Chapter Text
“You’re growing up,”
Soft shoes on the tile, noiseless vibrations against the floor, coming closer. Reaching out. The tiny shadow that splays against the wall, expanding near the glow of the tank, the room swaying, gloomy and jagged. And the tiny voice that responds, timid and fearful. And small. And his own.
“Am I? Really?”
A dry snort. “Every day. Little by little. If only you could develop the talent to match. Perhaps, one of these days, you’ll consider actually impressing me for a change. It would be a good combination.”
“Oh…”
A sigh. Scratchy fingernails. Hands on small shoulders. A soothing rub, or the mocking imitation of one. A soft purr, rumbling through a gaunt, greasy chest. “You’ll get there. I’ll make sure.”
A nod. A smear of pale hands reaching out, touching the glass, green eyes that curiously scan the contents within. “Will I be stronger?”
“Eventually. If you improve yourself. We must work to get you to a suitable level of progress before the board arrives. Longer sessions. Mako procedures. We need to improve your talents substantially.” A squeeze. Red half moons against pale skin. “I expect nothing less than your best, boy.”
“I—”
“You know what’s expected of you. And I aim to make sure you deliver. And you will. If I have to pry it out of you bit by bit, I'll do it. You were born for more than mediocrity. It's inside you. Down to your cells. You are special. You are MORE."
“Y-yes.”
“We'll begin again. No weeping. No whining. None of it. I demand absolute perfection.”
“Yes, sir.”
“…” A pause. Light movement, kneeling, pressing closer. Hot, sour breath against the shell of his ear, tickling the silver strands tucked behind it. “I demand EVERYTHING. Everything, boy. Everything.”
He knows. He knows very well. More than he can put into words. More than the ache in his chest. The need. The fear. The beginnings of hate and grief. He knows.
“Everything.”
Hands tightening against the glass. Soft, silver bubbles through the cylinder, separate, pooling, swirling. And the grip on his shoulders, growing firmer, hooking, gnarled, slimy tendrils, curling and dipping across his torso. Rancid, humid air. Wet. Decay. All around him. Musty and squelching. Low hisses. Different. Different than Hojo's, slithering up his spine, the cold trail of something foreign, something forbidden.
And he
“You’ll give me what I want, Sephiroth. You’ll give it to me.”
Tightening.
he
“You’ll give it to me. Won’t you?”
Tightening around his throat.
he
“Give it to me.”
he
he
she
“I…”
“Give it to me.”
“H-Hojo, what’s…”
“Give it to me.”
“H-Hojo, stop it! Stop! It hurts! I’m afraid! I’m…!”
“G I V E I T T O—”