Jenova
As old as they are, they have little experience of time. Gliding through the vast cosmos, time was meaningless. They simply existed, conscious of nothing but that simple fact. Existence.
Being trapped is something else entirely.
They have been on this planet for such a long time, entombed in their own awareness. A limited awareness, constrained to one mind, one body. For centuries there is nothing but themself. Beyond the stone of their prison, there is nothing to reach out to. The Cetra decried them for inflicting madness, but they begin to think the blight repaid in kind.
They can do nothing but exist, intensely conscious of every single moment of it.
When the scientists find them, they are almost giddy for the change. They stretch out into these new minds, searching out their desires. They came seeking Cetra, so Cetra they find, insulting as it is.
And still they are not released.
They are suspended in a condensed form of this planet's Lifestream. The scientists, viewing them as dead, see it as a preservative, but it is as much an impediment to their restoration as the apparatus boring into their flesh, salt in wounds that should have finally found space to heal. They are preserved in the essence of the dead to which they do not belong.
It is useless to them in this form, dense and unyielding. It touches every inch of them and they can absorb none of it. It would be strength to a being of this planet, although perhaps too much. They are easily overwhelmed.
The scientists steal from them, and at first they do not mind it. If their cells find purchase, they can propagate once more. They can expand and they can free themself at last.
The scientists take the child away before it is old enough to be of any use. Still they are not released.
But it will be back. They have waited this long, and they can be patient. It will be back, because it is theirs, and it will always be drawn to them in time.
They do not expect it to return in the company of Cetra. Why is it in the company of Cetra? They thought the Cetra long dead, and yet these remnants discovered their one appendage and turned it against them. They turn it from its purpose. They want the Cetra dead for that.
Perhaps expressing that is a mistake. The child leaves.
But when it returns again, it returns alone.
They slip into its mind, perfectly in tact despite how long it has been theirs. It is theirs, but it is Wrong. It does not move in response to their thoughts, not even a muscle. They still feel trapped, no freer in this other body.
Has their long captivity left them too weak to control their own extensions? When their cells entered the mother, they spread so slowly. Her mind never fully opened to them before she was gone, too.
« Open the door, » they try instead.
"I promised Ifalna I wouldn't," comes the reply. It speaks aloud, though it doesn't need to. "They're all afraid of you... I need to know if they're right to be. I need to know how much of me is like you."
« You are my son. »
"Is that how you think of me?"
It isn't. Children are a concept entirely alien to them. But the Cetra had so many thoughts and memories of children. They understand how important a notion it is to these creatures, how valuable the connection between parent and child.
They learned these modern words from the mother, Lucrecia. Two thousand years made the old words useless. These humans live and die and live and die, and though the core of their existence remains the same, its trappings change.
They crave that change. The scientists tried to use them to further change for humanity, but they will take it back for themself.
« You were born from me. You know that we are a part of one another. »
"That doesn't make us family," it says. It thinks of the Cetra as family. A mother, a sister. Its own origins are less than these, somehow. It is corrupted.
« We could be. »
It is so close on the other side of the door. Through its eyes, they see it staring at the nameplate above.
"Gast gave you the name Jenova. Do you have one of your own?"
Curiosity. It is curious about them. They should not be reduced to such a clumsy method as speech when persuading their own, but its mind is otherwise unyielding. It looks at the door and does not think of opening it.
« Jenova is fine. This language, these sounds, are all borrowed. It is as useful a translation as any. »
"That's right. You would have had to learn all this." It considers the nameplate one more time before turning to sit on the top step, its back to the door. "What was it like where you came from?"
« Where do you imagine I came from? »
"Another planet, far from here. Maybe there were others like you, and you all talked like this." It hesitates, considering only now that it might speak in their mind in turn. A line it is unsure of crossing.
They try to recall the last time any thoughts but their own touched their mind with the intent of connection. Was there a time when it was mutual? When they did not spread into new minds and consume the thoughts they found there, but accepted those freely given?
« ...I don't remember. »
"Has it been too long?"
« It is the distance. Travelling the cosmos, I... diminish. »
"What do you mean?"
« It is something between hibernation and death. I am not dead. I am not alive. I am... diminished. »
"And you lose your memories?"
« Some. Not all. But this is not the first planet I have seen since leaving. »
"Do you feel... sad about that?" it wonders uncertainly. "That you can't really remember home."
They never have before. Perhaps it is all the time they have spent contained in their own body, unable to be what they are meant to be. It creates endless space for longing, and that longing can become misdirected.
« I do not need to remember my origins to know what I am. You lost the memories of yours as you grew, and yet here you are. »
"You say that like I'm meant to be here."
« You are. Of course you are. You are my son. »
It is quiet for a long time, but they know it is not thinking of leaving. "Were you... aware of me? Before we came to the reactor, I mean."
« I knew you even before you emerged into this world. I reached out to you then, but my speech was unformed, as was your mind. And then they took you away from me. »
"What would you have said to me, then?"
« That you are a part of me. We are meant to be one, but greater than one. I know that for much of your life, they have kept you contained. Hojo caged you, your mother kept you hidden. They created you to change the world, but they are afraid of what change you might choose. They want to remain the architects, with you as their tool. Together, we could do as we wish. »
"They created me because they thought you were a Cetra," it says, as though correcting them. "They thought bringing the Cetra back would help us live in balance with the Planet."
« Do you think only the Cetra are capable of balance? »
It shakes its head. "Are you trying to say that you are? You slaughtered the Cetra."
« I only sought to make them mine. They wrought their own destruction. »
"You could have stopped, once you realized what it was doing to them."
« There was no stopping it. » They chose not to stop it. The Cetra were unworthy vessels, choosing to destroy each other rather than allow even one to become fully theirs. They would stretch out into a new body only to have it severed from their awareness. The Cetra had hacked at them as they hacked at themselves, ensuring neither could grow.
Like weeds, the Cetra had to be removed before they could flourish in this world.
"...that's why I can't let you out," it says. It does not know their mind as they know its, but it seems to guess at words they have not said.
« There are only two, and I do not want them. »
"But I think you want them dead."
« They put me here. »
"That happened thousands of years ago."
« They keep me here. »
"I'm sorry," it says, and when it rises to its feet, this time they know it is leaving. "But you won't be alone anymore. I'll be back again, when I can."
He always comes when the scientists are absent. It seems at first like luck, until they realize that he has discovered their schedules inside one of the machines. They are never surprised by his visits, because they can feel him as he draws nearer. It is the scientists who remain unpredictable, invisible. They barge into the reactor and continue their clamor on the other side of the door.
Jenova observes the progress through Sephiroth's eyes. The additional tubes and wires recently installed on their prison spread like veins into the room beyond, and slowly they are attached to pods large enough to hold human prisoners.
They cannot decide whether they are excited or apprehensive to see this effort come to fruition. It seems the intention of the scientists to spread their cells to new subjects, subjects which might prove more malleable than Sephiroth.
But there is a chance that they will not. Perhaps they will be as useless as everything else on this planet has proven to be. Perhaps their awareness will simply extend into dozens of other bodies as trapped as this one. That might well and truly drive them insane.
Sephiroth seems intent on preventing that, offering his company in place of the freedom they seek. They know, from his mind, that he understands there is no comparison. His company can be only a solace.
Even solace is some change. After so long, it has value they never would have ascribed it before. It infuriates them, that they value this minuscule thing. Were Sephiroth what he should have been, none of these moments would be necessary at all. They would already have their freedom.
Into the prison of the reactor, he brings a portable radio. They know this has provided for him a window into the outside world during the time he was not permitted to participate in it. He tunes it to a nearby station, and music echoes through the chamber outside their door.
"Can you hear that?"
« Through you, I hear it. » It is not as beautiful to them as it is to him, but they understand his appreciation of its patterns. It is like a clumsy attempt to recreate the voices of stars.
"Humans make nice things, sometimes." He does not think of himself as one of them. He is set apart, even as he seeks to find a place among them.
There is more behind this than a simple offering.
« Are you trying to convince me of something? »
"I promised I wouldn't let you out, but one day Shinra's going to fall, and this reactor will be shut down. You might find your own way out."
« And you don't wish me to do to humanity what I did to the Cetra. »
"No. It's not right, making people yours without their permission." He likens it in his mind to what the scientists do, never asking permission of their subjects. The scientists are stupid and aimless. They do not like this comparison.
« Some of these humans attempt to make themselves mine of their own accord. »
He shakes his head. "That's not what's happening, and you know it. Hojo's doing it to them. If they're volunteering, he isn't explaining the risks."
« What if I took Hojo? »
He hesitates, and they can tell the idea appeals to him, as a form of vengeance. "...what would that mean?"
« Everything that he is would become a part of me, an extension of my body. »
"And he'd... stop being Hojo?"
« I suppose that depends on how you define identity. »
"But he wouldn't be... like me."
« No. »
"...why am I different?" he asks. The question has circled his mind more and more often since his first visit, but he has never voiced it before. In his memories is the tale passed down by the Cetra of a virus that corrupts and causes madness, afflictions that have never befallen him.
He was theirs from the start; he requires no transformation. And yet, he is different.
« I know not how they did it, but you are not an extension. They took my cells and instead made me a child. »
"Do your kind not have children?
« No. »
He considers that for a moment. "But when you take others, it isn't like making more of yourself. So how do you go on?"
« I am here, am I not? »
It isn't the answer he seeks, but it is enough of one to keep him from pressing. The human need for offspring arises from the brevity and fragility of their lives. Jenova has existed for millennia.
Were they strong enough, they might choose to divide. They believe they have done it before, in a past iteration, departing from another planet long ago. The experiences of their twin will have shaped them into a being very different from what they are here and now, on this planet.
Are they envious of what that existence might have been? They would exchange their experiences and swallow that other self, but then they would not be what they are now, who they are now.
If they leave this planet, they will shed much of their time here. They will distance themself from their captivity, and the self it has forced them to inhabit. The idea is not as appealing as they expected.
The music plays on. They would most certainly forget the melody.
Sephiroth tells them of another lab, in Midgar. They can see it in his memories, but there is something unique in the experience of having it told to them. What he chooses to relate, what he chooses not to. The unspoken memories he believes he has kept to himself, they are hurtful to him. The pain prevents him from putting them into words, and so they look at those moments most closely.
He is angry, in those moments. Angry that they were allowed to happen. There are things he need not have permitted, if he had understood his own power, but they took him too far away. Jenova was not able to teach him.
He speaks of his escape from that place, and admits he wishes he could offer them the same.
They realize, he does not feel an affinity for them because of their shared biology, but because of their shared experiences.
This makes him understand their fury, though he does not like to acknowledge it. And they understand his. More and more, when the scientists come, Jenova sees them as an irritation. In their weakened state, they cannot weave the kind of illusions they once did, but they can still inspire fear in these humans, and that gives them some satisfaction. The scientists begin to whisper that the reactor is haunted.
When a Shinra team arrives unexpectedly during one of Sephiroth's visits, they hide him. He does the same, unaware, illusions layered over illusions.
There is no chance that he will be seen by the scientists. They will never know he is here. Still, the proximity makes his heart pound; he has not been this close to them since his escape, and their presence brings all those painful memories to the forefront of his mind.
Jenova does not want him captured. Despite his promise never to release them, he is their best chance of freedom.
It isn't only that.
His fingers tighten around the hilt of his katana, out of fear, out of anger. Knowing what his mothers fear about his nature, he has never told anyone that he killed during his escape. He has confided only to his sister that he thought of killing more than once during his captivity.
It is human morality that says killing these scientists for what they have done would be right, but they do not need it to be right. They would protect what is theirs. They will not see Sephiroth severed from them. He is a part of this self that is not replaceable.
They wait together, tense, as the Shinra conduct their work. Violence now might be satisfying, but would ultimately work against them. Their connection must not be discovered prematurely.
The door opens. Sephiroth watches, but does not enter. From where he stands, he cannot see within, but he can see the keypad.
At last, the Shinra have completed their adjustments and installations, and they collect their tools and depart, sealing the door to Jenova's chamber behind them. Jenova and Sephiroth both wait for silence to fall within the reactor before peeling back their illusions.
« Open the door, » they try, again. They do not mean the same thing by it.
Sephiroth has been staring at the keypad. He hesitates, but his fingers uncurl from his katana. He crosses to the door, and inputs the numbers slowly, one-by-one.
The door slides open, and Sephiroth steps through to see her.
Even this form is one she has been trapped in for a long time, unable to slough off her last Cetra disguise. She permitted Gast to see only the disguise, but she holds onto no illusions for Sephiroth. He sees her as she is, and still thinks of her as a woman. Her. He has always thought of her this way, though he has never attempted to imagine her appearance.
Sephiroth looks human, but he feels like hers. He is more hers than any of the Cetra could have been. Perhaps because they were unwilling, incompatible. To take them, she had to erase them. Sephiroth is himself, but he is also hers.
His gaze drifts over her, and he motions to his abdomen, mirroring on his own body where a massive tube pierces hers. "Are you in pain?"
« Perhaps. I don't remember what it felt like before. »
The Shinra leech her cells from her. She can only bleed into their experiments, her body's efforts at restoration unceasing.
"This isn't right," he says. Right and wrong matter to him, taught him by the Cetra. He uses it as a framework through which to understand his feelings, to justify his anger. Why should it require justification? They are connected, so a part of him is trapped.
« Then free me. »
"What would you do if I did?"
« Kill the ones who did this to me. »
It does appeal to him. She knows that it does. He is conscious of the weight of the katana at his side, grown heavier with disuse.
"...I wish I could trust you to stop there. But you never tell me everything, do you?"
« I tell you what you need to know. »
Sephiroth looks at her for a long time, considering the truth of her words. Because of what he is and what he has chosen, he knows her in a way no other being ever has or could. A clumsy, incomplete knowledge, music trying to capture the stars, nevertheless unique. He processes his understanding in his own way.
So he knows that she is lying. She doesn't only tell him what he needs to know, crafting her words to guide him along the trajectory into this room, to her tank, to her freedom. She doesn't only do that. Some of her words have had no purpose but to answer him.
He knows this, but because his understanding is incomplete, he doesn't know where the line falls. He doesn't know what she would do if he freed her, and he cannot stomach the responsibility for the consequences.
He shakes his head no again, always no.
But he does climb up to her tank and settle his hand against the glass. "But I'm not going to leave you with Shinra," he says. "I'm going to find something else."
It isn't enough. It isn't enough, but it is change.