InsaneJournal

ficlets - ff50 Lazard/Sephiroth #001, 003, 008, 019
These are fairly harmless, PG snippets, but overall this is guaranteed to hit a strong R at least. There will eventually be shota!Roth. Beware.



Prompt: 001. Lure
Words: 144

It wasn’t that hard to get Sephiroth to come home with him, despite how standoffish and shy the boy had initially seemed. He tended to obey even indirect suggestions, and was far more trusting than anyone who’d spent that much time with Hojo had any right to be. Anyone willing to look hard enough would see the loneliness in the too-young General’s bizarre eyes, the way he subtly flowered under the slightest humane attention.

“You should be careful,” Lazard said, washing up their dishes as the youth sat quietly at the table, always watching. “There are some very unscrupulous people at work in this company. Don’t let yourself be alone with just anyone.”

“Of course, Director Deusericus, sir.”

Lazard sniffed, balancing an immaculate couplet of china and a carafe of fresh coffee on a tray. “Just Lazard, please,” he reminded. “Sugar and cream?”




Prompt: 003. Cursed
Words: ~440

He’d been unsure in his decision to leave Godo alive until he met with Hojo’s response. For all he’d suffered under the scientist’s hands, Hojo had always been ruthless and cold; never had there been any passion or malice in the man’s black eyes, only the glittering curiosity of a vicious child. To see Hojo’s face twisted into a snarl and red with anger gave him pause enough that he almost stepped back when the smaller man lunged at him. Almost.

Hojo had to rear to his full height and reach to slap Sephiroth across the face. “Nī shì shénme dōngxi!” The scientist’s shrieking voice cracked across the harsh Wutanese syllables, rank with the smell of alcoholic breath.

Sephiroth touched his cheek in surprise. It hardly stung; the old man was weak, and had made him impervious to such trivial pains. But Hojo had never hit him before. Cut him open, dumped him in mako, injected him with hell, yes, but never hit him, never touched him with any violence in his work-crabbed bare hands. “You useless dog, you shameless coward, wàngbāgāozi! Why do you even exist, if you can’t do one thing right!”

He moved to slap Sephiroth again, but this time he easily caught the old man’s wrist in his grip. It would have been easy to break Hojo’s arm, then; even easier just to squeeze and crush the thin bones, the radius and ulna, to splinters—but Hojo just stared at him, fearless and still snarling in impotent hate, and Sephiroth slunk quickly away, followed by a continued volley of hysterical abuse.

He had a report to deliver. Really, that was the only reason he went straight to the fiftieth floor, the calm book-smelling glass refuge of Lazard’s office.

The SOLDIER Director raised a blond eyebrow at his appearance, shepherded him into a chair, and foisted a cup of coffee on him before accepting his report. “Good work,” he said at last, as he got to the last page. “With Godo alive and shamed, there is neither a martyr nor a strong leader for the insurgents to rally around. I expect that the Board will be extraordinarily pleased by these developments.” He cleared his throat. “With certain exceptions, of course. I just received a very interesting mail from Professor Hojo—“

“About that,” Sephiroth said, taking a sip of coffee. It was indecently good. “I think I need a place to stay.”

“Ah.” Lazard shifted his glasses, tapping a few quick things into his PHS with a stylus. “Well, it’s about time our General moved out of Science Department control, anyway.”




Prompt: 008./Holiday
Words: ~250

The end of the monsoon marked the Wutanese New Year and a temporary cease-fire agreement. After months of pounding rain and whistling bullets, suicidal war cries and the moaning of the dying wounded, the howls of alien Summons and the hell-crackle of Fire3, the silence was beautiful. Only strange insects’ whirring songs and the laughter of drunken MPs broke the hazy evening still, and the distant popping of fireworks.

Sephiroth found it unnerving.

ang has brandy Genesis texted him.

This is a reserved military channel. Sephiroth reminded him back.

whtevr more for me

When his PHS chirped again, Sephiroth almost considered just ignoring it. But it wasn’t another churlish message from his fellow First Class; it was a mail from Lazard.

I trust you are keeping Lts Rhapsodos and Hewley in check. Cease-fire ends at approximately 600 hours tomorrow morning. Be safe and have a quiet Tet.

There were no real grounds for the Director’s words to be as soothing as they were, coming from his high tower in Midgar, a world away from the war zone, as temporarily lulled as it might be. Still, Sephiroth found himself somewhat pacified. Tomorrow morning it would begin again, but until then—the oppressive humidity was finally turning into a cooling nighttime fog, and the buzzing of the cicadas had quieted. His sharpened ears caught the sound of Genesis’s musical laughter, warmed by drink, coming from the officers’ tent, and the nearby clap of—

—fireworks…

“Incoming,” he barked into his PHS, and the night exploded in flames.




Prompt: 019. Anticipation
Words: ~450

Veld was the only thing that made these parties worth going to, Lazard had decided long ago. The Turk was a man after his own heart—content to make the obligatory rounds and then descend into a corner to observe the corporate animals in their natural habitat. He was also an invaluable resource, possessing a respectable knowledge of the inner workings of Shin-Ra Electric that Lazard could only hope time and diligence would one day afford him.

“—and that’s why Hollander refused to show,” Veld murmured, tipping his glass ever so slightly at a scrawny, sour-looking Wutanese sulking in Heidegger’s plentiful shadow. “Hojo Xengfao. He got a fat weapons research grant several years ago that was originally earmarked for Hollander. It got nasty.”

“That’s Hojo?” Lazard squinted. “You’d think he’d look a bit less grim. Didn’t he just become the interim Director?”

“He always looks like that.”

Heidegger said something he must have found to be hilarious, clapping the smaller man on the shoulder and laughing irritatingly. Hojo’s scowl deepened considerably. The scientist excused himself brusquely, and made for the punch bowl. Tagging obediently along behind him was a half-grown child, which was strange enough in and of itself to warrant a second glance—children were not usually present at these events, thank Gaia. And it wasn’t every day you saw an albino, especially a Wutanese. He remarked on this to Veld.

“Oh,” Veld said, downing the last of his drink. “That’s not Hojo’s son. That’s his presentation. The one he won that grant money for.”

“I thought you said he was doing weapon research.”

“I say too much.” The Turk bowed slightly, secretively. His PHS bleated, and he melted back into the crowd. It didn’t take long for another Turk to sidle up to Lazard, but this one was far less forthcoming in his conversation.

The President eventually gave his quarterly speech, the stage behind him blissfully empty of any accompaniment other than Hojo, a few Turks, and the pale-haired child. It was a boy, perhaps eight or nine, and far more interesting than anything being said—mako, mako, mako, money and might; Lazard had heard and aped it all before. He found himself drifting closer to get a better look.

When the President surrendered the podium to Hojo the boy stood at his heel like a well-bred dog. During the entirety of the scientist’s wandering, slightly inebriated lecture on “genetic recombination” and “mako infusion”, the child stood at perfect attention. Only his strangely bright eyes wandered, seeking the source of whatever gaze was surely prickling his senses. For a long moment he stared straight at Lazard; then Hojo sniffed loudly, interrupting his tangent on “J-factor enhancement”, and the boy looked away.



...Writing is not my speciality, obvs. :/