiroth shot her another look before going for the next shelf. He reached up and grabbed the top of the bookcase. So close, so close...and so far off the floor. He looked down again and became afraid. He could keep climbing or go back the way he came. Which would it be?
"Slap that bitch! Slap that bitch!" Now his caretaker was wild, sitting forward on the sofa, chanting. "You gonna let her get away with that? God, I'd be gettin' medieval on her ass right now if I were you..."
Her noise threw Sephiroth off momentarily, but it didn't last long. He lugged himself up and onto the top of the bookcase, five feet above the floor. He did it, just like he was supposed to do. The cat had climbed the bookcase.
Now he'd do as a cat did and take a nap there. Then maybe Professor Gast would forget about his visit and the needles that normally went along with it. Not that Sephiroth disliked Professor Gast; he liked to talk to him because he felt he wasn't being treated like a chair or a book or some other thing without feelings whenever he did. Professor Gast talked to him like he would talk to any other human being.
Curiously, the boy peered over the edge of the bookcase. The floor was very far down. It was a tall bookcase; Sephiroth wondered if he would ever grow that tall one day.
It was a very sterile room he was looking down at, almost identical to the room he slept in, though with some exceptions. The bookcase was one of those.
He remained curled up on top, overlooking his bland little world, wishing he had a tail he could twitch or pointy ears or long white whiskers. Something that would make him a real cat. Pretending was starting to get boring.
Sephiroth's caretaker was still perched on the edge of the sofa when the door to the little waiting room opened. It startled her, and the moment she saw the intruder, she got up and snapped off the chattering television.
"Watching television again, weren't you?" Professor Hojo asked, a touch of annoyance in his voice. "Rather than keeping an eye on the experiment?"
He watched the caretaker fall silent. She blanched and he took pleasure in it. Fear was such an excellent way of maintaining order. And devotion.
And respect.
Hojo had a mind to inquire on the general well being of the experiment---he hadn't taken well to his last injection---when he discovered that the boy was nowhere to be found. His eyes combed the room from ceiling to floor, eventually finding the experiment, his son, lying in a little heap on top of a great steely bookcase, looking down at him with those unusual eyes of his. He turned on the assigned caretaker, snarling, "What's he doing up there? Have you no brains in your head, letting him out of sight? Stupid woman."
The caretaker seemed to shrink into the sofa, wishing she could disappear into it. It had been so much easier to tell off a bunch of actors on a television screen, more so than it ever would be to give her superior a simple answer. She hadn't been minding the little experiment. He'd crawled off somewhere while she was preoccupied. That could not have been helped; the boy was far too quiet and far too sneaky.
"Well? Get up and get him down from there! It's the least you can do after botching so simple a task as watching a four-year-old," Hojo commanded.
While the lady who was supposed to watch him got up and crossed the room for the bookcase, Sephiroth couldn't help but wonder where Professor Gast was. He'd seen this other guy before, but he never got to know him well. He was one of those types who would treat him like a toy, wasn't he? The type that would see him as nothing more than something to poke silly with needles and then shuffle off, on his way?
The caretaker reached up to the top of the bookcase. She had a good five or six inches on it at least. "Come on now, you," she said softly to the boy. Her hands were trembling. She was nervous, fearing that he wouldn't come to her. She didn't want to go courting more of Hojo's anger. Just come, just come, she wished. Don't play these silly games.
Sephiroth felt sorry for her. She was afraid of this man. Well, far be it from him to give her more grief. She didn't deserve it; she wasn't a bad lady. He edged over to her hands obediently, reaching out for her arms while she reached for his waist, and allowed her to lower him to the floor, onto his feet.
From there he sat down and looked up at the professor above him. "I'm a cat," he said proudly. He didn't expect to be argued with; Professor Gast never argued with him when he played make-believe.
Hojo looked down at the boy and raised an eyebrow. Still irate as he was from the caretaker's negligence, his next words came out more harshly than he intended. "Are you? I suppose you know what cats do, don't you? They claw up furniture. They cough up hairballs. Will you be doing that next? You're a little boy, and one day you'll be a great soldier. Don't waste your time on such silly games."
The caretaker felt much differently, but of course she didn't open her mouth. He's only a kid, she thought, experiment or otherwise. Truthfully, she found it relieving that the boy would engage in such play. It was assurance that despite the Jenova cells inside him, he was still human. Mostly.
Sephiroth got to his feet, not wanting to start off on the wrong foot with this stranger, even if the man was rather mean. "Where's Professor Gast?" he asked.
"He's off on an errand," Hojo replied vaguely. "He won't be back until this evening. I've been assigned to your afternoon injection." The scientist leered there, something that should have come out as a smile, but didn't quite make it. It was all at once cold, familiar, and strangely affectionate. I haven't seen you in a long time.
Sephiroth looked the man in his dark eyes. He didn't trust him one bit. He stated very adult like, "Oh well, I'll just get my needle when he comes back," and turned away, walking towards a corner of the room.
"No, I don't think so," Hojo countered, stepping closer. "You can't miss a dose. Do you know what might happen if you do?" Besides the fact that you may fail as an experiment? I can't take any chances with you that aren't necessary.
Sephiroth remained silent. What would happen anyway, if he didn't get his needle on time? Would his rash come back? Would he get those awful glares in his eyes from even the slightest source of light, like the time before? Or would he lie awake in bed that night, sweating terribly, having all those scary nightmares? But no, all those things happened even when Professor Gast had given him his needles on time, even when he had been assured that he would be okay. Missing a needle must have graver consequences than all of those things. The boy turned around slowly, maintaining his silence.
Hojo straightened himself and gazed down at the experiment, the number one, what would be the first of an entire army of super creatures if all went well. Does he recognize his own father? he wondered. Had those Jenova cells bestowed him some sort of supernatural Cetra intelligence, as it had been hoped?
The scientist turned to the caretaker. "Wait here. I won't be long with him." His arm shot out and grabbed Sephiroth by the wrist, then tugged the boy forward. When he made for the door, he looked over his shoulder, adding sharply, "And now you may watch all that that annoying little box has to offer you." Then to Sephiroth down below, "Follow me." He walked out through the open door and into the hallway, child in tow. He closed the door behind himself when the experiment was outside.
"Incompetent fat woman," he added viciously. Stupid. Incapable of watching even a small child...
He stalked down the corridor directly ahead of him. Sephiroth watched him go for a bit, then made to try and catch up with the man's grownup strides.
The hall wasn't very long. Every inch of it was metallic, and there were bright patches on the smooth floor that came from the lights overhead, glorifying a building that was mainly bleak and cheerless.
The boy trudged along slowly, not wanting to go where he was going, but not having any other choice either. This was his life, and it wasn't what he made out of it. But at the time he was too young to give any of those facts a decent amount of thought.
To cheer himself up, he fell back into his old role: He dropped to the floor on hands and knees and crawled---no, walked like a cat. Up ahead and compared to Sephiroth's crawling Professor Hojo was setting a speed record.
The professor opened a door at the end of the hallway and the light from within shone down the corridor. He turned around and found Number One several feet behind him, doggedly crawling along. He was so dead-set in what he was doing: His brow was furrowed; his eyes were locked on something far ahead. It looked laughable really.
But what if he grows up that way? What if he grows up thinking he's really an animal? It was possible, wasn't it? Not everything was known about Jenova, not yet. Mere child's play could end up leaving an impression that could never be erased. Imagine a forty-year-old man, crawling on the floor, insisting to everyone that he was a cat and not a person. And so he'll lead us to the Promised Land, on hands and knees... The professor stifled a laugh. "Will you get off the floor?" he ordered.
Sephiroth stopped crawling then, and looked up at him. He made no move to get to his own feet. He wanted to speak, he wanted to explain to the professor that he was a cat and that cats liked to be picked up---didn't they? Oh, but then this man would just tell him to stop being silly. Sephiroth stared up at him shyly.
"If you don't come yourself," Hojo told him, "I'm going to have to haul you away myself." He waited for some kind of response. Sure enough there wasn't one, so Hojo backtracked and hoisted the four-year-old into his arms. He was getting too big to be carried, But I won't waste my time arguing with a pigheaded little boy.
Surprisingly, the boy didn't protest at being carried. Odd. He leaned against the professor's lab coated shoulder for the duration of the ride.
Hojo carried him all the way to the door, then suddenly paused. Realization struck him: I'm actually holding my son...
He didn't do that very often; Sephiroth was mainly under Gast's supervision. But there he was, Hojo's own flesh and blood, right in his arms. He moved the boy off his shoulder and looked at him. The little face that stared back at him was blank, save for a pair of very inquisitive eyes. There was nothing in that face that Hojo felt anything for, but it was amazing unto itself, to hold this last bit of his wife. Has it been four years already?
"You look like your mother," he blurted out. Oh, damn. Gast didn't tell him about his parents, did he?
Sephiroth's face went from blank to thoughtful, as thoughtful as a child's could possibly get. Mother? he thought. The voice inside his head often called itself that. His mother... But he'd never seen the voice. "Who's my mother?" he asked simply.
Hojo smirked, though it was mainly out of anger with himself. I could kick myself right now. "It's not important who she is," he answered hastily, then leaned the boy against his shoulder and continued on, through the door and into the next room.
"But I wanna know," Sephiroth insisted, no longer shy and no longer a cat for that matter. Now he was a little boy with his mind set.
Hojo didn't answer his son until he had him seated on a chair inside the new room, one where every shelf therein was lined with all sorts of tubes, jars, and bottles of things, some of them glowing with added Mako. Stubborn thing that you are. "You could use a haircut," he remarked flatly, trying to change the subject. He walked over to a table where, spread out on the surface, there was a set of instructions that Gast had left for Sephiroth's next injection, among other things. If I told you who your mother was, it wouldn't matter anyway.
"Who's my mother?" Sephiroth had asked that very loudly, causing Hojo to raise his eyes to him crossly.
"I don't know," he fibbed impatiently. "Now quit asking me such a ridiculous question."
Silence then, for a time. Then the boy started up all over again. "Who's my mother? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is---"
"Will you stop?" Hojo snapped at him, his last shred of patience gone. Sephiroth fell silent then, eyes wide. Hojo walked over to another table, giving the boy his back, and removed a test tube of clear liquid from a rack. He checked the label and was hit with a thought in jest: Humph, maybe I should substitute this with a sedative.
Behind him, Sephiroth remained quiet. He didn't press any more questions. Hojo looked over his shoulder curiously. There he was, just sitting there, but the strangest thing---he looked older. Older in years, his expression twisted into a portrait of emotional pain. There sat Sephiroth the man, frowning quietly, looking upset, looking downright mad... Incredulously, Hojo blinked, and the apparition vanished. Sephiroth was a boy again.
All the while, Sephiroth watched Hojo disinterestedly, completely unaware of what that man had seen. His thoughts were elsewhere. He's lying. He knows who my mother is, he thought bitterly. He just won't tell me.
The professor approached him moments later, a wad of cotton balls in his hand. "Hold out your arm," he said.
Sephiroth closed his eyes and shook his head, hiding his arms behind his back. "Nope. Not 'til you tell me who my mother is."
"I already told you. I don't know."
"You're lying."
Damn right I am, Hojo thought. How would you know?"
"I just do. I think you're lying."
The professor realized something then. The boy's assumption was correct, but he probably didn't think of it himself... "Did the voice tell you that?"
Sephiroth paused. Did the voice tell him that? He could have sworn he got that impression himself. His reply to the professor was just a shrug.
"Give me your arm," Hojo said again, and this time Sephiroth obeyed. He held out his left arm. Normally he avoided using his left, since it was his good arm, but his right had suffered enough needles as far as he was concerned. Hojo rubbed a spot on his upper arm with the cotton balls and Sephiroth caught the sharp smell of alcohol. Then came the butterflies in his stomach. Always, always at the last minute. He was getting used to the needles, but that was different from liking them. He hated their sting, even if it never lasted for more than a few seconds.
He watched the professor with wary eyes, while the man retrieved a long syringe and dipped the needle end into the liquid in the test tube. The needle was unusually long; Sephiroth had seen one lying on a table once, when Professor Gast was giving him one of his injections. "Professor Gast said he wouldn't use the big needle," the boy pointed out. His voice was shaking when he spoke, but he couldn't help it. He was afraid.
"Did Professor Gast say he would never use it? You're getting a bigger dose this time, you know---the professor himself left me a note," Hojo explained, his eyes never leaving the tube or the syringe until the desired dose of liquid had been absorbed. When he finished, he approached the boy, who again put his arm behind his back. "Why do you insist on being stubborn? I didn't make the decision," the professor stated logically.
"It's gonna hurt," said Sephiroth defensively, as if that would make Hojo change his mind. But something inside him said that it would be for the best, and that putting up a fight was useless, so he gave in. He held out his good arm again.
"Pain is a part of life," said Hojo. Though I suppose I should try to make this easier for you... He grabbed the little arm, trying to be gentle, and searched for the spot where he'd applied the alcohol. He couldn't find it, grimaced, then reached for the bottle of alcohol and some cotton balls again and repeated the process. Then he held the arm tightly, drawing the skin taut. He found Sephiroth's eyes glued to the scene and said, "If you look away, it will hurt less." I thought I heard Gast say that to you once. I don't know what to say to make this less painful, but considering who you are... I guess I owe it to you. Be grateful.
But Sephiroth didn't turn away. He couldn't. The anticipation held his gaze in place. He felt his eyes grow wet, but he barely noticed. All he could see was that great needle as it came bearing down, and all he could feel were those fragile few seconds of utter pain. Maybe he was exaggerating them, but he didn't care about that, not then. When the wetness in his eyes grew to be too much, he snapped them shut.
Hojo retracted the syringe. The next thing Sephiroth knew, a bandage was drawn across the spot where the needle had drove into him. It was over now. Hojo headed back to the paperwork on the table. He reached for a pen, glanced up at the clock on the wall, then wrote something down. Without looking up he spoke, "You can go back to your room now." And that was it.
Sephiroth slid off the chair and walked out, slowly. He walked down the hallway and back to the room he came from. When he opened the door, the caretaker inside automatically turned off the television, only to see that it wasn't Hojo who came in.
"Oh, God. Wasn't expecting you back so fast," she said.
Sephiroth barely listened to what she said. He padded all the way over to the end of the small sofa and sat on the floor, leaning against its side. As tiny as he was, he was practically hidden from view, the top of his head being beneath the armrest. He heard the sofa groan as the caretaker rose and closed the door. Then the television went back on.
All the tears the boy had been restraining came out then and he made no effort to stop them. He did, however, try to keep quiet, because he didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention. He started hearing the voice again, and it brought some comfort to him the way it sometimes did.
::Always trying to hurt you, aren't they? But don't cry.::
Silly voice; it was too late. Sephiroth was crying now and he didn't want to stop. But it made him think. "Always trying to hurt you..." He wondered if he'd be hurting like this forever, if this were to be the rest of his life. Would the voice be there to console him even as he grew older? He didn't know, but it would grow faint in time, because eventually he'd learn to quiet his mind. He would become skeptical of such things as voices in one's head. Only madmen paid heed to such things. Yet he was little now and willing to believe, and it was here, and he could hear it.
::Cats don't cry,:: said the voice, almost in singsong fashion.
By then, the caretaker had taken notice of Sephiroth's vanishing and was calling for him. "Where'd you go, now?" She peered over the side of the sofa and found him there, knees up and drawn close. "Are you crying?" she asked. The note of pity in her voice was rather touching.
Sephiroth wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve and turned around, standing up. His tears were gone, just like that. "Cats don't cry," he stated coldly.