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.



Because she seemed strong enough and because I didn’t feel like carrying food back and forth, I made her come into the kitchen while I cooked. She needed to move around a little anyway. I knew from experience one couldn’t stay idle while Hojo’s soup infiltrated one’s system; he preferred confining a subject only because he liked the convenience of watching changes occur in the structure, he didn’t care that it made a person uncomfortable and sore.

I turned on my stereo to let a violin solo wash over the room while I cooked. I would have turned on the radio for news but at the last moment decided the girl didn’t need the stress. The sooner I got her well and got rid of her, the better.

“I knew you liked music,” she said, resting her chin in her hand and her elbow on the table. Her small feet didn’t even touch the floor while sitting in my tall chairs. She kicked them a little in enjoyment of the song.

I had a tiny light on, the one under the hood of the stove. It cast a warm, amber glow in her long hair and illuminated her clear skin. Her high, heavy breasts were easily visible under my white silk shirt, her darker nipples hard and jutting against the cloth.

She was lovely. She almost didn’t look real. Like a doll she perched there, a pretty, porcelain doll ready to be picked up and played with very carefully under someone’s watchful eyes. In my mind I saw her falling, falling down at my feet, her long braid curling on the hard floor. Wincing, I took my eyes away from her. “I haven’t had much opportunity to listen to music,” I said, mixing the batter for the toast sticks. “I decided I didn’t like opera,” I added, thinking of the horrible cacophony I’d endured the night before.

Her light, genuine laughter startled me.

“Opera?” Giggling, she shook her head. “I’d rather be bludgeoned over the head.”

Feeling my hesitant smile, I finished prepping the battered toast and put it on the stove to fry. “What do you like, then, flower girl?” I asked, attempting common conversation. If she believed I was normal this interaction be easier. I never carried on long discourse with anyone.

“Classical,” she answered promptly. “Music like this. I suppose I can enjoy the harder music, but not much of it. It just seems too…harsh. I feel music shouldn’t be an assault on the ears.” She tilted her head. “Lately most people’s voices are harsh to my ears too. Yours isn’t though. Maybe it’s because I’ve been artificially blind for the last six months, but I pay attention to sounds more than I used to.” She smiled. “Are you sure you aren’t at least a singer? I’m going to have to come up with another nickname for you if you aren’t really a musician.”

“I’m not very musical,” I said. “Sorry to disappoint.”

She sighed. “Oh well. I suppose I can call you the Voice.”

Bemused, I flipped the toast over. “I really wasn’t aware my voice had such power,” I admitted.

“I guess a six foot, eight inch man with bulging muscles attracts attention in other ways first,” she teased. “Let me guess. You’re really handsome and well groomed too, and women throw themselves at you?”

For some reason her light mockery didn’t bother me. Quite the opposite; she didn’t know me and she only bantered. I sliced honeydew into manageable bites for her as I smiled to myself. “I attract attention,” I confirmed.

“I knew it!” She smiled broadly. “Long hair?”

“To my knees,” I admitted. “As long as yours.”

“Oh.” She stopped smiling but her interest didn’t appear to fade. “What color?”

“I’m prematurely gray, mostly,” I said.

“Were you in an accident?” I heard worry in her tone.

Now why should she be worried over the health of a stranger?

“My entire life is nothing but a controlled accident, flower girl,” I answered truthfully. She kept getting closer to her mark with her questions. Soon she would know me. She would probably make quite a scene in attempting to get away.

“A soldier’s life is very hard,” she replied softly. “What color are your eyes?”

“Blue-green.” I placed her toast and melon on a plate, served myself and carried our food to the table. “You can eat all of this with your hands,” I said. “It’s polite.”

The girl put her hands on either side of her plate. Ok,” she murmured. “It smells good.”

“Battered toast and honeydew,” I told her. “I can’t eat typical breakfast food so I don’t buy it.”

“No sausage, eggs or bacon for you?” She smiled slightly as she picked up a toast stick.

“No. My stomach won’t handle much grease. I eat mostly a vegetarian diet.” As I ate I watched her slim fingers manipulate the food. Though she couldn’t see, she didn’t crawl her way over the plate. She moved gracefully, like a genteel lady. Her ragged nails detracted from that picture. They looked like claws, really.

No manicures and pedicures for a forlorn flower girl. No stylish hair cuts, no makeup, no heavy perfume or blood red lipstick. No pampering, no servants, no zolom-skin purses or the power of money…

“Can you tell me how old you are?” she asked softly.

“In years or experience?” I asked wryly.

“Either,” she answered in a gentle voice. “I’m sorry. I know I’m prying. It’s just I find you very interesting.”

“I’m forty, supposedly,” I answered. “Mako tends to keep one young, though. As far as my body is concerned I’m about twenty seven, I figure.” Actually, I might be even younger than that. I didn’t know how Hojo had resurrected me.

“Forty,” she echoed. “Forty and grey.”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, she got up. She felt for the island counter and walked to the sink to wash her hands. Her whole body shook now. She dried her hands and came back to the table. Pulling out the chair to my left, she sat in it and faced me.

I watched her hand come out to my head. Slowly, she stroked down my hair a short ways. Her gentle touch made me shiver. I’d never let anyone handle my hair.

“Your hair is like a baby’s,” she whispered, “super fine and soft as silk.” Her fingers spread, came up to touch my forehead. Very, very lightly, she felt my eyebrows, traced their slant carefully. Coasting downward, she took the angle of my cheekbones, the straight line of my nose. Her hand skimmed over my lips before she cupped my jaw. “Musician,” she whispered. “You really are handsome.”

“Looks are transitory,” I murmured, disturbed by how much her touch affected me. She made me feel vulnerable somehow. A strange tingling of power came from her hands too, a power I didn’t recognize. “And I did nothing to gain them,” I added.

The girl tilted her head to one side, her full lips falling open ever so slightly as she listened to me. A shudder shook her slender frame. Very slowly, she reached back up and felt my cheekbone again. “Oh, Planet,” she swore softly. “Sephiroth.”

She reeled backward, tipping her chair. I grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her back to an upright position, feeling her pulse slamming against my fingers. She didn’t fight me, to my surprise, merely sat there, staring blindly at me with her chest heaving. Slowly, I let go of her. Picking up her plate, I moved it to her new position. “Eat, flower girl,” I bade her quietly. “I’m not going to harm you.”

Meekly, she obeyed me.

In silence we finished the meal. I collected the plates, took them to the sink and turned on the taps. “Drag a chair over here,” I instructed. “You can dry as I wash.”

She did as I said, her white-knuckle grip on the chair the only sign of her distress. Groping for a dishtowel, she found one and spread it out. I washed the frying pan and handed it to her. She must have heard my movement, for she took it without much trouble.

“Why?’

The question came to my ears almost inaudibly soft, carried confusion and anxiety.

“I owed it to you,” I answered. It remained the main impetus in my mind for my actions, though I knew I’d also developed a disturbing sense of conscience over the last six months. Pretending to be sorry for my sins had the effect of making me actually regret many past actions. Professor Gast had warned me long ago that while one could “fake it til you make it” it tended to work for nearly everything.

Pretend evil and become it. Pretend goodness and it wormed its way inside.

The flower girl nodded at my simplistic answer. She dried the melon bowl and waited for the next item. “I should have known by the smell of your sheets,” she said, a red flush spreading out over her pale cheeks. “I caught the scent of copal as I died.”

My hands stopped their work. I looked down into the soapy water. Though submerged in hot water and cleaner, my hands would never be clean. Her death was but one of thousands.

“I smell it on you now,” she went on.

“I don’t wear any cologne,” I said quietly. “You probably detect my natural scent. I wouldn’t know.” I gave her a plate. “Do you want an apology from me, flower girl? It would never be enough.”

“No, I don’t want your apology,” she whispered. “I don’t think you know right from wrong. To ask you to take blame would be useless.”

I gave her the last plate and let the water out. Taking her hand, I put the hilt of the melon knife in her palm. Her fingers clenched around it. Slowly, she dried it off and wiped the water from her skin. Afterwards, she gave me the towel and I did the same. Suddenly, she sat down in the chair, hard. I’d known her strength wouldn’t hold, but she’d lasted upright longer than I imagined.

“You’re very different from what I believed you would be,” the girl said, bowing her head. “I never thought I would hear your voice again. People called you an angel, did you know?”

“They still do,” I answered, crouching in front of her. Though she couldn’t see me, she could sense the change in my posture. She swallowed hard but didn’t shrink away.

She was a brave little thing. Again I felt my regard for her go up slightly. There were grown men who wet themselves in my presence, men who’d never been assaulted by me. The girl was even a former victim, yet she didn’t cringe before me.

“I suppose Hojo brought you back, the same as he did me?” she asked.

“He did,” I affirmed. “I didn’t know he resurrected you, however. I came to the labs three days ago for tests and my secretary spied you in a cell. Last night I used the cover of a storm to knock the power out to the building and take you. You should remain hidden until you’re strong enough to defend yourself.”

“How long do you think that will be?”

“No more than two weeks, I imagine,” I answered. “Shall I track down Strife? Would you like to stay with him?” I found I didn’t really want her to say yes, now. She was the most interesting thing to happen to me since my revival. The fact she hadn’t killed herself to get away from me had me intrigued. I found looking at her a pleasure, too. I could surely put up with her a few days, at least until she started boring me.

Everything fucking bored me, eventually.

“Cloud,” she whispered. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “When I leave I’ll go somewhere else.” Turning her face, she looked blindly down at the floor. Her shoulders held a distinctly defeated slump.

“Do you have family anywhere?”

“An adopted mother.” She shook her head. “She’s probably better off without me too.”

I frowned. “Flower girl, why do you go to the effort of gaining friends if you do not turn to them when they can help you?”

She put her head in her hands. “I’m not sure it’s best to walk back into their lives, Sephiroth,” she whispered. “They’ve moved on. I’m their dead friend. I have no business being on the Planet again.”

“Stop indulging in self pity,” I said, standing up. “If you want a fresh start, take one, but don’t claim martyrdom to do it.” She’d definitely spent too much time with Cloud Strife; Cloud tended to surround himself in drama, but I’d always just assumed that he attracted it. Perhaps I’d been too hasty on that. Perhaps he simply infected his companions, or they adopted his sort of drama as a self-defense mechanism.

“Am I doing that?” Sounding amazed, the girl lifted her head, letting her hands drop away.

“Yes, you are,” I said firmly. I could see tear stains spreading out under my tie again.

Women cried easily and often. I’d had my tears beaten out of me by age four. I envied her the effortlessness of her emotions, wondering briefly if she could teach me to cry. Many people claimed it helped cleanse their minds.

My cell phone rang. Sighing noiselessly, I went into the living room and retrieved the hateful apparatus. “Sephiroth,” I said. Life hadn’t seemed as complicated before PHS devices.

“I know it was you, Number One,” Hojo said.

“Of course, you called me,” I answered flippantly. “Who else would you expect at my number?” The bastard could prove nothing.

“Oh, I don’t know, the Cetra, maybe?” he said. I heard him start his infernal pencil chewing.

“The dead one?” I asked.

“Don’t play stupid. You have her.” The pencil snapped.

“I am the only one standing here, Hojo,” I said.

“Then you’ve taken her somewhere. For what purpose I cannot fathom, but you’re to blame.”

I easily pictured how he looked right now, hair all awry, broken pencil bits in his hands and his glasses all the way down to the end of his oily nose. “It isn’t my fault if you’ve misplaced a project,” I said. “I’ll read the report on Monday.”

“You’ll stand by and let the sweepers in your apartment, that’s what you’ll do,” he answered in a sour voice. “If she’s found with you I have Rufus Shinra’s permission to take you back as a pair.”

“I’m never coming back into those labs, Hojo, at least not on your order or Rufus Shinra’s.”

“If you want to keep your status as a reformed citizen of Midgar, you’ll play ball,” Hojo spat.

“Perhaps my status isn’t as tenuous as you believe, or perhaps I don’t mind losing my position again. Have you thought of that?” I smiled, knowing he would hear it. “You made me, Hojo, so you have only yourself to blame if my sense of job preservation is somewhat less than average. I suggest you take your accusations back to your hole and sit on them.”

I hung up. Outside I could hear the sound of a sweeper team moving into position.