Chapter One
The boy sulked in his cell, gaunt and agitated from the days of waiting. After his attempted escape, the guards had been on watch at his prison for 24 hours a day. He had not heard another human voice, save the guard perhaps coughing.
Sometimes, he practised his kicks with a pretend punching bag.
Sometimes, he sat and pondered what would happen to him next.
And, more than often, he did nothing at all.
He sucked in a breath of air and sighed, surprised at the length of time the interrogator and his ‘keeper’ had been absent. He could not remember the last time he had seen daylight. The place he was kept in held one small window, but it was closed off when he ‘misbehaved.’ The dingy room did hold one yellow light, but other than that the room’s contents consisted humbly of one cot, and the rest, a cold rectangle of concrete.
He reached a hand to his face to, for the thousandth time, examine his wound. The two slashes in either cheek were just beginning to heal, and he could tell the first one had already begun to somewhat scar over.
But they would never *really* heal.
However, he couldn’t remember what exactly had happened after he’d been knocked out. He knew, at least, that he hadn’t been placed directly in his cell.
The interrogator, whom he’d only met once, had disposed of him into his keeper’s care. Or so he called him.
The ‘keeper,’ or as everyone respectfully addressed him as ‘Professor,’ was a man the boy associated with one thing, perhaps the only clear, concise emotion he’d experienced – pain.
Something, (the ‘something’ was an element that he could not quite place), jabbed him everywhere on his body. Then, his veins felt as if they were burning, and he would pass out.
He spent unknown times in these black out periods, and he’d always wake up in his cell – cold, sore, tired – crumple up into a little ball, and sleep; a dreamless sleep. For when you haven’t any memories, dreams are trivial things.
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On this particular day however…the boy did dream.
Running, raining – pounding in my ears.
The droplets sang their misery as the frightened child rushed away…
Running.
He ran.
Raining.
It rained.
-Pounding in my ears.
Pounding, was the sound of heavy tread against slick pavement.
No one took notice as the child ran like a banshee. His pursuers gained speed as he slowed, winded and breathless, as rain beat mercilessly at his frightened face.
He neither saw where he was going, nor did he care.
‘Escape…you must escape.’
Suddenly, he ran straight into a passer-by who glared down to find a shivering child at her feet. Her features softened.
She was old, and her face chiseled with wrinkles and cracked lips. But, she smiled and eyes, angry just moments ago, sparkled.
The moment of mercy vanished as the boy realised his mistake, at a point which terror gripped him, and he stood, unable to move, sessile in his terrible epiphany.
He was hauled up by strong arms of a man that looked too young to be who he was. The old woman began a scream but ended it before the sound could reach its destination. A gun, aimed malevolently at her face, caused her to choke in utter shock.
Without further ado, the child was ushered away, but not before being blind folded and gagged.
‘I didn’t think this job would include babysitting,’ a gruff voice arose in its anger.
The child could guess the man that held him tightly rolled his eyes when he did not respond.
‘Well, what should I do with the old broad?’ the first continued in a more amicable fashion.
‘Nothing,’ the second said impatiently.
With that, the captor turned to leave.
As he walked in the opposite direction, the child could hear the old woman whimper. That was the last sound he heard before a resounding ‘BANG!’ that echoed in the alley, echoed in his mind…and every fiber of his body. With such rigidity, he felt an almost acidic burn of furore that bore down on him like a falling star, white in its heat.
‘Rookies,’ the captor said frigidly, not bothering to turn, and the child could tell he was rolling his eyes again, from the way his grip slackened ever so slightly.
Taking advantage, the boy suddenly twisted violently enough to turn fully around, and pulled off his blindfold.
Blood.
Everywhere. And his only friend, be it temporary, the only kind look he’d ever encountered, lay face down on the pavement, a dark pool of red flowering around her. Faceless, for the eyes were gone, blown away with her life energy.
And the child screamed…
Screaming…
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‘Screaming is prohibited,’ a regimented voice said.
The boy jumped.
It was late. His eyes began to re-focus, and he could see the lights of the city glaring luminously out of the window.
Window? Lights?? City?!
He suddenly realised he was in his ‘keeper’s’ domain, or rather, his laboratory. Lying on a hard cot, he also realised his legs and arms were strapped down.
‘Ah, you’re awake,’ a voice whined like insect wings, ‘good, we can begin.’
The boy lay still. He knew what was to come. He closed his eyes and waited.
And he was rewarded by the sudden, sharp sensation of gut wrenching pain. Fire, poured through like a ravenous hunger for his blood.
‘First mako treatment, complete,’ a mechanised voice stated.
The boy opened his eyes. The keeper glanced nonchalantly at him, making notes.
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‘Sixth mako treatment, complete.’
The boy could barely open his eyes now, and his keeper still only took notes. Nothing had changed in his demeanor as the boy cried out in pain. Finally, he said the long awaited word, ’finished.’
The straps, those cursed restraints, however, stayed firmly in place, stealing his sacred ability to move of his own free will.
‘Oh, I’m not finished yet,’ the keeper said, almost . . . gleefully?
‘Oh no, I’ve just begun…’
The boy, weary of the fire, passed out before he could hear anymore.
The professor stared at his specimen, lying still, out, on the dissecting table.
He was a pretty faced boy, (one of the main reasons he had picked him) maybe 17 or 18 in his years.
‘What an efficient company,’ the Professor had commented with slight admiration to the president.
The large, bulbous man had merely smirked and nodded.
The Professor needed a specimen. A hand selected specimen of his own choice.
The Professor had received his specimen.
He closed his eyes, smiled dangerously, and thought, ‘God bless the Shin-Ra Company.’ With that, he moved towards the boy…
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The boy awoke, sore as ever.
Looking, he realised he was back in his cell. The window was still closed, and he lay still for a matter of minutes. He felt strangely boneless, and he stared at the ceiling, thinking about the keeper.
The silence of boredom, of pain and terror, weighed down like a disease. At times, if the boy stared hard enough at the ceiling, he could make out beautiful scenes of nature. He had stared so long though, his eyes had become as hard as the concrete that they were fixated on. He smiled, regardless, as he imagined a beautiful sphere of sun, glowering down at him. He smiled cracked, dry lips, as his mind escaped for those few blessed moments, before plunging back into the depths of hell.
Suddenly, he heard a sort of scuffle in the hall, breaking his concentration. Not a fight, but a verbal argument.
‘…asking, the last time.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
A moment of silence was heard, tension so thick it could have built a sky scraper, and finally the guard backed down.
‘Alright…’
The boy didn’t hear anymore, for the sound of a keycard being entered and the lock clicking out of position took its place.
It was the interrogator.
The boy backed slowly into the corner when he entered, and hid behind the cot. Obviously, the man, whoever he was, hadn’t seen him yet.
‘Close the door,’ the order was snapped. The agitated guard obeyed, and they were alone in the room.
The boy, not knowing what else to do, curled up as tightly as possible, and prayed the man would mistake him for dust.
There was silence. The boy sat like that for many minutes, wondering if the man was blind, or just stupid.
Apparently neither, for as he risked a peek around, the interrogator sat calmly on the bed, his back to him.
A voice cut through the room, ‘I know you’re there.’
Finally, the boy decided to stand. His best position of defense now, was to try not to draw attention to himself.
He stood up, braving the man’s wrath before him.
‘You?’ he asked.
The boy dropped his gaze to stare at the floor. He didn’t speak.
‘Answer,’ the word was rumbled rather than spoken.
‘Yes,’ the boy replied, his voice small.
‘And who are you?’
The boy shrugged.
The man was up in a flash, and kicked him in the stomach, vehemently reveling in the pain he had inflicted, and triumphant as the boy’s will was subdued. The kicked, doubled over and collapsed.
‘No one,’ he husked out, curling up into a tight ball on the cold floor.
There was another sharp blow to the boy’s head.
‘And, do you have a name?’
He didn’t answer.
Another hard slap.
No answer.
A knife, once again, flew to his face, reopening a wound.
Still no answer.
Finally, the interrogator abated.
‘A name,’ he spat scornfully, ‘I’ll give you a damn name.’
The boy blacked out.
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Thin, curvy voices, arose.
‘I didn’t tell you to knock him unconscious!’ a whiney voice scratched out angrily.
‘Protocol, sir.’
‘Hmph. Protocol – an excuse for the weak to hide behind.’
No reply.
‘Well,’ the scratchy voice continued, ‘you’d better just hope he wakes up.’
‘Yes…sir.’
The voices sounded muffled, as if coming from another room.
The boy, dimly aware he was in his cell, also noticed he was lying down.
‘I must have fallen asleep,’ he thought.
No, wait . . . someone had come. Hadn’t they?
‘Where did I go?’ he whispered. It was pitch black.
‘It’s easier if you don’t speak,’ a soft voice replied.
The boy whipped his head to the side in surprise, only to cry out in sharp pain.
Two firm hands caught his head, and slowly helped the boy back down.
‘You have a fractured collar bone,’ the voice continued, ‘so it’s best if you don’t move.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am an expert on first aid.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘You should really get some sleep,’ the voice replied out of the blackness of the room.
There was a moment of silence.
‘What’s yours?’
‘What?’
‘Your name.’
The boy thought a moment, the voice obviously waiting for his response, until he settled on a suitable choice.
‘I don’t have one.’
There was a prick, (an injection?) and the boy fell into a deep sleep.