Silence now the sound
My breath the only motion around
Demons cluttering around
My face showing no emotion
Shackled by my sentence, expecting no return
Here there is no penance, my skin begins to burn
“My Own Prison”
Creed
Reeve awoke in a world of darkness and light, of hot and cold, a place
where murderers murdered the innocents for noble
causes. But Reeve did not know these things. He did not
know where he was or even how he had gotten here. All he knew was
that he was in pain and he had no balm in Gilead to ease that pain.
His muscles felt weak and watery, as if all the strength had been leeched
from them by invisible parasites. All of his heavy limbs were aching
and sore, and he felt as if someone had
pounded him from head to toe with a sledgehammer. But worst of
all was the pain in his head, the pain of all pains. He had the mother
of all migraines that no human medicine could hope to cure. It beat against
his temples like a mind’s demon trying to burst free of his skull and spread
its disease to the rest of the world. Hot and cold raced across his
scalp, pulsating like a thing alive.
All these physical sensations, were,
of course only the half of it. A hellish fever was engulfing his
entire head like a fiery
shroud, and somewhere in the back of his agonized mind, Reeve knew
that the madness that so many old people succumbed to
in their fugue, the madness that had destroyed Sephiroth, the madness
that Hojo had fed on like a hungering man on food, was
now threatening him with its chaotic touch. All of his thoughts
and memories were a jumbled mass of puzzle pieces that could
never hope to be put together again. Memories of the past, thoughts
of the present, and predictions of the future were all flung
carelessly together in one haphazard pile in Reeve’s brain, a mess
beyond help. Nothing made sense to him anymore.
Opening his eyes, the man struggled to
make some sort of logic appear in what he saw yet did not see. His
eyelids were
as heavy as lead, and his black hair was soaked through with sweat
and hanging into his eyes like a protective veil. The first thing
Reeve saw when his bleary, crazed eyes came into focus was a strange world
filled an outlandish breed of light and darkness, looking like an offspring
from a coupling by the colors of midnight and the otherworldly green light
of the Lifestream. He was hanging in the middle of dark void with
thick wisps of green mist floating all around, not allowing his teary eyes
to see more than a few feet in front of him – not that he could have made
sense of what he saw anyways. The pain in his skull was so supernaturally
intense that his vision kept blurring and distorting, just like his memories,
thoughts, and emotions. The scenery ran together until all Reeve
could behold through the hammering in his head was a massive blur of black
and green.
An unwitting moan escaping his parched
throat, Reeve shut his brown eyes tightly and waited anxiously for a sudden
bought of unbearable nausea to pass. His head pulsed with madness
and heat, and for a moment, he relapsed into
unconsciousness, the darkness becoming whole and complete for a few
precious moments before the odious realm he was
imprisoned in yanked him back to reality, forcing him to bear witness
to the torturous silence that it taunted him with.
Gritting his teeth as if the pain could
bring his thoughts back into something resembling order, Reeve forced his
eyes open
and made them focus with the sheer force of his will. His long
inactive neck muscles screamed in protest as he lifted his head
slowly until he met some sort of strange resistance from behind.
His feverish mind whirled, feeding him dozens of words at a time for the
thing that was behind him. One stuck out beyond the rest.
A wall. There’s a wall behind me.
His head lolled to the side, and Reeve
saw that his right wrist was pinioned to the stone wall by some sort of
metal cuff that
cut rudely into the tender flesh of his wrist. Though he couldn’t
feel his hands (the blood had long since drained from them), he
instinctively flopped his burning head to the left to see that his
other hand was bound in a similar fashion, with another metal cuff.
Racking his jumbled brain, he struggled to come up with a word…
Shackles! That’s what they are!
It took a moment for Reeve’s wasted mind
to clank the thoughts together that being shackled to a wall with a high
fever in a
room that was completely black except for strange wisps of noxious
green mist was a very bad thing. A very, very bad thing.
Reeve’s heart began to pound in his chest
with a fervor that matched the insanity threatening to beat his brain to
a pulp with
its chaotic weight. What am I doing here? he wondered wildly,
trying to focus his eyes so he could discern something familiar in the
world around him. Who put me here?
Phantoms of the recent past suddenly
rose up in response to his soundless query, leaping like mnemonic demons
out of
the whirling maelstrom in his mind to reveal the cold, hard truth to
him. Visions whizzed past him like an out of control slideshow, there
and gone so quickly that he barely had time to grasp them, much less make
sense of them.
Files. Papers. Lights. His office.
Shadow on the opposite wall. A presence behind him.
Man! Dark clothes. Ski mask. Can’t see his eyes! Run!
Hitting the floor hard. Pain from his bleeding lip. Did the man hit him?
Something slamming against his head. Darkness coming. Reno’s voice in the hall?
The man hovering over him! Who?
The Running Man.
Reeve was jolted out of his tumbled memories
by the undeniable sound of voices somewhere in this room of light and
dark. Jerking his chains – he belatedly realized that his feet
were shackled, too – the President of Neo-Shinra opened his eyes
wide and tried to pinpoint the source of these new voices. Somewhere
in the back of his rational mind, which was buried deep
beneath all the madness, Reeve knew that he should be afraid of what
was developing. What if these people were here to hurt
him? Chances were they were in league with the Running Man, the
kidnapper responsible for his being here. But the tattered
remains of Reeve’s common sense were just that – tattered remains.
All he knew was that there was something else in here other than darkness
and light, and he might be able to get answers regarding where he was and
why he was here.
Try as he might, however, the man couldn’t
lock down onto the voices that seemed to originate from the thick mist
itself.
He could definitely hear them, however. Footsteps of several
people echoed in the solitude of his prison, slicing through the
heavy silence like a hot knife through butter. Their voices gained
in volume as they apparently got closer and closer to where
Reeve was chained to the wall. In a slight panic now and unnerved
by the disembodied voices that would probably be deciding
his fate, he squinted into the misty green and black gloom, trying
in vain to see who his mysterious visitors were.
The footsteps abruptly came to a halt,
and Reeve’s blurry and distorted vision suddenly caught a brief glimpse
of shadowy
figures standing fearlessly in the exotically scented mist, wearing
it like a protective cloak. Then he blinked, and they were gone.
Their voices, however, remained, and, given their proximity, he was able
to now make the scantest bit of sense from their words.
“…disappointing subject,” one – a man
– was saying, and his voice sent a sudden stream of shivers coursing down
Reeve’s spine. He had heard cold, heartless voices before, and
until this man’s words reached his ears, he would have said that Vincent
and the late Sephiroth were in the lead as far as deep, icy, callous-sounding
voices went, but this new man made Vincent sound like a peppy cheerleader
by comparison.
“I expected much better results,” the
Cold One said, his terrifying voice reaching out from its covering of mist
and darkness
to pierce Reeve’s ears and penetrate his consciousness, making the
prisoner’s heart freeze in terror.
“There something wrong with him? Why is he all weak and wobbly like that?” a woman’s voice with a thick accent of some sort asked.
“Nothing I’ll concern myself with,” the
Cold One replied tonelessly. “Just an unfortunate result of the interrogation.
He’s as
raw as an exposed nerve and probably insane, too. Given his current
state, death would be a mercy for him.”
Reeve shuddered violently.
Another man’s voice, low and calm with some sort of rasp to it, spoke up. “No death will be issued,” it said firmly. “I went through great lengths to bring you this one. You make sure to keep him alive, at least. There are some bounty hunters who will pay a good price for the President of Neo-Shinra. He’s no good to me dead.”
The Running Man! Reeve realized with a start.
“Sounds like he wasn’t much good alive
either,” the woman snorted condescendingly, her nasal voice making Reeve
grit
his teeth. “I can’t believe that Mr. Big Shot President here
didn’t know anything.”
“I repeatedly told you two the same thing,”
the Running Man said coldly. “He may be President, but that’s all
he is. And
he’s only a normal human being, to top it all off. I knew obtaining
him would produce no result, and now I have the entire crew of not just
AVALANCHE, but the Turks, out for my blood.”
“Turks,” the woman suddenly said softly,
then let out a high-pitched laugh as she apparently shared some inside
joke with
herself.
The Cold One ignored the woman’s outburst
and addressed the Running Man. “Capturing this one was easy enough,
wasn’t it?”
“All too easy,” the Running Man agreed flatly.
“Then I will hear no other complaints
from you,” the Cold One deadpanned. “Your job is to hunt out the
people that I tell
you to.”
“You don’t control me,” the Running Man snapped.
Unfazed, the Cold One replied, “No, but I did once. It wasn’t that long ago. Do you care to recall?”
No answer.
“I didn’t think so,” the Cold One said
tonelessly with no hint of pride or triumph in his voice. “You were
a good acolyte,
Titus, and now you make a good hunter even if you don’t work solely
for the values I represent.”
“Values?” the Running Man echoed acidly.
“You represent something, I’ll give you that, but they are not values.
Nothing
that goes on down here has any value to anyone. You and your
followers are soulless, mindless, and heartless. You aid the
Burrower, the Hungry One, the very thing that is the source of the
Planet’s disease. But you are no loyal worshipper. I know you
intend to slay the monster you’ve idolized as a god for hundreds of years.
I’m telling you, this ill-timed mutiny of yours won’t work.”
“What makes you say that, sugar?” the woman asked in an amused tone.
“The Burrower is thousands of years old,”
the Running Man deadpanned. “The last of the Beasts. Killing
him isn’t going to
be as easy as you both seem to believe. Chances are more likely
of the Planet dying all around us and withering away before
you devise a fiendish plan to slay him.”
“As I was saying,” the Cold One continued,
as if the Running Man and the woman had never spoken in the first place.
“You’re a good hunter, but tonight your work was…most displeasing.”
Silence.
“You were followed,” the Cold One continued,
icy voice never wavering. “Two members of AVALANCHE were able to
track you and follow you to the deep sea complex. What if they
had discovered our underground lair? Most humans would have run scared
from the vibes of the complex. These two, however, did no such thing.
AVALANCHE and the Turks are going to be formidable opponents.”
“They wouldn’t have made it to the subterranean
tunnels,” the woman interrupted haughtily. “The fear would have gotten
to
them eventually.”
“I wasn’t expecting the likes of Vincent
Valentine to show up,” the Running Man said coldly. “He’s more monster
than
man.” A sly tone entered the hunter’s deep, gravelly voice.
“He’s almost as bestial as you, my ex-Lord.”
“Vincent Valentine,” the woman repeated
with demonic thoughtfulness, as if tasting the name as it fell from her
lips. “An
ex-Turk, am I right?”
“You do know your Turks, don’t you?” the Running Man grumbled.
“You bet, darlin’,” the woman cooed, a nasty undertone prevalent in her nasal voice. “Who was the other one with him?”
“Just some ninja girl,” the Running Man said flatly. “A thief to be exact. She is not—”
“Her name is Yuffie Kisaragi,” the Cold
One suddenly interrupted, silencing his two companions. “She is the
daughter of
Lord Godo of Wutai.”
“Wutai…” the woman pondered thoughtfully.
“I want that girl,” the Cold One deadpanned.
“What about Valentine?” the woman asked suddenly, a pouting tone entering her voice.
“Oversexed whore-bag,” the Running Man
suddenly snapped. “Vincent Valentine will not offer you the carnal
pleasures
that you seek from every man. I’m sure he would rather die first
than submit to your feminine wiles.”
“Jealous, honey?” the woman taunted cheerfully. “Are you trying to say that you want to be friends like we used to be?”
“Valentine will be next to impossible to catch,” the Cold One interrupted. “The girl is our next best bet.”
“Why?” the woman pouted. “She’s just some ditzy teenybopper. What has she anything to do with Valentine?”
The Cold One ignored her and addressed the Running Man. “Titus, you will bring us the girl.”
Yuffie! Reeve thought wildly. No! She’s only seventeen! What would they want with her?
“Easier said than done,” the Running
Man seethed coldly. “She will be flanked on all sides by AVALANCHE
and the
Turks. Besides, how much do you think one teenage girl can tell
us?”
“You’re just a bounty hunter now,” the Cold One deadpanned. “You’re not meant to ask questions; it is not your right to do so. All you are is just more mindless brawn to be dispatched at the slightest gesture of my hand. You’ve fallen from grace, my old friend. My opinion of you, once so high, has been greatly hindered by your rebellious acts of several years ago.”
The Running Man ignored all these jabs. “And what if I refuse to bring you this girl?”
“It may be easier that way,” the Cold
One responded flatly. “One of my other hunters may have better luck
catching her.
After all, AVALANCHE and the Turks do think that you are the mastermind
behind the kidnapping of their friend here. You’re all they have
to go on; they’ll be on the lookout for you. How long do you think
you can run around freely without me to protect you from the combined might
and fury of both AVALANCHE and the Turks?”
Silence.
“You are beginning to see reason, then?” the Cold One asked. “Will you bring us the girl?”
A long pause, then, “Yes. I shall.”
“I’m comin’ with you, honey. This will be a fun way to pass the time,” the woman said suddenly.
“You are most definitely not coming,”
the Running Man snapped in a low, dangerous voice, apparently not at all
pleased
with the situation.
“She goes,” the Cold One said simply.
Another heavy silence followed, lasting
so long that Reeve began wondering if he had been hallucinating about the
voices
this entire time. But then the Running Man – whose name was Titus,
apparently – answered flatly, “Very well. It is as you wish.”
“Get on it then,” the Cold One deadpanned.
“What about him?” the Running Man abruptly
asked, and Reeve suddenly felt three pairs of eyes focus on him from the
cover of the misty darkness, unseen beacons of sinister light in this
forgotten and unheard of place. He squirmed slightly, just a
mere jerking of his limbs, jangling the chains slightly. He hadn’t
the energy to do anything more. Did they know that he had
understood all of what they had been saying?
“I have not yet decided his fate,” the
Cold One said shortly, his soulless voice chilling Reeve to the bone.
It was truly
terrifying to know that this man held his life in his hands.
“His allies will not rest until he is
found,” the Running Man commented in a neutral tone, but Reeve thought
he heard some
strange double meaning in the hunter’s deep voice.
The woman with the accent apparently heard it, too. “Are you saying we should return him to his friends?”
“No such thing will be done,” the Cold One interrupted. “He shall remain here in his prison until I decide his fate.”
No! Reeve thought wildly. Don’t leave me in here alone, not with the fever and madness! Please!
But the footsteps had started up again,
only this time they were moving away, getting softer and softer, taking
Reeve’s
hope of escaping by some act of mercy with them. He jerked as
hard as he could, which was not very hard, against his shackles, but that
got him nowhere. The fever in his brain was making his eyesight blurry,
and the dark realm of unconsciousness was suddenly returning to take him
back. His limbs grew increasingly heavy as the pounding in his skull
crescendoed to an insane degree, almost obliterating all other sounds.
Yet, the last things he heard before
the darkness took him under were the fading voices of the Cold One, the
Running Man,
and the mysterious woman.
“Indulge me, big guy,” the woman said
amicably, addressing the Cold One in a conversational tone. “Just
what exactly to
you intend to do with Mr. President back there?”
“Kill him,” the Cold One deadpanned.
“Wouldn’t that be a bit rash?” the Running Man asked flatly.
“Then I’ll just feed him to the Hungry One,” the other man replied in his icy tone of voice. “The Burrower is always up for the taste of modern flesh.”
Then they were gone, and Reeve was left
alone, hanging limply from the shackles that bound him to the wall of his
prison.
To Chapter 7