FF7: [fic] Starting Here: Sephiroth/Zack
Starting Here
FF7: Last Order
Sephiroth/Zack
Dark, the events of the reactor in Nibelheim. Playing with the question if Sephiroth really went mad or not. And just the fact that he really didn't have a problem beating the snot out of his possible buddy--if they were buddies. Playing with angry, yet not insane, Sephiroth. And Zack.
If he had ever been as happy as he was now, he lied to himself.
He was incredibly talented at lying to himself-always promising to leave, always promising himself that things would get better, that he would be stronger, colder, rewarded for what he’d done, always promising to rip Hojo’s innards from his body, to rip the supports out of Tower, to burn the labs, burn everything.
He was very talented at lying to himself. Sometimes, the simple effort of doing so was enough.
Behind him, below him, fire merrily devoured what was left of Nibelheim, what was left of the ghosts and memories of childhood. It was a quiet start to his campaign, but a genuine one. Still. It was a start.
His boots rang out optimistically against the metal stairs of the mako reactor as he moved steadily closer. Had he been inclined to, he would have smiled at the sound, but as it was, there was still the chance something could still go wrong, something in his plan could still go awry. Realistically, nothing could actually stop him, but ShinRa paranoia was hard to kill.
Well. For the moment. For the moment.
His boots stopped, and then stalked up the twisted earthen pillar that led to the center of the reactor’s core.
In the quiet moment between the cold air touching his face, metallic and biting with the tang of mako, and the cold hatred inside his skull taking things apart, devouring pieces of him by slices while waking up something else…he smiled, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. For a moment all he could do was stare at the hollow metallic mask, wrought in a woman’s image like a grave marker carved with angels.
Someone broke down the door behind him. The explosion sounded small.
Something in his blood-deeper than blood, deeper than bone-jumped and thundered to attention. He would wipe ShinRa off the face of the planet. Everything. Its people and buildings…everything and anything that had ever been connected to it, everything, would vanish. He could do it. He would be--
Someone shouted behind him. Shouted at him. He didn’t turn around. He explained.
All his life, he had always known he was different. Different not in the way of appearance, not in the way of physical strength or speed, but fundamentally different in a way he couldn’t pinpoint. Different inside.
He didn’t hurt the way other people did. Others allowed their pain to consume them, allowed their animalistic urges to dominate them. Others were little better than vermin, and worse than slaves.
He didn’t think the way other people did. He could never explain the difference, not even to himself, except that other people were stupid and soft, afraid to think the way he could, see things the way he could. Because…because then they would see themselves. They would know what he knew, and they were afraid.
He had nothing to ashamed of. Nothing. Never. He had never been weak, never been less than what he should have been.
People-other people-reveled in their lack of knowledge. In their waste. In the human greed and fear that had created Midgar, had created ShinRa and its power. And he was different, so very different, that he couldn’t live like that. They loved it. He couldn’t accept it.
The echoes of his voice on the reactor’s walls died away as he finished explaining, having explained as much as he could about truth, about theft and power and the future.
He had had some brief trouble breathing, staying calm, but it was only brief. It was a sign of weakness-he could never afford weakness-but there was nothing left that could hurt him now.
He would destroy ShinRa. He would find Paradise. He would have revenge. For the first time in a million years, for the first time in a long, long lifetime of darkness and silence and blood and greed and hatred and fear and a million broken never-real promises he hadn’t dare whisper even in the silence of his own skull, he was…home.
“Mother…”
The metallic gateway was thrown to the side, complete with the human face of a creature that was not human. A creature that could never be human, no matter what the scientists did, how they niggled and weaseled, they could never diminish that creature, could never make a god less than what she was. And the scientists had tried-they never stopped trying. Never stopped digging. After all, they had created him, hadn’t they?
The chamber beyond the gateway was dim, very cold, and almost empty. Almost. Almost.
He blinked appreciatively. She was beautiful. He had known that, but…still. She was so very, very beautiful.
Together, what couldn’t they do? What couldn’t they accomplish? They didn’t have-neither mother nor son-have human weaknesses, human needs, were both above every single living creature on the planet. They were equals, of the same blood and bone. He was home. He was home and he was going to make those animals pay.
A blade leveled its edge with his neck.
His hand never moved and his face never changed because they were both his to command, his to control, and there was only the slightest shift in his breathing to give him away.
“Sephiroth! What the hell happened to you?!”
He was incredibly talented at lying to himself. For better or worse. He had been doing it all his life, since he was old enough to remember stark white rooms and white lab coats with clipboards and white light glinting off glass, scalpels, and needles to make them appear white as well.
Back then, in the beginning, he had told himself that that life could not last, that there was a reason behind all of it, that it wasn’t torture, wasn’t wrong, and one day it would end, it would all end, and he would never go back.
In the years following the Wutai War, when the old nation fell and the troops and General were recalled, he told himself that the war had a rationale, that men-his men, the ones who trusted him, followed him-had died for something real, something solid.
He told himself he was not superfluous now, not extraneous, that he still had a function. That he still had use, a greater purpose than filling his hours with paperwork and egocentric meetings, the mindless busywork of the ShinRa bureaucratic monster. He told himself that the labs and tests would end, added a second promise onto the first and sweetened the deal with the hope that Hojo would die.
He told himself… there would be another war. There would be another battle, another enemy, another open sky not stained with Midgar’s dirty pollution for him to conquer. And this time, for this war, there would be a logical reason to it, a greater purpose than dull commercial avarice.
He told himself that there was still…time. That it wasn’t the end yet, that he hadn’t gone through everything, everything ShinRa and Hojo and Wutai could throw at him to spend nine to thirteen hours a day in front of goddamned desk!
He told himself…many things, because they gave living a reason.
And always, always, he knew that he was better than others. Had been made better. Even if he had things that looked like weaknesses, weaknesses that could appear human, he would always be superior. He was better, sharper, smarter, and stronger than any human, had all the virtues that were adored and desired. And now…
He would make the second war, the last Great War. He would create it himself, end it himself, and many would challenge him-ShinRa itself, the whole of humanity-and many more would die.
He would do it alone. He would use Mother’s power, Mother’s knowledge, but…he would do it alone.
He had been alone all his life. That may, or may not, have been a lie.
He laughed softly in his throat, keenly aware at the metallic edge even with his throat, but not close enough to cut.
He had always been alone. It was…easier. Simpler. Safer, for a man who had no weaknesses, for a man who had no faults.
He had never gotten used to Zack randomly bursting into his office, alternatively threatening him with fat-rich food, coffee, gossip, drinking offers, or companionship. He’d allowed Zack into his office, into his daily routine and apartment out of morbid curiosity, because it was more work to keep something from Zack rather than simply give in. And he had plenty of work, endless stacks of work to review and sign mindlessly, and he didn’t need more work. But he did…
He did enjoy a challenge. And that…that…
Zack had never really been afraid of him. Zack had never wanted to hurt him. Zack had punched him and broken his nose a couple times and sliced him a couple more times in the training center, but Zack also put up with the bruised ribs and deeper cuts and had even laughed the one time Sephiroth had broken his arm. Zack had been wincing and pale in the face from pain while Sephiroth lavished as many healing spells as he could throw together on the break before dragging Zack to the infirmary, and Zack actually had the nerve to laugh, “Fuck! I haven’t done that since I was a kid!”
He’d wanted to punch the officer for taking it so lightly. He often wanted to punch Zack out for doing a variety of a things, like stealing Palmer’s car again, or blowing out the electricity on the 45th floor accidentally-on-a-dare, or staining ShinRa’s water supply with dark green dye and then setting off the sprinklers on every floor, or passing out exhausted in Sephiroth’s office when Zack was too lazy to go back to his own apartment.
He’d wanted to hurt Zack for a variety of things.
For giving what wasn’t wanted, for offering what could not be accepted, for creating questions, thoughts, and hopes were there had been nothing but resignation and resentment. For always giving enough to make life entertaining, but not enough to make life liveable.
And now…
Now he could do anything.
“Traitor.”
Masasume’s hilt was real in his hand, solid and honest and honed to a killing edge. He was superior, had no weakness, and had something real to follow now. Even before the battle began, the victor was decided.
No more lies.
***
…Pocket full of posies, ashes to ashes, we all fall down.
--Nursery Rhyme
***
A/N: Still trying to get a handle on Seph’s character. Er.
FF7: Last Order
Sephiroth/Zack
Dark, the events of the reactor in Nibelheim. Playing with the question if Sephiroth really went mad or not. And just the fact that he really didn't have a problem beating the snot out of his possible buddy--if they were buddies. Playing with angry, yet not insane, Sephiroth. And Zack.
If he had ever been as happy as he was now, he lied to himself.
He was incredibly talented at lying to himself-always promising to leave, always promising himself that things would get better, that he would be stronger, colder, rewarded for what he’d done, always promising to rip Hojo’s innards from his body, to rip the supports out of Tower, to burn the labs, burn everything.
He was very talented at lying to himself. Sometimes, the simple effort of doing so was enough.
Behind him, below him, fire merrily devoured what was left of Nibelheim, what was left of the ghosts and memories of childhood. It was a quiet start to his campaign, but a genuine one. Still. It was a start.
His boots rang out optimistically against the metal stairs of the mako reactor as he moved steadily closer. Had he been inclined to, he would have smiled at the sound, but as it was, there was still the chance something could still go wrong, something in his plan could still go awry. Realistically, nothing could actually stop him, but ShinRa paranoia was hard to kill.
Well. For the moment. For the moment.
His boots stopped, and then stalked up the twisted earthen pillar that led to the center of the reactor’s core.
In the quiet moment between the cold air touching his face, metallic and biting with the tang of mako, and the cold hatred inside his skull taking things apart, devouring pieces of him by slices while waking up something else…he smiled, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. For a moment all he could do was stare at the hollow metallic mask, wrought in a woman’s image like a grave marker carved with angels.
Someone broke down the door behind him. The explosion sounded small.
Something in his blood-deeper than blood, deeper than bone-jumped and thundered to attention. He would wipe ShinRa off the face of the planet. Everything. Its people and buildings…everything and anything that had ever been connected to it, everything, would vanish. He could do it. He would be--
Someone shouted behind him. Shouted at him. He didn’t turn around. He explained.
All his life, he had always known he was different. Different not in the way of appearance, not in the way of physical strength or speed, but fundamentally different in a way he couldn’t pinpoint. Different inside.
He didn’t hurt the way other people did. Others allowed their pain to consume them, allowed their animalistic urges to dominate them. Others were little better than vermin, and worse than slaves.
He didn’t think the way other people did. He could never explain the difference, not even to himself, except that other people were stupid and soft, afraid to think the way he could, see things the way he could. Because…because then they would see themselves. They would know what he knew, and they were afraid.
He had nothing to ashamed of. Nothing. Never. He had never been weak, never been less than what he should have been.
People-other people-reveled in their lack of knowledge. In their waste. In the human greed and fear that had created Midgar, had created ShinRa and its power. And he was different, so very different, that he couldn’t live like that. They loved it. He couldn’t accept it.
The echoes of his voice on the reactor’s walls died away as he finished explaining, having explained as much as he could about truth, about theft and power and the future.
He had had some brief trouble breathing, staying calm, but it was only brief. It was a sign of weakness-he could never afford weakness-but there was nothing left that could hurt him now.
He would destroy ShinRa. He would find Paradise. He would have revenge. For the first time in a million years, for the first time in a long, long lifetime of darkness and silence and blood and greed and hatred and fear and a million broken never-real promises he hadn’t dare whisper even in the silence of his own skull, he was…home.
“Mother…”
The metallic gateway was thrown to the side, complete with the human face of a creature that was not human. A creature that could never be human, no matter what the scientists did, how they niggled and weaseled, they could never diminish that creature, could never make a god less than what she was. And the scientists had tried-they never stopped trying. Never stopped digging. After all, they had created him, hadn’t they?
The chamber beyond the gateway was dim, very cold, and almost empty. Almost. Almost.
He blinked appreciatively. She was beautiful. He had known that, but…still. She was so very, very beautiful.
Together, what couldn’t they do? What couldn’t they accomplish? They didn’t have-neither mother nor son-have human weaknesses, human needs, were both above every single living creature on the planet. They were equals, of the same blood and bone. He was home. He was home and he was going to make those animals pay.
A blade leveled its edge with his neck.
His hand never moved and his face never changed because they were both his to command, his to control, and there was only the slightest shift in his breathing to give him away.
“Sephiroth! What the hell happened to you?!”
He was incredibly talented at lying to himself. For better or worse. He had been doing it all his life, since he was old enough to remember stark white rooms and white lab coats with clipboards and white light glinting off glass, scalpels, and needles to make them appear white as well.
Back then, in the beginning, he had told himself that that life could not last, that there was a reason behind all of it, that it wasn’t torture, wasn’t wrong, and one day it would end, it would all end, and he would never go back.
In the years following the Wutai War, when the old nation fell and the troops and General were recalled, he told himself that the war had a rationale, that men-his men, the ones who trusted him, followed him-had died for something real, something solid.
He told himself he was not superfluous now, not extraneous, that he still had a function. That he still had use, a greater purpose than filling his hours with paperwork and egocentric meetings, the mindless busywork of the ShinRa bureaucratic monster. He told himself that the labs and tests would end, added a second promise onto the first and sweetened the deal with the hope that Hojo would die.
He told himself… there would be another war. There would be another battle, another enemy, another open sky not stained with Midgar’s dirty pollution for him to conquer. And this time, for this war, there would be a logical reason to it, a greater purpose than dull commercial avarice.
He told himself that there was still…time. That it wasn’t the end yet, that he hadn’t gone through everything, everything ShinRa and Hojo and Wutai could throw at him to spend nine to thirteen hours a day in front of goddamned desk!
He told himself…many things, because they gave living a reason.
And always, always, he knew that he was better than others. Had been made better. Even if he had things that looked like weaknesses, weaknesses that could appear human, he would always be superior. He was better, sharper, smarter, and stronger than any human, had all the virtues that were adored and desired. And now…
He would make the second war, the last Great War. He would create it himself, end it himself, and many would challenge him-ShinRa itself, the whole of humanity-and many more would die.
He would do it alone. He would use Mother’s power, Mother’s knowledge, but…he would do it alone.
He had been alone all his life. That may, or may not, have been a lie.
He laughed softly in his throat, keenly aware at the metallic edge even with his throat, but not close enough to cut.
He had always been alone. It was…easier. Simpler. Safer, for a man who had no weaknesses, for a man who had no faults.
He had never gotten used to Zack randomly bursting into his office, alternatively threatening him with fat-rich food, coffee, gossip, drinking offers, or companionship. He’d allowed Zack into his office, into his daily routine and apartment out of morbid curiosity, because it was more work to keep something from Zack rather than simply give in. And he had plenty of work, endless stacks of work to review and sign mindlessly, and he didn’t need more work. But he did…
He did enjoy a challenge. And that…that…
Zack had never really been afraid of him. Zack had never wanted to hurt him. Zack had punched him and broken his nose a couple times and sliced him a couple more times in the training center, but Zack also put up with the bruised ribs and deeper cuts and had even laughed the one time Sephiroth had broken his arm. Zack had been wincing and pale in the face from pain while Sephiroth lavished as many healing spells as he could throw together on the break before dragging Zack to the infirmary, and Zack actually had the nerve to laugh, “Fuck! I haven’t done that since I was a kid!”
He’d wanted to punch the officer for taking it so lightly. He often wanted to punch Zack out for doing a variety of a things, like stealing Palmer’s car again, or blowing out the electricity on the 45th floor accidentally-on-a-dare, or staining ShinRa’s water supply with dark green dye and then setting off the sprinklers on every floor, or passing out exhausted in Sephiroth’s office when Zack was too lazy to go back to his own apartment.
He’d wanted to hurt Zack for a variety of things.
For giving what wasn’t wanted, for offering what could not be accepted, for creating questions, thoughts, and hopes were there had been nothing but resignation and resentment. For always giving enough to make life entertaining, but not enough to make life liveable.
And now…
Now he could do anything.
“Traitor.”
Masasume’s hilt was real in his hand, solid and honest and honed to a killing edge. He was superior, had no weakness, and had something real to follow now. Even before the battle began, the victor was decided.
No more lies.
***
…Pocket full of posies, ashes to ashes, we all fall down.
--Nursery Rhyme
***
A/N: Still trying to get a handle on Seph’s character. Er.