Chapter 12

He floats.

He doesn't realize it, even when his feet connect with the ground, when the mako tries to anchor him. He's used to fighting it, fighting us; he thinks all the green is bad and I can't blame him because I told him no more green and he's tried his damnedest to follow through... He floats like a ghost, over half frozen water. Shaky, and unsure, his feet not meeting solid ground but a net, a net of emotions, and feelings.

But I'm reaching to him through a net, as well.

I'm pressing against it; I feel my hand seeping through the gaps of the woven net. I feel myself try to press into him, but there's a force that holds me back. I can almost reach him, but not quite.

There's a spike in my head. It's drilling into me, constantly. I feel him there, but I also feel so much more than I usually do, and also so much less. They want me to find a balance but I don't know if there is one. I don't know where the start point is. I always start with Cloud, but he's blocked to me. I try to reach out, try to grab on, but he wants nothing to do with me.

Cloud...to even think that name is a triumph. It will be gone soon...

Sometimes I am sitting over his shoulder, resting a hand on his heart. I am there with him, and he is with the others that I love. I never want to leave those moments.

But...inevitably, I am jerked somewhere else...

It is the green, swirling mass of confusion, of layered memories, memories that are not even my own sometimes...

Memories of a tiny, petite girl; she stands in the storage room of a flower shop. Multi-colored blooms surround her, and frame her tiny, delicate face. A man stands before her, his hands clasped nervously together.

"It's just for a short time, my child, just for a few weeks."

She looks at him, her face unreadable.

"But daddy, that's what you said last time."

"Love, darling, I know..." He has no other answer, no other way to respond. He cups her small face in his hands, "But this time, this time I promise."

She's suddenly sixteen, sitting in a damp, dirty alley way. There's a syringe in her hand, the contents glowing a sickly green.

"You promised," she hisses, as she jabs the needle into her arm.

Another tiny, pale faced girl sits on the edge of a cliff, just as small, and young as the last. Her brown hair clings to her forehead wet with sweat; she could be the spitting image of the other little girl, but her eyes are brown.

A giant, one armed man walks up behind her; he doesn't touch her at first, but the tiny child, practically a toddler turns to look at him.

"Mar," the low, grating voice says. "We have to go."

"...but papa..."

The man kneels beside of her, placing his one hand on her shoulder. "He sent me to find you," he swallows roughly. There are tears in his eyes but the little girl is looking out across the canyon. "We're going...to go, and meet him later."

"Is he okay?" she asks, in a tiny but mature voice.

"Yes...he is okay...now."

She turns her head, meeting his eyes for the first time. "So Papa is okay?" The man nods again. The girl turns her face from him. "Maybe we'll be okay one day too, then."

A black haired girl swings from a lamp post, landing in the streets, her hands and knees wrapped with cloth to help absorb the impact. There's a crowd gathered in the square, a crowd she hadn't heard about. She elbows her way through, tiny enough to squeeze through the smallest gaps, but still fierce enough to use her sharp elbows when needed. She finds herself pushing towards the front of the crowd, and spots a haphazard pile of crates near her. She clambers up on top of the shaky pile, and turns towards the center of the square.

There are several people standing on a platform, and with a sudden lurch, she realizes it's a set of gallows. Men and women have already been cut down, but there's a line behind the dead bodies hanging.

This will be a long day.

She swallows, stretching a little taller to try to see the faces, to see if she recognizes any of them.

A pair of women are dragged onto the platform, a new set of ropes fit around their necks.

One woman snaps her head up, showing her face proudly as the hangman sets the noose around her throat.

Her eyes are almond and deep brown, her face smooth and impassive.

And familiar...

She starts screaming as the crowd yells, some in eagerness to see the hanging, others in apprehension. Her tiny voice is lost in the clamor, even though she screams one word over, and over again.

Mother...

A dark haired girl stands before her mother's grave, the mountains looming tall and intimidating in the distance. Her father kneels beside of her, trying to give her comfort but he has no words.

None of them have words.

He will never have words, and somehow she knows it.

A blonde boy stands in the doorway of his apartment. Living under the plate has always been bleak but somehow he knows, today is different. He pushes the door open, and it creaks loudly, but there is no response. The apartment is tiny, he knows his mother should've heard him return, but he doesn't hear her familiar feet stepping down the hallway.

He pushes into the room, his eyes catching the bookcase that line the far wall, stuffed with books, with even some overflowing onto the floor.

"Mom," he calls out.

There is no response.

He drops the tiny bag he carries to the factory for his lunch on the floor.

He walks with tiny, shuffling steps back towards the single bedroom of the apartment.

He's found his mother there before, in a stupor with no comprehension of what was going on around her.

There's a piece of paper lying on the floor before door and he bends to pick it up.

For some reason he is struck with the thought of the blue and yellow flowers his mother used to tell him about when he was a few years younger, the flowers from her home town, where she had met his father. But she didn't talk about his father anymore.

I'm so sorry, my baby, it reads. I'm so sorry I turned you into a monster. I'm so sorry your father didn't know what he had done, what Hojo had done. I didn't know what he had done. I love you my child, but I am so scared of you, and I am so scared without your father. I don't know how to fix you.

Be a good boy.

He pushes open the bedroom door, the letter in one hand.

She hangs from the ceiling, swaying slightly, her face blue.

He doesn't know what to do.

She's kneeling beside the desk again, the pressed, stark white dress is oppressive on her skin.

Her Master is silent, and concentrating on pages before him; she doesn't dare interrupt him. She has nothing important to say. He writes with a steady, smooth hand. Sometimes he speaks to her offhanded, but she knows this is one of thee moments where he needs to focus on his task.

The door at the far end of the room suddenly bursts open, and a greasy haired man strolls into the room without announcement.

She can immediately feel the insult this causes her Master, even though she isn't quite sure where the man has gone wrong. She simply knows he has done wrong.

Her Master sits his pen down on the desk, looking up at the intruder.

Though her face stays impassive she hopes the intruder can feel her displeasure and discomfort at her Master being disturbed.

The man stumbles over to the desk, slamming his palms on to it. She starts, her eyes darting nervously between her Master and the man.

Master doesn't look up though; he is not easily phased.

"What is it?" he asks, in his even, smooth voice.

"I'm worried," the man states, his hands clasping together nervously. His eyes shift about the room, and that makes her more nervous. Still, she stays seated on her knees obediently beside of her Master's desk. He will tell her when something is wrong. He will tell her when to do something.

Master grunts, but doesn't say anything.

The greasy man steps forward, licking his lips before speaking. "You have to understand-

"Understand?" Master says in a sharp, commanding voice.

"Pres-

"You told me," Master states firmly, "That the clones would be ready, but one failed SOLDIER slaughtered a top performing clone easily from my reports."

"The clones are getting better, and more stable..."

"But none as stable as her," Master states. "She takes orders, and understands her place. She follows my every whim. When are you going to be able to perfect that with Sephiroth and Angeal?"

"Sir," the man states softly. "Part of this has to do with conscious mind. I either have to create minds for the clones, or they share the mind of the original. The minds that I create are only pale imitations of their originals, and fail quickly. Your servant is able to share the original mind of your servant now because she is deceased, but the others can't obey direct orders for long because they are competing with their living counterparts. Even with the Cetra and Jenova breakthroughs it is still a difficult and tedious process. It is not one that cannot be guaranteed."

"So what you're telling me is that we need to make sure Sephiroth and Angeal have...moved on before we can have successful copies made of them?"

"Yes," the greasy man replies. "The clones I can make of them right now are insubstantial and don't last long. The ones I made of Fair, however, are making much more progress. They still need perfecting though."

Master turns an eye to me. "Fair has been dead for some time," Master turns to the greasy man. "Why doesn't his clones work as well as hers?"

"Fair was not a direct descendant," he states simply. "His blood is more difficult to work with, so his clones are not so stable. I've been able to manipulate some of the Cetra blood, but hers serves better with the mix of Wutain."

Master snorts softly, "Who would've thought being Wutain would be advantageous?"

If you could call this advantageous, she thought bitterly.

Immediately she blushed, bowing her deeper.

No, she thought, I am loyal to Master. He gave me life.

"So, is that all, Hojo?" Master asks, nonchalantly.

I'm grateful for his indifference about how I feel and react to these politics. I don't know what comes over me sometimes.

"Yes," Hojo states, "I'll let you know if anything changes."

Master nods, dismissing the greasy man with the wave of his hand.

"What did you think of that?" He asks quietly.

I stay motionless beside his desk, but respond. "I would wonder if his development of the SOLDIERs is purely coincidental," I say. "It seems suspicious that a young woman is easily replicated but there is no consistent replication for SOLDIERs of importance."

Master gives me his crooked grin, and I feel a flush stir in my bones, but keep my face impassive.

"Very, very good..." he says softly. "Will you get us some tea?"

"Us, my Lord?"

"Us," he reiterates. His eyes are burning into my scalp.

"Of course," I bow. "I will inform the servants immediately that you have a guest coming soon."

Master smiles his crooked grin again, his starched, white suit intimidating. "But you are my guest..."

I don't shake my head but I know my eyes speak disapproval. Still, I order the tea, and wait patiently by the door for the delivery of fresh tea from his receptionist. I know Master was teasing me. I know he sees me simply as a plaything.

I also know that is all I am.

I take the tea into the office, where I know he is no longer, and move towards a hidden door made to look like a bookshelf. I push through it, carrying the tea tray on one hand. As I move into the room, Master looks up and smiles his crooked grin. He is seated on a low, long couch, eyeing me with something I can't quite place.

"I am very glad," he says quietly. "That you are the one to deliver my tea."

"It is nothing, Master," I say, placing the tray on the coffee table before him.

He hooks a hand around my thigh as I place the tea before him.

Part of this feels familiar, his burning, ruthless eyes...eyes that can only be satisfied his way...eyes that are the only ones that matter.

I don't pull away from his touch, but there is something in me that desires to.

Instead, I ask. "Is there anything else, Master?"

I feel his grip on my leg tighten. "Come here, PET."