JL Sigman (jlsigman) wrote in kinkfest, @ 2007-09-16 07:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | a: jlsigman, f: final fantasy vii, p: cloud/hojo, september 16 |
Unnumbered Failure, Hojo/Cloud
Title: Unnumbered Failure
Author: jlsigman
Rating: PG
Word count: 508
Summary: Hojo tries to put a number on a failure
Prompt: September 16th, #6. Final Fantasy VII, Hojo/Cloud: tattoo - "Give me a number!"
Author's Note: It won't show more than one tag, even though I'm putting all three separated by commas. Let me know what I'm doing wrong? Sorry. :-(
Hojo watched as the blonde was decanted onto the examining table. An irritated sigh escaped him as the subject flopped bonelessly, all higher brain functions completely overwhelmed by the mako energy. It had been 4 years now; surely the damn thing would show another glimpse of whatever had made it capable of defeating Sephiroth! But like some deformed flower, it had had its moment of glory, and then faded into oblivion.
The scientist was left in a bit of a quandary by the lack of progress. Technically, this specimen was the first in his Sephiroth clone project, but it was also the one that did the worst. His pride would not let him make any excuses about not getting it done right the first time. There had to be something that would make this one at least minimally functional again. More mako was not the answer, and neither were more JENOVA cells. What else was there?
Hojo circled the table as his assistants attached the probes to the specimen’s chest and head. The sounds were maddeningly familiar – the sounds of his one failure, beeping loudly in the small room. He frowned, not looking at the screens, his eyes darting around for anything to distract him from the sick feeling his pride dropped in the pit of his stomach. They landed on the piece of equipment he had recently obtained to mark his specimens as they were released from the lab, and he felt his lips curl upwards.
The tattoo gun, as he had been pleased to hear it called, fit perfectly into his palm. All of his other specimens had been marked on the back of their hand, the thin skin often tearing and bleeding and giving him more samples to study. He picked up the specimen’s hand and looked at it, the calluses on the palm telling of the time spent holding a standard-issue rifle or working with a training sword. He clicked the little machine on and held the needle above the blood vessel that traveled between the fourth and fifth fingers. “What should I number you?” he murmured.
There was no response, which, while expected, still annoyed him. He moved the needle away for a moment to shake the specimen’s arm back and forth. It flopped limply in the shoulder socket, eliciting no change in brainwaves. Hojo’s mouth pinched thinner and thinner as his temper rose. He squeezed the hand as hard as he could, feeling the bones start to shift. “Give me a number!” he screamed shrilly.
Nothing. No change, no response, just a boy mocking him much like Sephiroth –
With a snarl, he threw the hand back at the specimen, watching it bounce off the perfectly flat stomach and slide down to the table. He carefully put the tattoo gun down and then flung the door open, startling his subordinates. “Put the damn thing back in the tube and let it rot, for all I care!” He stomped away, putting as much distance between him and the remembered sneering laughter as he could.