Four and Twenty Blackbirds III. The Beginning Of The End
Third Trimester
December-January

The Planet cried aloud, and no one heard.

The Cetra were gone, scattered. The Planet's guardians were nothing but dust and faded legends, fairy tales of a time remembered more as myth than history. The Planet wept, and there was no one to hear its weeping.

No one save one.

The intruder heard the lamentation. The crisis from the sky had slept, those many years, prisoned in its confinement and only half-aware. It had taken the touch of humans to wake it, and that touch had truly done nothing more than remind it that the world did exist. It took years for it to wake enough to realize that it was no longer cased in stone and ice, and months more before it woke enough to reach out and touch the first of the many minds it sensed around it. That mind had proven fragile, brittle; it snapped at first contact, bringing madness. It was not the madness of the Cetra, which burned clear and hot, but a twisted, all-too-human madness that lashed out at everything around it.

The human had destroyed himself, after scant hours, leaving the other minds that the intruder could sense shaken and concerned. The intruder had retreated, biding its time, exploring more of these strange creatures that were so alike and yet so dissimilar from the Cetra it had destroyed. Dimly, it was aware that they were attempting to study it, to learn its secrets, but that did not concern it; it knew that nothing could be learned from the methods they were using.

And then, it felt the touch, the touch of a mind that burned so strongly that the intruder could not begin to realize why it had not sensed it before. A mind that wanted to know everything, and hold everything, and find everything to understand. A mind that nurtured the secret, hidden desire to prove something, to create something, to change the world and make its mark.

And the crisis from the sky could feel the satisfaction spreading, as it watched that mind and began making its subtle alterations. For it already knew that it had won, and needed simply to bide its time while the endgame played out.

As the Planet screamed in protest, the intruder set its snares, and did what it could to guarantee that it would never be confined again.

In the seventh month of her pregnancy, Lucrecia took to sitting in one of the rooms down at the inn that was used to house additional members of the team, just sitting at the desk that overlooked the town square and thinking. It was a familiar sight to the townspeople to see her, body swollen and gait clumsy, making her way down the stairs that led to the mansion and slowly crossing the square; accustomed to the vagaries of the scientists after the four years they had spent in the town, no one thought twice of it.

Hojo knew what she was doing, of course, and one small part of him recognized it for what it was: an attempt to free herself from the cloying atmosphere of the mansion, to find some place where she could escape the miasma of numbness that pervaded every inch of the laboratories. He recognized it, and that same small part of him wished that he too could find some retreat; but the larger part of him, the part that talked and walked and looked out at the world with eyes that were not entirely his own, grew irritable every time she could not be found.

He recognized, somewhere deeply buried, that his thoughts were not his own anymore. It was the part of his mind that remembered the night of the autopsy, when his last hope of ever regaining his sanity had cracked and faded. It was the part of him that still laughed, and cried, and felt emotion.

By the time the first snowfall came, bringing their first wedding anniversary with it, it was a very well-hidden part of him indeed.

He watched from the window of his room of the mansion -- his and Lucrecia's, he mentally corrected, though it no longer felt like the honeymoon apartment it had once resembled -- as the figure, laden with the burden of an additional life, slowly made its way down the steps that had just been swept clear of the snow. He knew, somehow, that she had been expecting him to remember their anniversary and do something, but though he had remembered, the part of his mind that was not his own had not allowed him to think about it. She had greeted him at breakfast with a smile that had been long absent from the pale and drawn face, a smile that had cracked and faded when he showed no signs of returning her joy.

And now, he watched as she made her awkward and ungainly way down to the inn, and thought of what the year had brought them. /I should have let the monster kill me that night,/ he thought, quietly. /I should have slashed my own wrists, before I allowed it to go this far. I should never have placed her in danger, never have begun this experiment; I should go downstairs right now and smash a beaker and use it to slit --/

#blank#

When he could see again, the sun had jumped in the sky, half an hour gone from his mind as if it had never happened. He slumped in the sudden release, fingers gripping the wooden windowsill to hold him up, his hair falling over to shield his face as he rasped for breath; he could feel the splinters digging underneath his fingernails, but did not move to prevent them. The mental blackouts had begun several weeks ago, periods of time in which he apparently talked, walked and moved as if he were cognizant, but which he could never remember afterwards. He could not predict them, prevent them, avoid them; they were, simply, part of his madness. Not even his scientist's mind, trained in the functions of cause and effect, noticed that they occurred most when his actions would have brought suspicion down upon him, or when he was showing dangerous signs of removing himself from whatever twisted influence drove his actions.

He straightened, finally, running a hand through his hair, not noticing the blood that trickled from his fingertips where the wood had pierced them. As he turned to go, he barely saw the shrouded figure of the Turk make its way across the town's courtyard, letting himself into the inn with a brief, furtive motion.

He was in the kitchen when the child came running from the village, his cup of coffee cooling at his elbow as he went over the notes from the week's experiments. Gast had sent a message from Midgar, weeks before, stating that he would be delayed in returning; it left Hojo with the burden of the project's paperwork, a task he truly hated. It took a few moments for the voices from the main room to penetrate the work-haze; when they finally did, he froze.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir," came the voice, "but th' man in the suit sent me running up here; he said that I should get a doctor quick, 'cause the lady was hurt --"

"What lady?" was the response, a voice Hojo identified, after a moment, as Dr. Casey Langstrom, one of the researchers who was mostly working on research into viral cultures.

"The pregnant lady," the child responded, still out of breath from his mad dash up the stairs and into the mansion. "She's down at the inn, and the man in the suit said that she was hurt bad, that she fainted --"

Hojo was already moving, and his voice cut through the entryway powerfully. "Are they still in the inn?" he asked, and the child turned to look at him; absently, Hojo noted the brown hair, the chocolate eyes, and identified the boy as the Mayor's son. "And was any more information given?"

The boy looked back at him in surprise. "Ah -- no, sir," he stammered out. "I mean yes, sir, they're still at the inn. And he didn't say anything else, just for me to run up here and get a doctor quickly, 'cause she needed help --"

But the last words were spoken to nothing but empty air, as Hojo turned on one heel and strode out the front doors of the mansion, listening only to the blood singing in his own ears.

Vincent was pacing the common room of the inn, covering the short distance in a few restless strides and then turning to reverse his course. The scowl he wore creased his forehead, and he jerked his head up when he heard Hojo's footfall entering the inn and scowled more. "I sent the kid for a doctor," he said, tightly, "not a quack. You were the one who did this to her; how can you fix it?"

Hojo ignored the barb and moved further into the room, ignoring his glasses fogging as he neared the warmth of the fire. "Where is she?" he asked, coolly.

Vincent rocked back on his heels, his face seemingly permanently fixed in that frown. "Upstairs. Fourth room on the right. She walked in, took three steps, and crumpled; I got her into the bed and sent the kid up to the mansion." Despite the terseness, the open dislike that shone on his face, he knew that Hojo did, indeed, know more than he did about matters medical.

Hojo nodded, simply, and was up the stairs in a few easy strides; he found Lucrecia in the indicated room, lying pale and wan in the tiny bed, her back propped up by pillows. Her eyes opened as he entered, and the expression on her face was hope mixed with despair. "Simon?" she asked, softly. "You didn't need to come down here; I just felt dizzy for a moment, and couldn't keep standing..."

"You fainted," he said, his voice businesslike, and that small part of him noticed part of the hope in her eyes dying at his tone. "There must have been a reason for it. Have you been eating lately?"

He could practically hear her thought: /You would know, if you would spend more time with me and less with that thing./ But she ducked her head and bit her lip, and nodded. "A little," she said, still in that voice that was a ghost of her usual tone. "I haven't been all that hungry lately; it's like the very thought of food -- disgusts me --"

He moved to her side, fingers falling to take her pulse with practiced motion. "I've told you," he said, quietly, unable to keep the rebuke out of his voice, "that you need to eat. You are not simply eating for yourself; there is the child to think about."

Irritated, she made a brief gesture, pushing his hand away. "Don't you think I know that?" she asked, sharply, and struggled to sit up. "Believe me, Simon, no one on this project is more aware than I that I am pregnant. I remember it every night, when I wake up four times in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom; I remember it every morning, when I need to pry myself out of bed because of this body." Her little motion indicated her rounded belly, her swollen ankles. "It is not as if I could forget all that easily."

"Well, then," he said, evenly, "perhaps it is time for you to remember that fact more assiduously, lest this happen again." He drew back, eyeing her carefully even as she swung her legs off the bed and pressed a hand to her stomach, supporting the weight.

Her eyes sparked at him, though they lacked a great deal of their usual fire. "Surely you don't think that I did this to myself," she snapped. "Do tell me what purpose I would have to fainting in the inn, as I'm breathless with anticipation."

Coolly, he folded his arms across his chest. "You tell me," he countered, sharply. "Why did you faint, Lucrecia?"

The proud tilt of her head as she fixed her eyes on his should have warned him. "Did you stop to think," she bit out, "that perhaps it might be whatever the hell you've been injecting me with for the past seven months?" Her eyes widened as soon as the words were out of her mouth, as if she had just heard what she had said. Of its own volition, his hand rose, as if to slap her; it took a great effort of will to make it drop again, and the fingers curled into a fist. "I seem to recall," he gritted, each syllable precise and weighted, "that I was not the one who insisted upon continuing the treatments, nor was I, indeed, the one who was so blasted enthusiastic for beginning the procedure in the first place. Do you forget so easily, Lucrecia? Will you lay the blame for this whole affair at my feet, then?"

Her face was still in shock, but she just looked at him, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. "Listen to us," she said, almost to herself. "Listen to us. My God, what have we become? What happened to us?"

That small part that was left of Hojo echoed the question, and indeed wanted to echo the tears. The part of him that was no longer quite Hojo just calmly said, "I am certain that it is simply the hormonal changes brought about by pregnancy. I will have Valentine bring you back up to the mansion, and I want you in bed for the next few days until we can discover what is wrong with you. That means no more little trips down here, Lucrecia."

One tear slipped down her cheek, and she bit her lip, fighting against the urge to break down and knowing that she could not. "All right," she said, bowing her head, resigned enough to agree. "If that's ... if that's what you think is best for me." It was almost as if his coldness had broken something within her; she did not have the spirit to argue back.

"It is what is best for you and the child," Hojo concurred. "Now lie back down." He turned and exited the room before seeing whether or not she complied.

Vincent's head jerked up the moment he heard Hojo's footsteps on the staircase. "What's wrong with her?" he demanded, abruptly, with no preliminary greetings.

Hojo's face was set. "She is pregnant," he said, sharply, "and is not taking proper care of herself. Take her back to the mansion and place her in bed; there is nothing I can do for her here."

Vincent's pacing stilled, and he just looked at Hojo, thinly disguised contempt in his eyes. "That's it?" he asked, his tone incredulous. "Your wife passes out in the middle of the inn and all you can say is 'She's pregnant'? What the hell kind of doctor are you?"

 "That's enough, Vincent." The weak voice came from the top of the stairs; both men's heads swiveled to see Lucrecia, one hand on her stomach, the other holding onto the railing with an iron grip. She swayed slightly, as if the small air currents in the room were disturbing her, but looked otherwise fine; she had somehow composed herself, summoned her usual strength and dignity to put the argument behind her. "I told you that you didn't even need to call him. Now, someone help me down these damn stairs."

Vincent was already moving, before she could even finish speaking; his last glance at Hojo was full of disgust, and a barely concealed warning. Hojo just smiled thinly, his lips curling in what was not amusement, and was gone.

"Why don't you pull up a chair and have a seat, Doc," the figure sitting at the counter said to him. Hojo had done so before the nagging feeling in the back of his mind had caught up with him, and he stopped just as he was settling himself onto the stool.

"Kevin," he whispered, softly. "But you're --"

"Dead?" The intern grinned at him, brightly. "Yeah, I guess I am, aren't I. That must mean that you're dreaming. Don't sweat it. Happens to us all." He pushed a mug over to Hojo. "Coffee?"

Hojo took it, numbly, and frowned. "Why am I dreaming about you?" he asked, softly, more to himself than anything else.

Kevin's smile grew a bit wider. "Oh, you're not. You're dreaming about something else entirely, but you needed to put a face to it, and what better than mine?" His smile grew a touch darker. "Why don't you use that brain you're so proud of and figure out what's going on here."

It was then that Hojo looked around, realizing that he was in the lab once more; the lights were low, the room deserted. "What do you mean, what's going on?" he asked, slowly. "It's a dream. Dreams aren't supposed to make sense. I suppose this is some sort of lingering, residual guilt of some sort about Kevin's death, and it's manifesting itself in a dream."

"Nice try, but no." Kevin drummed his fingers on the table. "You see, I could talk to you while you were awake, but it would disturb the nice little equilibrium that you've got with the part of your brain that doesn't want to get disturbed by all of this. I'd really prefer not to send you over the edge into screaming oblivion quite yet; I have the strangest feeling that you're going to be useful in a little while. So I borrowed your dreams -- and you know, it's just all so much easier when I look like someone you already know." He paused, and then smiled. "Or knew. Would you prefer I were someone else?"

Hojo shook his head. He was afraid, terribly afraid, that he knew what was going on; what he forgot during the waking hours, he could see clearly here. "Stop this," he said, lowly, his eyes closing. "Dammit, it's not enough that you have to make my life miserable during the day; why can't my dreams be my own?"

As his eyes were closed, the voice changed. "Because they're mine, like the rest of you," it said, taking on a female timbre and pitch, even the phrasing changing. "Because you don't have any choice. I've been pretty much happy with the way you've been behaving lately, but you know, your wife is starting to notice something's up. I would be more careful.."

Suspecting what he would see, Hojo opened his eyes; not even the expectation could prepare him for the sight of his younger sister, looking back at him with the same exact little smile that she'd worn the morning before she'd been killed. "She's cute, but then again, you know that, Si," Kimberly said, softly. "I'm sure you'd hate for anything to happen to her."

"Damn you," he said, softly, closing his eyes again as the sight grew to be too much for him. He'd been seventeen when his sister had been killed in a traffic accident; she had been fifteen. He had never quite ceased to miss her. "What the hell do you want me to do?"

Kimberly smiled again, and it was an expression he'd never seen on his sister's face -- cold and calculating, weighing all the options and picking through them one by one. "Why, Si," she said, brightly, "I don't want you to do anything. Just be yourself, and I'm sure it'll all work out perfectly."

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, watching as galaxies were born, lived, and exploded in supernovae of light against the velvet darkness of his eyelids. "I have not been myself," he said, raggedly, "since you began speaking to me."

Kimberly's voice was innocent. "Speaking to you, Si?" she asked, sweetly. "I'm dead. How could I've been speaking to you?"

"Dammit," he said, feeling the anger begin to thread his voice, "don't play me for the fool. I know what you are. Who you are. I've been hearing your voice whispering in my ear for almost a year now, and it's gotten worse ..." He trailed off.

The figure across from him laughed Kimberly's laugh, and reached out to touch the back of one of his wrists, lightly. "Now, look, Si," the voice that was and yet was not his sister's said to him. "You might as well just stop arguing. I've got you, and I'm not going to be letting you go anytime soon. You've been very useful. It's been a long time since I've been able to look at the world through someone's eyes like this; I don't normally get out much, you see."

The thing had abandoned all pretense as to what it truly was, even as the face of Hojo's dead sister continued to smile. Perhaps that made it worse. "I thought it might be time for a warning, though; you're fighting me too hard. I'm getting tired of having to rein you in. So you've got two choices: you can either shut up and stop struggling, or I can take you over so thoroughly that you won't have two brain cells left to rub together. I don't wanna have to do that; you're more useful to me when you can think." Hearing the words from the teenager's lips was incongruous, and Hojo had to fight to remember that this was not, despite what she looked like, truly Kimberly. "So if I were you, I'd stop fighting, Si. It's not going to work; I'm not gonna let you go."

Hojo dropped his head to the counter, feeling the cool metal against his cheek. The words echoed in his mind, the reality of them piercing him; he had not expected to hear it stated so bluntly, and the implications assaulted him. "I ..." he started, then shivered, once. "I won't fight," he said, softly. "If it were just me, I would, but it's not, is it? You've got Lucrecia -- and Rodger, too, don't you?"

Kimberly's lips stretched into a smile; he could hear it in her voice. "Your wife, yeah. I can't quite touch the other one," she said, with just a hint of annoyance. "Both of 'em are going to be trouble, too. But you know what?" She propped her chin in her palms, wrapping one sneaker-clad foot around the bar underneath the stool, and favored him with a sweet smile. "Your wife loves you a whole lot, Si. Makes you wonder what she sees in ya, eh, big bro? She loves you so much that she'll take your word for just about anything." She kicked the metal bar of the stool, sending up a soft clanging noise. "And you'd better start using it."

Hojo could feel his teeth baring in a snarl. "What the hell do you mean, 'use it'? I'm not going to do anything that would hurt Lucrecia."

Kimberly laughed and tossed her head, her black ponytail bouncing over one shoulder as she leaned closer. "Oh," she said, casually, "I think you already have been. You were the one who gave her to me. You were the one who first held that needle and injected her. And I thank you for that; I wouldn't have been able to reach her if you hadn't given me that opening." She regarded Hojo with a steady look. "It's the cells, you see. Without part of me inside someone, I can only suggest. Influence. The way I influenced you to slip up with that needle all that time ago and let me in your mind."

Hojo took a deep breath, the horror of that long-ago night still fresh in his mind. Losing his temper would not help, not at all. "Leave Lucrecia out of this," he said, softly, roughly. "Do what you want to do with me, but leave her out of this. I'll -- I'll do whatever you want me to, just as long as you don't hurt her --"

Kimberly chuckled again, the sound clear and bell-toned. "Seems to me," she said, contemplatively, "that you aren't exactly in any position to bargain." She drummed her fingers against the counter, idly, and studied him carefully. "But you know what? I've been in a pretty good mood since I've woken up. Let's make a deal ... I'll let you keep your wife, as long as you do what I tell you to do. How's that sound?" She inspected one fingernail and frowned, putting it in her mouth to chew on it. "We got a deal, Si?"

He dropped his head again, his mind racing. He could see so many ways this little bargain could go awry, disregarding the obvious one: that he was bargaining in his dream with a creature that had been dead for thousands of years and yet somehow still managed to influence the waking world, and who apparently had a vise-grip around his heart. And indeed, he almost opened his mouth to say no, to take his chances and fight despite what the ... the thing said ...

And then he closed his eyes again, and saw Lucrecia, as she had looked on the day of their wedding -- looking up at him with eyes shining with hope and love and above all else trust, a trust he had betrayed in a thousand ways since that day and hated himself each time -- and he knew that he could not. Slowly, he nodded, once.

"That's not good enough, Si," Kimberly said, absently. "We have a deal, or not?"

Feeling the words hit the table between them, he rasped, "We do."

Kimberly smiled in satisfaction. "I thought you'd be sensible. You always --" As the sentence proceeded, the voice rippled, sheared, distorted like a tape recording underwater; a different voice finished the phrase. "--were a bright young boy." Against his will, Hojo opened his eyes again and looked up; his fingers clutched the lab table for support as he saw his father's face looking back at him. "Your mother and I always said that --"

"Stop that!" Hojo shouted, his voice rough with emotion. "Damn you, I've already said that I'll do what you want me to do, why the hell are you tormenting me like this?"

His father's face wrinkled in a smile, the smile that had been all too rare as Hojo had grown up. "You want the truth, boy?" he asked, softly. "I do it because I can." A pause, in which his father adjusted the collar of his shirt, in a gesture that Hojo had seen hundreds of times before. "There are so few amusements left these days..."

Hojo breathed deeply, his fingers aching underneath the pressure he was unconsciously applying to the table. "You are not my father," he said, evenly, "any more than you are my sister, or my friend. You are nothing to me, and I wish you would just stop doing this to me!" His voice rose, against his will, spiraling to a crescendo.

The thing that wore his father's face laughed again. "Temper, Simon," it said, gently chiding. "But you're right. I am nothing to you." It paused, and then reconsidered. "Except your ... shall we say ... overseer. So I'll let you go back to the waking world, now -- but remember what we've agreed." Lips curled smoothly. "I'll keep my end of the bargain if you keep yours."

Hojo looked back at the creature, and he could feel his stomach turn, but he nodded. "Agreed," he rasped. "Anything to make sure that Lucrecia is safe."

As he felt himself begin to awake, he heard the laughter -- the same laughter, the old laughter, the sound of a woman's dark voice in soft amusement -- and half-heard the single word:

::Anything?::

"Honey," came the dry voice echoing down the stairwell, "I'm home." The tone was amused, relaxed; Gast had obviously gotten some quality relaxation time in on his trip.

Hojo stood from his stool where, as usual, he was working, to head over and lean in the doorway to the lab, watching Gast proceed down the last of the stairs. "And here we thought that we'd be able to get away with it for the rest of the year."

Gast laughed as he hitched his bag further up his shoulder. "Get away with what, Simon?" he asked, teeth flashing in a grin.

"Whatever," Hojo said, resting his shoulders against the doorjamb. "Whatever it is we usually get away with when you're not here. How was your trip, Rodger?"

Gast brushed by Hojo, waving distractedly to one of the techs who waved to him first, and started down the hallway to his office; Hojo fell into step behind him. "Pretty worthwhile," Gast said, still smiling. "Dr. Bugenhagen sends his regards, and a slew of papers that should keep us busy for the next few months. Oh, and he wants to know if you ever managed to perfect the exploding powder." Gast smirked. "How's the intern that I sent working out?"

Hojo sighed. "I had to discipline him," he replied, hitching himself up onto his usual bookshelf perch as they reached Gast's office and the older man dropped his bag on the desk. "There was the beginning of an experiment in recreational pharmaceuticals going on. I was not in the best of moods to tolerate it."

Gast turned around to eye Hojo, surprised. "Really? I would have thought you would have encouraged them. It reminds me of what you used to get up to."

"They refused to share with the teacher," Hojo drawled, "so I decided to shut them down. Really, Rodger. What do you think of me."

Laughing, Gast unzipped the bag and started bringing out folders and books. "I know you, Simon," he said, still radiating contentment and relaxation. "Don't pull the innocent act on me. How's Lucrecia doing? Is she feeling all right?"

#blank#

"--upstairs asleep," Hojo heard himself say, and blinked a few times, then cursed internally; another few moments of his life had somehow been taken from him. He wondered, crazily, what it was that he had been going to say that had disturbed his puppet-master so deeply.

Gast was looking at him, and the vaguest hint of a frown touched between his eyebrows. "Really? It's the middle of the day. Has she been sleeping much lately?"

Forcing casualness, Hojo nodded. "Yes. She's been feeling quite run-down, and I thought it best for her to remain in bed for a while. Better safe than sorry." /Rodger, please don't push, please. I don't know what I will say; I never know what I'm going to say anymore. This isn't me, can't you see that?/ But even if he had wanted to, even if he had dared, he could not have spoken.

Gast's frown did not disappear, but he nodded. "That's probably a good idea," he agreed, slowly. "I'll take a look at her later on, once I've gotten settled in."

The casual suggestion made the hair on the back of Hojo's neck stand up, and he almost saw red for a moment. ::How dare he walk in here and expect to take back over, when he has not been present for over a month, and this is your wife?:: "That's not--" he started, his voice hot with anger --

/Rodger. This is Rodger. He has been your friend for years, he is not a threat to you or to anything else, and he only wants to help! You were just thinking that!/

"--a bad idea," he finished, smoothly, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose once more. "A second set of eyes can't hurt. What else did Bugenhagen have to say?"

As expected, Gast took the offered distraction. "Oh," he said, his eyes losing a great deal of their concern, "you should see the setup he's got out there in Cosmo Canyon! He's studying all sorts of things that you wouldn't believe. I was worried when he left Shinra, worried that all that brilliance would go to waste, but he's not the type to let retirement waste his mind. He sent me back with stacks and stacks of paper -- copies of all his results up until now. I stayed with him until I understood what he was starting to study -- and Simon, wait until you see this! The implications of his work are fantastic. If I understand his results properly, Shinra's scientists will be terribly fascinated by it; they might be able to refine a source of energy that is greater than anything we've ever seen before --"

Hojo tuned him out; let Gast babble. He was too occupied in wondering why he could feel the chill of the snows outside, even in the heated lab.

He moved through the darkened lab on ghostly feet, making no noise as he crossed the room. It was the middle of the night, and he could not sleep; he had tried, lying beside Lucrecia's pale and listless body, but the chorus of voices in the back of his head had driven him from the mattress and down the stairs. The mansion was deserted, the rest of the staff back in Midgar for the end of year company ball, but that did not release him from the burden of silent movement; somehow, it seemed to intensify it, as if he was bound not to break the silence by something so crude as a footstep.

The faint glow of the emergency lighting was more than enough for him to use to find his way as he passed through the hallway that served as a library, gliding past books he had referenced hundreds of time without a second thought for their existence. He laid a hand on the door to Gast's office, resting his head on the wood just above it; it was a long moment before he stirred, and when he did, it was not necessarily he that was doing the movement.

The lock on the door clicked open beneath his soft fingertips, and he let himself into the office by slipping through the crack of the door barely open. The room was, as it always had been, covered in papers and folders, books and reports; finding the one he was looking for should have been nearly impossible, but he found no difficulty in locating the simple typewritten sheaf of papers. Moving as if in a dream, he picked them up and sat down at Gast's desk, flipping through them.

At any rate, best of luck in your work. Do be sure
to let me know of any major breakthroughs, and I
will do the same. Oh, and Nanaki wants to know when
you'll go hunting with him. I will warn you: the
cub's idea of hunting involves a lot of teeth and
claws. I'll see you at the Yule ball at the end of
the week in Midgar; will Simon be there as well, or
will his wife's pregnancy keep him in Nibelheim?

Best,
Bugenhagen

He turned the printed sheet over, his eyes flicking over the charts that had been attached to it; they did, indeed, seem to indicate that something had been tapping the Mako flow in the mountains. Idly, he wondered what could have been causing it; more idly, he noticed that the total amount of Mako in the area was slowly and steadily increasing. Underneath those papers were a small, leather-bound book, untitled; he opened it to the first page and scanned it with interest. If, indeed, Bugenhagen had discovered some information on the Ancients, it could indeed be of use to --

#blank#

He stopped and shook his head, looking down to find that the book was closed again and resting on the desk. He scowled, reaching for the book; if, indeed, Bugenhagen had discovered some information --

#blank#

-- on the --

#blank#

He looked at the book, and frowned as his hand reached out to pick it up, cradling it against his chest like a child. Slowly, moving as if underwater, he stood, his feet dragging against the floor. One step, and then another; the third came naturally as a consequence, and then he was moving across the room, his eyes fixed on the door, his mind already elsewhere, thinking only that whatever information was in this book could not be discovered, could not be made common knowledge, though he could not think of why --

The lights clicked on as the door opened, and Gast came in, whistling; he jumped as he saw Hojo, and Hojo shivered as whatever strange impulse that had taken hold of him let him go. "Simon!" Gast exclaimed, and then his eyes narrowed. "What are you doing in my office?"

Hojo held up the book for inspection, his mind racing. "Couldn't sleep," he said, briefly, "and there was nothing else to do with all of you out in Midgar for the Yule ball. So I thought I'd come in here and start reading the papers that Bugenhagen sent back with you." As he said it, he believed it to be truth; the struggle with whatever had been controlling him was forgotten as if it never were. "You're back early; how was the ball?"

Gast relaxed, accepting the explanation, though a hint of irritation was still visible in his eyes. "Long," he said, with a sigh, undoing the bow-tie that topped off his formal outfit; "long, loud, and useless. Although I do have a frightening piece of information: Jon Shinra's getting married."

Hojo was distracted enough so that this didn't really register. "Is he?" he asked, absently. "That's nice."

"Wait. Did you just say that was nice?" Gast waved a hand in front of Hojo's face. "Who are you, and what have you done with Simon?"

"Huh?" escaped Hojo's lips, and then he focused in on Gast. "I'm sorry, Rodger. Did you just say that Jon Shinra was getting married?" He couldn't help the shudder. "All right, that is frightening."

Mollified, Gast dropped into his desk chair, mechanically straightening the papers. "Yeah, that's what I thought. The thought of that man spawning is about as frightening as it gets." He paused, then looked up at Hojo, choosing his words carefully. "Speaking of reproduction..."

With a sigh, Hojo held up a hand. "This is going to be about Lucrecia, isn't it," he said, his tone half a warning. Gast scowled.

"Yes, it is," he said, the scowl deepening. "I don't know what this reticence to discuss it is, but -- have you looked at her lately, Simon? She's fading to nothing. She's sleeping all day, she's not eating, she's barely able to stand..." Gast sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm worried about her," he said, lowly. "And I'm worried about you. Neither one of you are looking well, not at all. You can blame it on her pregnancy as much as you would like, but I've seen pregnant women before, and this is ... unnatural."

Hojo dropped his head; Gast's accusations burned in his ears. "I know," he said, lowly. "I don't know what the hell is going on, Rodger. I've been watching, too ..." He sighed, and dropped his head, leaning backwards against the bookshelves. "I just don't know what to do."

Gast reached out a hand and rested it on Hojo's shoulder. "Maybe I am overreacting," he said, slowly. "I ... I don't think I am, but perhaps I am. This whole project has been giving me nothing but headaches lately, and perhaps I am seeing shadows where there are none. I've looked at her latest tests, and I just can't see any reason why she's doing as badly as she is, but -- there's something. There has to be."

After a second, Hojo jerked his arm back. "Why does there need to be, Rodger?" he asked softly, answering that inner prompting that whispered that Gast's attention could bring no good. "Why does there need to be a problem? The tests show that she's normal. In the name of Ramuh, she's never been pregnant before. Who knows how she might react." He sighed again, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We're all struggling blindly in the middle of a sea of madness, and we keep thinking that we'll find the shore any moment now," he said, lowly. "Is it any wonder that we're floundering?"

Gast shook his head, slowly. "Maybe we should cut back on the Project, Simon," he said, softly. "It might be best. We are playing with things that we don't understand fully..."

Hojo's head snapped up; his eyes burned, and he felt too large for his skin. "That is the meaning of science, Rodger," he snapped. "Scientists discover. Scientists experiment. If we knew all the secrets of the universe, there would be nothing left to find, and I for one do not want to live in a world where there is no more possibility of discovery. Listen to yourself, man! What's come over you?"

"What's come over you?" Gast shouted back, his temper fraying. "Gods, man, listen to yourself! A year ago this never would have come out of your mouth!" He slammed a hand down on the desk and leaned forward, his eyes blazing behind the glasses. "I've watched for the past year as something happened to you, and damned if I know what it is, but I don't like it! And if it's this project that's doing it to you, science be damned, discovery be damned, and we can just go and blaze trails in someone else's neighborhood!"

::Kill him.::

Hojo stopped dead as that voice whispered in his ears. "What?" he whispered.

Gast took that word to be directed at him, and he sighed again, his anger melting away. "We're all working too hard," he said, dropping his head into his hands. "We're all overworking, and it's affecting all of us. And if the only way to solve things is to stop the work altogether..."

::I have spoken. I have ordered. I warned you that he would be trouble, and now he is threatening Me; you will remove that threat.::

Eyes unfocused, Hojo shook his head. "Rodger, you know that we can't. We're at a crucial juncture -- if you try to shut things down, imagine how much work you will be wasting. And this is after all the persuasion you had to do for funding. Think about what you're saying!" Meanwhile, his mind was racing, frantically. /I can't. I can't. This is Rodger -- he's my best friend, he's the only one who's been with me through it all, you don't know what you're asking, you can't know what you're asking-- this is some sort of sick little test, this is some sort of a joke, I can't do that --/

Gast did not take his hands from his face. "I'm so tired of all of this, Simon," he said, softly. "I'm so tired of the struggle. You're right, of course; we can't just shut down. No matter how much I might want to sometimes. We have too many responsibilities..." He sighed, and dragged a hand over his face, disrupting his glasses as he went. "Go and get some sleep," he said, in an undertone. "I'm sure as hell going to try."

He didn't wait for Hojo's response; he picked up his discarded tie and strode out of the office, his shoulders slumping as he went. He did not realize that Hojo stood behind him, locked in a battle of which there was no external sign, fingers digging into the bookcase until his fingernails splintered and cracked.

The wind raged against the mountain, bringing with it the scent of snow and the wild. The last remnants of the latest snowfall crunched underfoot as Hojo walked; his sneakers slipped, lost traction, then held. He did not notice the cold, despite the thin lab coat he wore over his t-shirt as his only defense against it. He did not even see where he was going; all he knew was that he walked, and that was all he needed to know.

/You can't possibly be serious. Rodger? Why Rodger? He can't possibly be a threat to anything!/ he thought, for the thousandth time, his mind still in turmoil. The voice that answered him was calm; it was not the exultant voice that had first spoken to him, nor was it the voice of Kimberly, or Kevin, or his father; it was simple, plain, rational. Almost too rational; almost his own mental voice. One distant part of his mind worried at that.

::Our bargain has been agreed upon. Your wife's safety, for your obedience; and now I order you to go forth and defend Me against the threat that will do nothing but grow greater over time. Will you be forsworn before you can even begin?::

He stopped, turning around in a small circle; distantly, he noticed that he had walked up the paths to the mountain, and now stood overlooking the town below. One small part of him noticed how far he had come, and marvelled at the view. /You ask too much,/ he thought, desperately. /I can't. I've never lifted a hand against anyone in my entire life, much less my best friend, the closest thing I have to a brother! I can't do it!/

/Oh God, Lucrecia,/ he thought, after a long moment, and let out a low, shuddering sigh. "How can you ask that of me?" he burst out, his voice echoing against the bare rock. "How can you take me and try to make me do that? What the hell kind of monster are you? I'm not going to be your puppet anymore! I'm not going to go out and -- and kill my best friend, just because some -- some voice in my head says that it's the only way to keep my wife safe from harm -- oh God, I am insane, I have been insane for months..."

::So be it.::

After a second, Hojo blinked, suddenly realizing that his thoughts had cleared. He was aware of two things: one, his mind felt empty, hollow, and yet somehow weighted down at the same time, as if he were trying to think through clouds of gauze.

And two, it had begun to snow, and he was cold.

That chill kept with him as he moved back down the path. He felt distant, his mind seemingly underwater; the last remnants of who he was, of whom he had been, cracked and bled away as he picked his way back towards the mansion. One of his hands reached for the door to the mansion, opening it automatically; it was not he who did the movement. He had the slow, frightful suspicion that he had somehow sealed his fate. It had not been his fate that was in question.

He stood at the window, looking out over the field of new-fallen snow on the lawn. Once, he'd had a name, and a purpose; now he was nothing but an empty shell, hollowed out and waiting for something to come along and fill him. He barely noticed as he gripped the freezing windowsill, didn't notice the chilly breeze that blew through the open window to carress his face. There was nothing for him but the window, and the strange, disquieting feeling that once, he had been so much more.

He frowned, lifting a hand to his face, as if to touch it and reassure himself that it was still there. He felt numb, barely even able to feel his own fingertips against his cheeks. What had happened to him? He couldn't remember; his life seemed a shifting block of hazy memories, and nothing more. He was only the body; it was someone -- something -- else that was the voice. He ran his hands up his arms, shivering ever so slightly; it was not from the cold.

What was worse, truly, was that he did not, could not, bring himself to wonder with any more vehemence just why he could not recall. To him, it seemed as if he had always lived with this uneasy sort of half-memory; the numbness felt like an old friend. Vaguely, he remembered a man -- a friend -- and a woman ... But they were nothing more than faces, faces that he saw around him every now and again, faces that looked concerned and finally turned away when he did not reassure them. He remembered laughter -- distant sounds, sounds that he did not think he would hear again very soon at all.

He remembered the science. He was a scientist; he measured things, quantified them, worked to discover the mysteries of the world. That much, despite all else, he remembered. He clung to that fact; it gave him an identity. Yes, science; it was something to remember, something he was, something that would not leave him. Something that would not let him down. He dropped his head for a moment, then looked back up and out the window; a flock of crows had landed in the snow, leaving delicate footprints in the ankle-deep snow.

He leaned forward, his forehead resting against the frame of the windowsill. His mind shifted through his memories, like a gold hunter might sift through a handful of gravel; half-recollections came and went, each one gripping him for scant seconds. Lucrecia smiling at him. Gast laughing. Spending a late night working on some pH samples, watching the litmus turn from blue to pink to blue again ... laughing with Kevin (but Kevin was dead, dead and buried, food for the worms) over some obscure pun, while Lucrecia looked on tolerantly, smiling that faint little smile that looked so beautful on her face...

His mind clung to those memories, stubbornly. He would not let them be taken from him. He could feel the presence of --

/Of Jenova. Of the monster that you have unleashed upon this world, the monster you have given your wife to, the monster you bargained with and failed to heed ... the monster that has destroyed you, and left you with nothing left behind that you can call your own, not even your mind.../

-- of something, standing next to him, reaching out and touching his shoulder, lightly; but when he turned to look, there was nothing there, and he frowned, because the touch had felt so real...

/Oh, God, there's not even anything left of me, and no matter how loudly I think, I can't even hear myself./

Absently he turned back to the window; his eyes were drawn to the flock of crows, raven wings against pale snow, foraging for food without any concern. For a moment, he felt a stab of envy for them; they knew none of this nightmare...

"Simon!" The roar tore through the mansion, reaching even the window where he stood with ease. "Simon! Where the hell are you?"

He ignored the familiar voice. He already knew what it was going to tell him; he had realized on that night, days ago, what sort of retribution would be exacted. He had almost wavered from his conviction, then -- would have, had he been able to think, had he not been nothing more than an unwelcome tenant in his own body. But somehow he knew that he had been given his one chance, and upon rejecting it, had forsaken his own end of that Faustian bargain he had agreed to. He knew what the news from downstairs would be; there was no doubt about it. He had been lost from the first moment he'd begun, and Lucrecia lost with him, and there was nothing he could do...

And so he stood at the window, forehead against window-frame, breathing in the frozen air, and found himself counting the birds.

One for sorrow, two for joy...

"Simon! Simon, in the name of the Gods, where are you?"

Three for a girl, four for a boy...

"Simon! We need you down here! Lucrecia's gone into labor early!"

Five for silver, six for gold...

"SIMON!"

...And seven for a secret, never to be told.