Cell Division
12
Some lab technicians milled about. Hojo led me past them, barking orders and promising dire consequences should his instructions not fall to the letter by his return. The people, cowed, nonetheless spared energy and courage enough to glare at me. I glared right back, suddenly fed up with being an apologetic slave.
None of this prejudice had anything to do with me. I hadn’t asked for this. I hadn’t asked for a master. My life, threatened by jealousy and covetousness, remained my own. I would be damned if I gave any of them a view of my fear any longer. Let them look at my flattering clothes; let them see Hojo’s coat around my shoulders and his bracelet around my wrist.
Fuck them all.
“Good for you, my dear,” Hojo murmured as we entered the elevator. “Show that elegant backbone.”
I blushed. Would I hear casual commentary over my body now that he’d seen it so clearly?
We met the rest of his slaves just outside the building, where Jean almost sullenly smoked a cigarette and Alison sat on a handrail, talking to Michael. They looked like a family. A dysfunctional but fairly happy, family. Hojo pulled Alison off her precarious perch and looked at her sternly. “You’ve fallen off of four sets of rails,” he said. “You either let me augment your reflexes or you cease; it’s your pick.”
Alison gave him a weak smile. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said softly. “I forget.”
Hojo patted her hair. “Let me know your decision,” he said absently, her transgression already in the past.
Alison shot a wink at Michael as soon as Hojo passed her.
Obedience, Hojo had. Respect…
I couldn’t be certain.
To my surprise, Hojo led us into a parking lot. He pulled out a little keychain and pressed a button, making a car horn sound and lights flash. We approached it, a black, low sports car with a flared hood and sticky tires. Chrome gleamed on it. I couldn’t see a speck of dirt anywhere on the chassis. Dual exhaust pipes stuck out the low, dragster end. I could bet safely he had eight under the hood.
It didn’t seem a bit like something he would drive.
“Pile in,” he commanded, and we quickly began choosing doors. “No, Jean,” he said, “up here in the front with me.”
Like the surly teenager in the family, Jean obeyed, his lip stuck out and his shoulders rounded. I slid in between Michael and Alison. “Buckle,” she whispered to me. “He won’t move from the lot until we’re strapped in.”
After a brief scuffle that proved sports cars were not family cars, we all finished strapping in. Hojo threw his half-smoked cigarette onto the asphalt and got in. He looked at us all in the mirror as he turned the key. “Michael, no singing, unless you’ve taken lessons since last Saturday.”
“It’s my deeper voice, sir,” Michael protested. “I used to sing really well.”
“You did not,” Alison said. “You’ve always sounded like a cat caught backward in a bramble bush.” She reached up and tapped Jean. “You’ve got a great voice, Jean,” she praised. “Professor, can Jean sing instead? I need some music.”
In amazement, I watched Jean begin to blush. He shot Hojo a little, nervous, sideways glance, and fidgeted.
“Jean is free to sing for us,” Hojo said, his tone still one of half-there concentration. He cleaned the windshield, hitting the sprayer and turning on the wipers. “He has a good voice.”
Jean’s blush deepened.
We pulled out onto an access road. As soon as we took the busy highway, Jean began to sing. He did have a good voice, deep and well modulated. I didn’t recognize the song, but I liked the subject matter of romance and idealistic love.
It occurred to me as we sped along that Hojo had built a strange but functioning dynamic with his slaves. They obeyed him to the best of their ability, didn’t seem resentful, and cooperated with each other. Alison, the bad girl, seemed like the type to want a sugar daddy anyway. Jean, the churlish one, seemed to need authority. Michael, the outgoing one, needed Hojo’s instruction to stay focused.
What did I need? What did I add to the group?
I looked at the rearview mirror to meet Hojo’s black eyes.
He knew exactly what occupied my mind.
The moment he looked back to the road, I took my eyes elsewhere. How did he read me so well?
From here I could easily watch him switch gears. He drove like a pro. I expected seventy-some years of experience made for this sort of skill. I’d never thought about cars or their drivers as particularly stimulating, but he fast changed my mind. He handled the aggressive machine like an extension of himself. No matter how he had to weave in and out of traffic I had not a moment’s fear, which stood out in my mind because everyone’s driving scared me.
This was a bad, bad road. We passed two separate accidents in the first few miles, real pile-ups of twisted metal. Midgar’s congested traffic obeyed no speed laws. I almost felt like we were passengers in a video game Hojo played.
A car swerved to us, facing the wrong direction, fishtailing. Hojo turned the wheel, gunned the accelerator and aimed us in between two tractor trailers. We shot out the narrow chute, Alison woo-hooing and hanging onto me, Jean still singing away, and with Michael laughing. Our driver didn’t hesitate, but cut in between two lines of cars, crossing five lanes to the “slow” lane. He lit a smoke and cracked his window. “Sing the Overture of Valdemir,” he said to Jean.
A spiky blond pulled up alongside us on a motorcycle. Alison looked out the smoked glass. “Oh, he’s cute,” she said.
“He’s the enemy,” Hojo replied. “And, he doesn’t know who we are, so I’d appreciate it if you controlled your urge to roll the window down and wave.”
Alison pouted.
Jean kept singing.
Michael picked his nails.
I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. This was funny. Surreal. Absolutely crazy. I’d never ventured into Midgar’s roadways, convinced I’d be killed the moment I attempted it. Now, I knew my instinct probably correct. Yet, I utterly trusted the madman behind the wheel to get us to breakfast. Additionally, it never occurred to my companions to get the spiky blond’s attention, even though he could attack their master and ostensibly cause enough of a ruckus for us to escape. I hadn’t even considered it until well after he pulled across and vanished ahead of slower traffic.
Hojo looked at me in the mirror. Still, I couldn’t quit laughing. I saw the small lines at each corner of his eyes crinkle. Crisply, he began to whistle in tune with Jean’s aria.
***********************************************************************************
Indigo’s proved a place I’d never picture Hojo inside of, too. Utterly for twenty and thirty year olds, it blared loud, industrial, rave-type music. The stainless steel, ray-gun gothic décor and decorative, flashing lights made for a bewildering effect. I smelled pot.
“You can order whatever you want,” Alison whispered in my ear. “Do not; do not argue with him on prices. This is an ego trip for him, being able to take us out. Question the wallet and question the man.”
Wonderful. I’d order whatever struck my damn fancy. Would he bat an eyelid over me ordering three breakfasts?
“I see that look,” Michael said at my other ear. “You don’t want to do that, sweetie. He’ll make you eat all of it. Jean’s already tried. Horrible ride back that morning, I’m telling you, vomit everywhere.”
We followed a scantily clad waitress to a table underneath a speaker. The woman asked us for drink orders. We all ordered coffee, except for Hojo, who wanted water. I met his eyes as I picked up the menu in front of me. From my position he could look directly across and see my every twitch.
A dark, heavy, low beat seemed to go through my chest as the music changed.
Is it turning you on? (Go with it)
I’ll be sitting right here (Go with it)
When the time is right (I’ll stick it)
The song’s lyrics combined with his black stare made me squirm. He calmly turned a page, still watching me.
I’m getting off to you
It's not enough
It's not enough
It's more than will ever be enough
I’m getting off
I’m getting off to you
Was he even listening to the music or was he playing with me? Did it even occur to him to play with me? Was I flattering myself?
I tore my eyes away and glanced at my menu. Ordinary breakfast fare.
Dip your hands right in (Go with it)
Come on rush my sin (Go with it)
You can let me in (Go with it)
Wonder where I’ve been (I’ll stick it)
I desperately wished I could block the music from my head. Too late now. I remembered everything I heard and read and most of what I saw.
I’m getting off
I’m getting off to you
Hold my knees
Lick my treat?
Fuck I’m coming
Fuck I’m coming on you
I’m coming
Fuck
I’m coming on you
I dropped the menu. Eggs. Eggs and bacon and toast would be fine. Just fine.
“You okay?” Alison yelled in my ear. She had to yell over the guttural, violent screaming of the word ‘fuck’, which just kept repeating.
“Music’s a little loud,” I shouted back.
Michael stood up and put his hand under the speaker. The volume lowered to an acceptable level. I sighed in relief, thanked him, and closed my eyes.
“Clever boy,” Hojo praised offhandedly. “I think the music really bothered Miss Grey.”
Oh, he knew it did. I saw it in him that moment.
“I like that song,” Alison said. “I’ll bet Jean can sing it.”
Jean, who looked a lot more amiable since the serenade in the car and reaching this place, grinned. Clearly, he fancied Alison. I wondered if Alison returned his interest.
What would happen if two of Hojo’s slaves linked up and had kids? Would the child be born into servitude? The thought disturbed me.
We gave our orders. The people behind us lit up. I detected pot again. I’d had plenty of it during my college days. It smelled like good stuff. After a few minutes, Michael leaned over the seat, backward. Low murmurs, then gil exchanged hands. Michael stuffed a baggie into his pants pocket.
“Michael,” Hojo said sharply.
Michael heaved a sigh. He sat back down and pulled the bag from his pocket, tossing it across the table to Hojo.
Hojo reached in, fished out a joint, stuck it behind his ear, and threw the bag back. “You’d better not have a bit of it left on Monday morning,” he warned, “even if you have to smoke one after the other all weekend. Baby Shinra’s doing his shakedown the first of the week, and I don’t want to explain.”
“We’ll help him, sir,” Alison said, grinning from ear to ear.
“I’m sure you will, my dear,” Hojo replied mildly.
The more time I spent with these people, the more I realized I hadn’t seen anything yet.
*Getting Off is a song by Korn. I don't make money from them or own them, either.