FF7, Permanent Mark [Sephiroth]
Sorting through my old files for likely bits for WsIP, I found this completed, which I apparently never posted. Thought I'd put it up for old time's sake. I'll try to find some more recent bits in another fandom for WsIP.
Gen FF7 drabble, focusing on Sephiroth.
Title: Permanent Mark
Summary: Sephiroth makes a bargain.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Squeenix.
Notes: First chronological bit of the "Permanent Mark" drabbles. A long time ago, I was drabbling about a particular mark each character had, and I apparently never posted this one. Goes with Cloud's and Zack's. It's old, and so are the other two, but might as well complete the set.
They treat the entire process with such awkward casualness that he knows instinctively to avoid it.
"No," Sephiroth says, and immediately drops and rolls under a lab table to come up on the other side of a bench, securing his position behind a row of empty beakers.
One of the lab assistants clears his throat nervously and holds the needle-gun behind his back. Sephiroth watches him sidle along one of the tables and try to signal covertly to another assistant who thinks he is still unseen.
“Be a good boy, now,” says the man who is currently misjudging Sephiroth. “It won’t hurt much, just like a little pinch, eh? Afterwards, you can have a treat.”
"No," Sephiroth repeats, and adds "fuck off," for good measure, the way he's heard some of the older enlisted men say in the hallways. He is on more definite ground here. Whenever they say it won't hurt, it always does. When they say it won’t hurt much, he knows it is going to be exceptionally bad.
He hears a slight noise behind him and dodges the second assistant’s lunge for his ankle without looking back, jumping over the bench and swerving to avoid the first assistant. Glass shatters and liquid spills in his wake; he hears a cry of pain and a strange hissing.
“Fuck! You little bastard!”
Another voice from the other end of the laboratory. “What is going on here?”
From his new stance by another table, also covered in glassware, Sephiroth curls his lip and doesn’t bother to hide it. That he learned this expression from the man inspiring it does not bother him much, he does not consider it important.
Hojo steps further into the laboratory and regards the scene with mingled irritation and interest. Sephiroth knows that the lab assistants don’t know what to say to Hojo, whether to complain to him in supplication or try to shut him out. Hojo keeps to himself; they can’t yet tell if this means he’s important enough to avoid everyone, or if he’ll be gone by the next year.
Sephiroth knows more than people give him credit for. Sephiroth could tell them all they needed to know about Hojo-- Hojo constitutes much of his world, whether he enjoys the fact or not-- but he sees no advantage or disadvantage in divulging what he has observed. At this time, anyway. Sephiroth also knows that while they are not sure of whether to be afraid of Hojo or not, they are already afraid of him.
The first man holds the needle-gun out, as though to deflect an uncertain blow. "Doctor. We're trying to administer the tattoo you ordered. He's resisting us."
"Of course he is. He isn't stupid." Hojo clicks his tongue; interest has yielded completely to irritation. “Incompetence. I'll do it.”
"You won't," Sephiroth says.
"Oh won't I?" Hojo says, arms crossed over his chest and looking down his nose. "The door is locked, boy, and I know exactly how far along you are in your combat trials. It is inevitable that this is going to happen. Now sit down and be sensible."
"I'll break things."
Hojo's eyes narrow. Sephiroth knows an advantage when he sees one and he presses forward. "You'll be able to stop me. But I can break enough before you can. It'll take you more time to clean it up and replace it."
Hojo stands quietly for a moment, considering. “You are testing my patience, boy.”
Sephiroth deliberately picks up a beaker half-full of something yellow and viscous, and throws it at the scientist's feet. Both lab assistants jerk backwards but Hojo doesn’t move. His shoes are splattered with the mess.
“That was a culture of bacteria that I have been observing for three months.” Hojo says, with no real show of emotion in his voice. He steps out of the puddle of glass and liquid, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Very well. Name your terms in exchange for this.”
Sephiroth doesn’t hesitate. “Four hours of real-time training instead of the mako simulation tanks."
"Ridiculous," Hojo snaps. "Two hours out, and you can split the difference in the tanks."
"Four."
He hates the tanks, hates being strapped in and lowered into liquid to have sensations, images, and directives piped directly into his brain, even if he comes out afterwards with instantly-born instincts, able to perform perfect combat routines or recall strategies that it would take a grown man years to memorize. He hates the thought of his mind open to whatever Hojo wishes to program in.
Knowledge is power, Hojo tells him often enough, but he hates learning from things that aren't real. Sephiroth knows that his education is an inevitable thing, but it will be on his terms. A broken bone, a mouthful of blood--- he has little enough that is solid to hold on to, and he has given enough blood so that he wants to see it wasted on his own terms, spat onto a training mat and useless in Hojo's eyes.
"Four outside and two in the tanks, which makes six. We'll have to readjust your entire injection regime to reflect it and you will not complain about it, now sit down."
Hojo never lies. He omits facts, he only gives part of the information, or he refuses to answer at all, but he never lies, so Sephiroth considers his concession safe. Besides, there is still a world of things to break and ways to make a bargain, and he knows he could get out of here, surely, if he tried hard enough.
He simply needs to decide where to go to after that.
The lab assistants try to strap Sephiroth's arm down but he won't let them. There is a tray that has a vial of black liquid in it; when held up to the light, it reveals tints of iridescent green. Hojo loads the vial into the back of the needle gun, checks some setting, and turns back.
"You won't need to strap his arm," he says as Sephiroth swats the assistant's hand away once more. "The boy can handle pain. And don't lie to him. Lying to children is a foolish practice and impedes their development. You may let me handle this from here on out."
After the assistants leave, Hojo contemptuously flicks the bite-guard on the tray aside. The gun makes a clicking noise. Hojo looks at Sephiroth.
"This will hurt, boy," he says simply.
Hojo never lies. Sephiroth sets his teeth.
It does hurt, and quite a lot. It takes over an hour because the needle has to be replaced twice and the ink is special, derived specifically not to react to the mako in his bloodstream. Otherwise, Hojo explains as he works along, his body would try to heal it and they would simply have to renew the mark each week. "And I don't think you'd like that," Hojo says, almost cheerfully, explaining every step along the way.
And so, Sephiroth holds his arm still and breathes regularly. He puts his mind outside the laboratory and thinks of places he means to go soon enough: the training hall no one else is allowed into so he can use his new time, Wall Market where all the enlisted go on weekend leave, and anywhere outside Midgar. He's heard people say that once you get outside the city, the sky turns blue.
Afterwards, he examines his hand closely. The tattoo is black ink, darker than he had ever thought any bit of his skin could be.
"I don't like it," he finally concludes.
"It's not a fashion statement," Hojo says testily, swathing Sephiroth's hand in gauze and hiding the mark. "Don't take that off until tomorrow. No tanks today. Notify me if it breaks out in a rash or shows other unusual symptoms. Now, get out, I have work to do."
"Why is it a number? What's going to come after?"
Hojo looks sidelong at him. There's a smile on his face, unnatural and almost painful, like a crack in cement. "You'll know when you're older. I’ll make sure of it. Now, get out."
Sephiroth stands up, careful with his first steps and testing for possible side effects. There is a brief wave of dizziness, but it passes with nothing more than a momentary light-headedness and he walks to the door with no unsteadiness at all, automatically avoiding the mess of broken glass. His hand aches, as though the blood-flow has been restricted for too long. For all he knows, there could be more chemicals than blood circulating through his body now; for all he knows, there is no blood in his veins and there has never been.
"Sephiroth."
Hojo, calling him back when everything is done. And by his name-- this too is unusual. Sephiroth waits at the door, half-turned and with one foot already over the threshold.
"Never bargain for less than what you're worth.” Hojo smiles at him again, still unnerving for its rarity but reflecting genuine pride as well. “Good show.”
Hojo turns around and walks back to the inner laboratories, leaving all else behind. Sephiroth watches him every step of the way, unwilling to retreat and turn his back against this unexpected behavior.
When the laboratory is empty, Sephiroth looks at his hand once again, although he doesn't remove the gauze-- Hojo's directive to skip today's tank sessions probably has less to do with his newly struck bargain than with the fact his hand is probably going to be performing under less than optimal condition for a while. No point in implanting muscle memory or sword moves on sub-par material. But there's nothing to stop him from learning on his own how to compensate for it. The training hall will be empty. It's as good a way as any to spend the day.
He hasn't bothered asking for permission to leave Midgar for a long time now. They're not going to give it to him, not when he started asking three years ago, and not now when he's already physically testing in the top percentile of a combat level that's six years above his current age group. He knows Hojo's employee login, and he's already reviewed most of his current records; he's working on something that will give him more clearance to Hojo's personal files. Hojo noted in his last report that he believes Sephiroth will be eligible for formal enlisting assignment within another three year period.
Sephiroth intends for it to take half that amount of time. He's growing. He's growing all the time.
He's left this place before, knowing he'll have to come back, that it is not a choice or an option he can alter for the time being. That's all right. Every time he leaves the laboratory, Sephiroth is walking towards something, not away, and that makes all the difference.
Gen FF7 drabble, focusing on Sephiroth.
Title: Permanent Mark
Summary: Sephiroth makes a bargain.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Squeenix.
Notes: First chronological bit of the "Permanent Mark" drabbles. A long time ago, I was drabbling about a particular mark each character had, and I apparently never posted this one. Goes with Cloud's and Zack's. It's old, and so are the other two, but might as well complete the set.
They treat the entire process with such awkward casualness that he knows instinctively to avoid it.
"No," Sephiroth says, and immediately drops and rolls under a lab table to come up on the other side of a bench, securing his position behind a row of empty beakers.
One of the lab assistants clears his throat nervously and holds the needle-gun behind his back. Sephiroth watches him sidle along one of the tables and try to signal covertly to another assistant who thinks he is still unseen.
“Be a good boy, now,” says the man who is currently misjudging Sephiroth. “It won’t hurt much, just like a little pinch, eh? Afterwards, you can have a treat.”
"No," Sephiroth repeats, and adds "fuck off," for good measure, the way he's heard some of the older enlisted men say in the hallways. He is on more definite ground here. Whenever they say it won't hurt, it always does. When they say it won’t hurt much, he knows it is going to be exceptionally bad.
He hears a slight noise behind him and dodges the second assistant’s lunge for his ankle without looking back, jumping over the bench and swerving to avoid the first assistant. Glass shatters and liquid spills in his wake; he hears a cry of pain and a strange hissing.
“Fuck! You little bastard!”
Another voice from the other end of the laboratory. “What is going on here?”
From his new stance by another table, also covered in glassware, Sephiroth curls his lip and doesn’t bother to hide it. That he learned this expression from the man inspiring it does not bother him much, he does not consider it important.
Hojo steps further into the laboratory and regards the scene with mingled irritation and interest. Sephiroth knows that the lab assistants don’t know what to say to Hojo, whether to complain to him in supplication or try to shut him out. Hojo keeps to himself; they can’t yet tell if this means he’s important enough to avoid everyone, or if he’ll be gone by the next year.
Sephiroth knows more than people give him credit for. Sephiroth could tell them all they needed to know about Hojo-- Hojo constitutes much of his world, whether he enjoys the fact or not-- but he sees no advantage or disadvantage in divulging what he has observed. At this time, anyway. Sephiroth also knows that while they are not sure of whether to be afraid of Hojo or not, they are already afraid of him.
The first man holds the needle-gun out, as though to deflect an uncertain blow. "Doctor. We're trying to administer the tattoo you ordered. He's resisting us."
"Of course he is. He isn't stupid." Hojo clicks his tongue; interest has yielded completely to irritation. “Incompetence. I'll do it.”
"You won't," Sephiroth says.
"Oh won't I?" Hojo says, arms crossed over his chest and looking down his nose. "The door is locked, boy, and I know exactly how far along you are in your combat trials. It is inevitable that this is going to happen. Now sit down and be sensible."
"I'll break things."
Hojo's eyes narrow. Sephiroth knows an advantage when he sees one and he presses forward. "You'll be able to stop me. But I can break enough before you can. It'll take you more time to clean it up and replace it."
Hojo stands quietly for a moment, considering. “You are testing my patience, boy.”
Sephiroth deliberately picks up a beaker half-full of something yellow and viscous, and throws it at the scientist's feet. Both lab assistants jerk backwards but Hojo doesn’t move. His shoes are splattered with the mess.
“That was a culture of bacteria that I have been observing for three months.” Hojo says, with no real show of emotion in his voice. He steps out of the puddle of glass and liquid, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Very well. Name your terms in exchange for this.”
Sephiroth doesn’t hesitate. “Four hours of real-time training instead of the mako simulation tanks."
"Ridiculous," Hojo snaps. "Two hours out, and you can split the difference in the tanks."
"Four."
He hates the tanks, hates being strapped in and lowered into liquid to have sensations, images, and directives piped directly into his brain, even if he comes out afterwards with instantly-born instincts, able to perform perfect combat routines or recall strategies that it would take a grown man years to memorize. He hates the thought of his mind open to whatever Hojo wishes to program in.
Knowledge is power, Hojo tells him often enough, but he hates learning from things that aren't real. Sephiroth knows that his education is an inevitable thing, but it will be on his terms. A broken bone, a mouthful of blood--- he has little enough that is solid to hold on to, and he has given enough blood so that he wants to see it wasted on his own terms, spat onto a training mat and useless in Hojo's eyes.
"Four outside and two in the tanks, which makes six. We'll have to readjust your entire injection regime to reflect it and you will not complain about it, now sit down."
Hojo never lies. He omits facts, he only gives part of the information, or he refuses to answer at all, but he never lies, so Sephiroth considers his concession safe. Besides, there is still a world of things to break and ways to make a bargain, and he knows he could get out of here, surely, if he tried hard enough.
He simply needs to decide where to go to after that.
The lab assistants try to strap Sephiroth's arm down but he won't let them. There is a tray that has a vial of black liquid in it; when held up to the light, it reveals tints of iridescent green. Hojo loads the vial into the back of the needle gun, checks some setting, and turns back.
"You won't need to strap his arm," he says as Sephiroth swats the assistant's hand away once more. "The boy can handle pain. And don't lie to him. Lying to children is a foolish practice and impedes their development. You may let me handle this from here on out."
After the assistants leave, Hojo contemptuously flicks the bite-guard on the tray aside. The gun makes a clicking noise. Hojo looks at Sephiroth.
"This will hurt, boy," he says simply.
Hojo never lies. Sephiroth sets his teeth.
It does hurt, and quite a lot. It takes over an hour because the needle has to be replaced twice and the ink is special, derived specifically not to react to the mako in his bloodstream. Otherwise, Hojo explains as he works along, his body would try to heal it and they would simply have to renew the mark each week. "And I don't think you'd like that," Hojo says, almost cheerfully, explaining every step along the way.
And so, Sephiroth holds his arm still and breathes regularly. He puts his mind outside the laboratory and thinks of places he means to go soon enough: the training hall no one else is allowed into so he can use his new time, Wall Market where all the enlisted go on weekend leave, and anywhere outside Midgar. He's heard people say that once you get outside the city, the sky turns blue.
Afterwards, he examines his hand closely. The tattoo is black ink, darker than he had ever thought any bit of his skin could be.
"I don't like it," he finally concludes.
"It's not a fashion statement," Hojo says testily, swathing Sephiroth's hand in gauze and hiding the mark. "Don't take that off until tomorrow. No tanks today. Notify me if it breaks out in a rash or shows other unusual symptoms. Now, get out, I have work to do."
"Why is it a number? What's going to come after?"
Hojo looks sidelong at him. There's a smile on his face, unnatural and almost painful, like a crack in cement. "You'll know when you're older. I’ll make sure of it. Now, get out."
Sephiroth stands up, careful with his first steps and testing for possible side effects. There is a brief wave of dizziness, but it passes with nothing more than a momentary light-headedness and he walks to the door with no unsteadiness at all, automatically avoiding the mess of broken glass. His hand aches, as though the blood-flow has been restricted for too long. For all he knows, there could be more chemicals than blood circulating through his body now; for all he knows, there is no blood in his veins and there has never been.
"Sephiroth."
Hojo, calling him back when everything is done. And by his name-- this too is unusual. Sephiroth waits at the door, half-turned and with one foot already over the threshold.
"Never bargain for less than what you're worth.” Hojo smiles at him again, still unnerving for its rarity but reflecting genuine pride as well. “Good show.”
Hojo turns around and walks back to the inner laboratories, leaving all else behind. Sephiroth watches him every step of the way, unwilling to retreat and turn his back against this unexpected behavior.
When the laboratory is empty, Sephiroth looks at his hand once again, although he doesn't remove the gauze-- Hojo's directive to skip today's tank sessions probably has less to do with his newly struck bargain than with the fact his hand is probably going to be performing under less than optimal condition for a while. No point in implanting muscle memory or sword moves on sub-par material. But there's nothing to stop him from learning on his own how to compensate for it. The training hall will be empty. It's as good a way as any to spend the day.
He hasn't bothered asking for permission to leave Midgar for a long time now. They're not going to give it to him, not when he started asking three years ago, and not now when he's already physically testing in the top percentile of a combat level that's six years above his current age group. He knows Hojo's employee login, and he's already reviewed most of his current records; he's working on something that will give him more clearance to Hojo's personal files. Hojo noted in his last report that he believes Sephiroth will be eligible for formal enlisting assignment within another three year period.
Sephiroth intends for it to take half that amount of time. He's growing. He's growing all the time.
He's left this place before, knowing he'll have to come back, that it is not a choice or an option he can alter for the time being. That's all right. Every time he leaves the laboratory, Sephiroth is walking towards something, not away, and that makes all the difference.