Paper Tiger Burning

I respectfully credit all Original Creators, namely Squaresoft, which became SquareEnix,for these characters. In this way, I pay homage to my Fandom's Original Creator, and illustrate my Community's belief that Fan Fiction is "fair use". I do not claim to own these characters. I do not make money or gil from using these protected characters, nor do I wish to make money or gil from them. In other words, I am borrowing these characters to entertain the adult fanfiction community, but I am doing so with the highest degree of respect to the engineers, game designers, music makers, and voice actors.




“What is this?” Sephiroth raised his spoon, letting soggy yet burned rotini fall back into his bowl. “You actually burned pasta?” His disbelieving eyes searched Hojo for a reasonable explanation. “How do you burn something suspended in water?”

Hojo narrowed his gaze upon his son. “I’m not a cook,” he snapped. “I’m a scientist.”

Sephiroth smirked. He looked at me. “If you were well enough to deliver us from his cooking, I’d insist upon it,” he revealed, starting to grin.

Teenage Sephiroth had a lip on him.

“I’ve seen and eaten much worse,” I said, thinking of some of Cloud’s campfire fiascos. At least Hojo hadn’t set himself or the kitchen aflame. Cloud had once caught his clothes on fire and had to be rolled on the ground by Barret. From that point on, Tifa did most of the cooking and we’d all been so thankful. “You did fine with the fried apples,” I told Hojo, hoping take the edge off his mood.

“Canned,” the scientist replied, deadpan and monotone.

Sephiroth chuckled. He pushed the bowl of pasta away and ate his apples quickly, betraying his appetite. Hojo poured him a glass of soy milk and slid a bowl of bean sprouts toward him with the surliest expression I’d ever seen. Sephiroth grabbed the glass and raised it to his lips. He took three good swallows before it registered that he drank grainy, vanilla flavored liquid instead of cow’s milk, which he’d been expecting. He lowered the glass, stared at it in utter revulsion, then looked at Hojo.

“Soy milk,” Hojo said, answering his unspoken question. “It’s what you drink now. Apparently meat and dairy upset your system.”

Sephiroth frowned at the glass. “Damn it,” he muttered. “I like milk. Are you certain this isn’t one of your nightmarish, nutritional concoctions?””

Hojo eyed him sharply. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.” Sephiroth finished the “milk” and started in on the bean sprouts. Apparently his appetite wouldn’t allow him to be picky, even if he did draw the line at burned pasta. “Let me guess, I started eating this health slop because I didn’t want to live at all.”

“You apparently know what you’re doing,” Hojo replied. “Your body is in excellent shape.” His voice had a drowning man quality to it, sounding hopeful yet hopeless.

Sephiroth looked down at himself. “I look developed enough,” he admitted. “But I can’t understand how. I feed myself disgusting things.”

“It isn’t so bad,” I defended. “You seem to like these things well enough with an adult palate.”

“That’s because adults are dead inside and so are their taste buds.” Sephiroth slid his sprouts far away, contradicting my summation of his appetite.

Only a teenager would go hungry to make a point.

“Where is my sword? I want to do katas.” Sephiroth looked around. “This is a big place to search, so where is it?”

“You don’t have a practice sword anymore,” Hojo said quietly. “You brought a legendary sword back from Wutai and it is all you use.”

“Where is it?” Sephiroth’s voice lowered with anticipation.

“I have no idea.”

Sephiroth huffed in frustration, tossing his silver mane over one shoulder so he could plop back down without sitting on it. I’d never seen him do that before.

I knew it was tormenting Hojo, but I loved seeing Sephiroth this way, especially because I knew he was getting better. I could indulge in seeing my lover’s childhood; not many women could say that and not be arrested.

“Did I leave it in that compound?” Sephiroth asked suddenly.

“No.” Hojo picked at his food, looking uneasy. “You summon the blade when you want it. No one knows how you do it, so I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Sephiroth gave him a hard, suspicious look.

“I can’t,” Hojo stressed. “Do you honestly believe you’d have shared something like that with me?”

A beat of silence.

“It would depend on how useful you found it to the Illustrious Project of Me,” he said bluntly.

A knocking came at the outer door. Sephiroth stood up like a shot. “I’ll answer it,” he said, leaving swiftly.

Hojo looked at me. “Sephiroth was a most challenging teenager,” he said, also standing. “He must be watched carefully for awhile, assuming he doesn’t just speed through this part of his memory. I calculate he’s spent less than four hours in each timeline.”

Nodding in agreement, I followed him into the living room. We entered just as Sephiroth opened the door. Cloud stood there, looking unsure. “Are you alright?” he asked Sephiroth, coming inside.

“Professor Hojo and Aerith say I’m not, but I feel fine,” he answered. “You’re the one from the decontamination room.” His curiosity over Cloud couldn’t seem more obvious. His eyes swept over my friend’s form again and again, as if listening to an inner voice while he did so. But this was too early for Jenova, and she was finally dead.

“I’m Cloud,” my friend said. “Yeah, that was me.” His blue eyes traveled to meet mine. “So, what’s wrong with him?”

“He thinks he’s fourteen,” I answered.

Cloud’s gaze widened.

The two stared at each other. Sephiroth eyed the sword strapped to Cloud’s swing clamp. “Do you know how I can get my sword?” he asked bluntly.

Cloud’s eyebrows shot upward. “Um,” he said uselessly. “Well, I’ve seen you sort of hold out your hand like this.” He swung his left arm out and extended his fingers. “In a second or two it just…appears. I guess you wish for it.”

“Thank you, Cloud Strife,” Hojo said sarcastically. I fully grasped why Hojo hadn’t wanted Sephiroth summoning the Masamune; he wasn’t as skilled at this age and could cause some real damage.

Sephiroth copied him instantly. The Masamune coalesced in his grip. He brought it to his eyes and stared at it. A blink. A tremor. He closed his eyes. When he opened them I saw he’d aged yet again, but he still wasn’t quite the Sephiroth I knew.

His time gap had shortened even farther. He hadn’t dwelt in the fourteen-stage longer than an hour.

“I took you from a collapsed shrine to Da-chao,” Sephiroth murmured. “I was the only one who could lift you.” He pressed his hand to the flat of the blade, caressing upward reverently. I heard a humming noise, as if the sword purred at his touch. “You are holy,” he went on. “Forged by a human for the murder of angels…”

Cloud stepped back a little. “Aerith? He’s not fourteen,” he said softly, but Sephiroth heard him.

“Of course I’m not fourteen,” Sephiroth snapped. “I’m twenty. Would Shin-Ra promote a fourteen year old to General?”

Cloud’s eyes narrowed with sudden understanding. A slow and iniquitous smile broke over his lips. “Familiar things speed up his healing,” he said. “Why don’t the General and I go hang out at the fallen plate awhile?”

My heart lurched in fear. “Cloud, don’t you dare smack him around,” I said firmly.

“Bullshit,” Cloud replied cheerfully. “It’s exactly what he needs. Fighting got him into this regression and fighting will get him out of it.”

Sephiroth began to smile. “You want to spar?”

“I’d love to, General Mayhem,” Cloud answered.

I stepped forward, but Hojo grabbed me, dragging me back. “Let them, Cetra,” he said. “Strife is probably correct in his diagnosis. Sephiroth will find fighting him very, very familiar.”

“But what if he doesn’t remember enough?” I hissed. “They could kill each other.”

Hojo shrugged. “It would take me two weeks to make them all over again.”

I shook my head. “No. It’s unnatural. Sephiroth has changed, developed so much. I don’t want to see him struggling all over again.”

“Relax,” Cloud said. “We’re evenly matched.” He opened the door. “After you,” he told Sephiroth.