Date: 2008-06-19 00:17 Subject: FFVII Fic: Interrupt (2/?) PG13 Security: Public Mood: calm Tags: darkfic, fandom: ffvii, fic, sephiroth, title: interrupt

Title: Interrupt
Author: SkyFire (rabid_plotbunny)

Fandom: FFVII:CC
Characters: Sephiroth
Rating: PG13+
Summary: Shinra makes a decision and Sephiroth must face the consequences.

Warnings: WIP. AU, darkfic. And I mean Dark Fic. As in not happy, at all, period. Death-themes abound, though no one dies in it.

Previous chapters: Chapter 1

Disclaimer: FFVII and its compilations belong to some huge company and not me. *sobs*



The knock came again, an impatient rap on the metal of the door.

He stayed where he was, staring at that closed portal, and entirely certain now that he'd severely underestimated his ability to deal with this. Every bred-in and learned survival instinct he had was screaming at him to get away, to not just let them, to not go down without racking up a satisfying body count. Maybe if he stayed away from the door, if he stayed quiet, they'd go away.

A bitter snort. Unlikely. Not even Shinra scientists were that dense.

He forced himself to stand, to swallow against that tightness once again, and walk over to the door. It was easily one of the hardest journeys of his life, but he made it.

A last glance back over one shoulder, searching for even the smallest hope for escape, damning the unknown architects that had decided that unopenable, SOLDIER-proof glass was a good choice for the windows.

Last, faint hope firmly crushed, he reached out a hand to the keypad by the door, hearing the door unlock then open with a quiet hiss. Trying to ignore the three white-coated men standing there he turned and walked back to the living room, his hands tightly clenched at his sides as he tried to hide their faint trembling from the vultures who would see it all too soon anyway.

The scientists -- highest-ranked after Hojo -- followed him. Barely sparing a look around the barren apartment, they set a small case on the coffee table, opened it. Inside, carefully cushioned in a cut-out bed of foam, was a syringe filled with a brilliant blue solution that glowed slightly. Like Mako, only the light was somehow gentler.

Or so it would seem, unless you were expecting to have it floating around in your veins in short order.

Sephiroth couldn't hold back a slight apprehensive wince as that case was opened with a sharp snapping of the locks releasing, turning his gaze away, jaw muscles clenching as he grit his teeth.

"Remove your coat," one of the men said absently, digging around in another bag, finally coming up with a pair of thin latex gloves and rubber strap.

The thickness in his throat was back with a vengeance. Keeping his eyes averted, he complied; unfastening the buckle of his trademark coat, then shrugging it off. He folded it neatly, lay it gently over the back of the couch, fully aware that he was stalling, that it wouldn't change anything, but unable to stop.

He didn't want this. Not at all. Maybe if he set aside his pride, if he went to the President and begged, pleaded for his life, swore that he would never turn against the Company, that he would simply disappear, that he wouldn't do anything if they just let him go....

But it still wouldn't change anything, and he would not give Shinra the satisfaction of hearing him beg. Shinra would probably find it amusing, the oversized sadistic bastard.

"Sephiroth, sit," that same scientist said, gesturing to one end of the couch.

Sit. As if I was some sort of pet, the silver-haired man seethed. But he moved to the indicated spot, sat. The hair at his nape pricked up as he found himself cornered; the three scientists in front of him and no way around them short of vaulting over the back of the couch.

Vaulting was sounding better and better with every passing moment.

He watched blankly as one of the men pulled a thin sheet from the bag, lay it down over the arm of the couch before moving aside.

"You know the procedure. Arm on here, make a fist."

Ooooh, they really shouldn't be telling him to make a fist, not when he wanted to so very badly. One good blow should distract them enough for him to grab his coat, vault the couch, and make it out the door before they recovered enough to even think about stopping him. The shuffling of feet outside the door was all that stopped him; clearly they had not come alone, and anyone on the other side would certainly hear the commotion and be ready by the time he got there. He wouldn't put it past them to have been armed with weapons and devices specifically made to take him down. There would be no escape that way.

No escape at all.

The scientist reached around his bicep, pulled the strap tight, tied it off. It dug into his skin, pinching.

The last man reached into the syringe-case, lifted the syringe and flicked it a few times to dislodge any air bubbles.

Blue-green eyes closed even as the pale face turned to the side. He couldn't watch this. Couldn't. Gods, he wanted Zack there. With Zack at his side, he'd take on those guards outside. Take on all of Shinra if he had to, even without the confiscated Masamune.

"I'm ready," said the scientist with the syringe. "Get the President."

...What?

Sephiroth looked up as one of the three went to the door, opened it. He could not hold back the surge of distaste that flooded him when in came President Shinra himself, accompanied by the requisite flock of Turks. The look of mixed boredom and anticipation on the man's face was a sight that he knew he would never be able to forget.

"Oh, good," the blond said, walking over to a choice watching-spot. "It's about time."

"Whenever you're ready, Mr. President," the syringe-bearing scientist said, squirting a tiny bit of the solution to be sure any air was gone.

A magnanimous wave of one pudgy hand. "Do it."

Sephiroth looked away, staring out the windows at the sprawling mess that was Midgar, at the few birds that flew by, still trying to live in the city that devoured all who entered it.

Funny. He'd never wanted wings so badly before.

Wings. Angeal and Genesis had wings. If he'd had wings, would they have asked him to go with them? But no; he'd already answered that question, and the answer was still the same. He had sworn to serve Shinra, been bred to serve Shinra, and serve he would.

He was such an idiot.

He felt the cold dab of antiseptic on his forearm, looked over in time to see his skin dimple as the needle sank in with a familiar pinch. The slight hiss of the plunger, audible to his enhanced hearing, as the fluid was pushed into him. The tiny tug of the instrument being pulled free. The sound of tearing paper, then the feel of a bandage being pasted over the tiny wound. Ironic, that a barely noticeable dot would carry the cost it did. The constriction of the strap disappeared as it was removed, leaving quickly-fading pressure marks on his skin.

"Put pressure on that for a few minutes," the scientist ordered, already packing up the equipment.

Why should I do that? Sephiroth thought bitterly, even as his free hand moved to rest lightly over the bandage. They pump poison into my veins, then expect me to worry about bleeding out? I should laugh. I should laugh in their faces. Rip off the stupid plaster and attack the president. The Turks will kill me, but I know I could get Shinra before then, and then I would not have to suffer through the poison.

It was tempting.

Too tempting; he lunged.

He saw the shock on that oh-so-arrogant face, heard the almost instantaneous sound of the Turks reacting -- too slow! -- to his sudden movement.

He didn't make it.

Mid-lunge, he was wracked with a sudden agonizing pain ripping through him, sending him crashing to the floor, eyes wide and shocked, arms wrapping instinctively around his middle, upsetting the coffee table as he fell. He was barely aware of the surrounding commotion, the vicious kick in the side from the furious Shinra before the man was hustled from the room by the Turks. The scientists followed shortly, and he was alone.

His mouth was open in a soundless scream as he huddled over his knees on the floor, pain like liquid fire running through his veins, a million times worse than Mako.

He'd been wrong. So wrong. He should have run, should have fought, should have done something, anything, but wait for this.

Now it was too late.

Zack. Gods, he wanted Zack.

Pride washed away in a flood of pain, he would have called. He would. But he could not move except to huddle tighter, and he knew he would not be able to speak.

TBC...