MONSTERS (A Final Fantasy 7 Fanfic)

V: War

The sun set upon a landscape that ran crimson.

It was everywhere. Gentle rays of orange light highlighted the scarlet blood that stained dry grass, torn flesh, and the shattered remnants of what had once been houses.

The Wutaian warriors had been fierce. Some had spent decades in training, perfecting the art of battle. They followed a code of honour, fighting for the sole reason of protecting their homeland from Shinra's greed and destruction. To give up their home would mean giving Shinra control of the entire world, for they were the only nation that had refused to bend the knee. They could not afford to allow the company to steal their very soil to suck lifestream from the ground, converting it to mako to be used for their selfish desires. They fought for a future in which humanity did not allow their whims to bring harm to their planet, and so, they fought with all their might.

But they stood no chance against Shinra's most deadly weapon.

A lone child, around eleven or twelve years old, stood amongst the carnage. His entire form was drenched in the blood of lives he had taken. He'd not shown a shred of mercy, acting more machine than man as his rampage turned screams of terror and agony into a deafening silence. His viridescent eyes were locked upon the limp form of an almost unrecognisable corpse. But it was small enough for him to know that it had belonged to a youngster around his age.

He had barely been conscious as he'd ravaged the world around him. At this point, his actions came reflexively. He spared not a thought as he'd torn through hordes of screaming soldiers, cut down men, women and children with his very blade, stained himself in the blood of enemies and innocents alike. Fingers, limbs, heads were strewn across the battlefield like toys left forgotten, bathed under a crimson sky.

He had lost count of the number of lives he'd taken a long time ago. His first kill was one he remembered vividly, but all who came after just seemed to blur together. He vaguely understood it to be a process of desensitization, first getting him used to the concept of killing with small lab animals, then graduating him to larger creatures– a Shinra guard dog no longer able to work as well as they once had, or a mutated monster captured from their home near the slums. And, once he'd gotten used to that, he moved on to mutilating prisoners of war. He didn't just kill them– sometimes, he was made to torture them for information. And sometimes, that torture did not even have reason to it– Shinra simply wanted a perfect, remorseless weapon that would do exactly as instructed.

Remorse, empathy, mercy– they were all signs of weakness, Hojo would tell him. Weakness he could not afford to have. And though he hated to admit it, deep down, he still had that weakness. But he had grown so numb to taking life, to raking his sword through the flesh of both monsters and men, that he could no longer afford to pay any attention to the conscience Shinra had stamped into the deepest, darkest parts of his mind.

The corpses around him were just shapes. Once alive and individual, now reduced to mere husks.

Don't feel bad, he could remember Hojo hissing such words to him when he killed his first human. This is necessary. You are Shinra's perfect little soldier. Follow their orders, and you are in the right– there is nil wrong with what you do, because you are special.

... Special.

Sephiroth looked down at the blood caked over his fingers. What would Doctor Gast say if he saw where he was now? The man had been dead for years, or so Hojo had told him– could he see Sephiroth from wherever he was now?

The silence was haunting.