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green_animationTitle: Five scientific breakthroughs that Hojo didn't make
Fandom: FFVII
Summary: A five chaptered crossover fic, one chapter per crossover, based around Hojo and Shinra's science department.
Chapter one: Battlestar Galactica/FFVII.
Cloud glares age old defiance as his arms are held behind him at odd angles; the same look he gave Sephiroth, Hojo, even the first drill instructor had received a variant of this look. But this was nothing so benign as discipline.
The woman before him he almost mistook for Scarlett the first time he saw her; same red dress, same blonde hair. It would not have been much of a miracle for every cockroach of a Shinra department to come crawling from their graves; after Rufus’ and Tseng’s miraculous salvation Cloud has come to label few things impossible. But this woman is not of Shinra, not of Gaia, even. She is as cold as the metal soldiers at his back whose blade edged fingers bleed him even after they hold him still.
Psilons they were called, when they made the people aware of them; buzzing and hissing at each other Psilon, as the only word an eavesdropper might discern. As they gathered in the ruins of the Shinra buildings they were thought to be faulty Shinra machines; nothing to worry about; their clockwork would run down soon.
Then, they began to clear out the ruins farther and further into the city. Guns on their arms; Cloud would have almost have thought, Barrett, had not the robots been chrome and cold. They sent in the twice, thrice hero and that had been getting old for years. He saw their brand carved onto their hollow torsos; Cylons, not Psilons.
Blasting his way into the building, even as his materia flickered and died, they closed behind him and around him like a pack of razorblade dogs; the single, red light that shone from their visors blinking over him. Numbers were odds that could bring low every fighter and so they brought Cloud low.
Cloud watched solidly as they snapped First Tsurgi without deliberation; the blade snapped without even the façade of hatred as they marched over it, unhesitating. Cloud would have closed his eyes to thank Holy that he had not brought the Buster with him instead, but for the fact that he would not close his eyes on these creations.
Hojo seemed undying; spiting the living with all of his creations and sickening machinations. Two escort him higher in the building; he is put at the feet of the not-Scarlett.
The woman is defiantly modelled on Scarlett; from the breasts to the sharpness echoed in her almost but not quite human features, right down to the blood coloured dress and the derision in her eyes. “Where is Earth?” she grates at him, literally grates as the metal of one mandible catches an edge on the other.
Defective, then, as all things created by Hojo deteriorate into madness and misuse – this woman, this machine, followed the pattern long predetermined by her creator.
Cloud jabs one of his knees into the layer of grime and dust that has collected onto, he thinks, was once a helicopter landing pad but is now just one more ruin. His abrupt movement digs the cutting digits, of the two more obviously metal things behind him, further into his back; but his intent makes its way across as the muck splatters against the woman’s shoes and ankles. “There,” Cloud spits, “is your earth.”
She does not attempt to clean the mud off of herself; he supposed if he was rusting through as well, he wouldn’t bother either. Instead she mumbles a recitation over and over, about earth and ancestors and the divine. It sounds half like scripture, half like science.
She searches, most likely, for Jenova or the Cetra; it matters little to Cloud for neither exist on Gaia, haven’t done for years. Cloud knows – he decimated both.
(Blame beats inside of him every second; a heartbeat as mechanical as those clockwork hearts in the area with him.)
Cloud can see a half – blurred curl of ink carved into her naked arm; would feel pity but for the fact that she felt it not. It is a number like the one burnt into Sephiroth’s wrist, Cloud’s heel even branded into Nanaki’s shoulder. It is even in the same typeface; all the possibility that the same tool used for him was used for her.
He cannot see, and the waiting game needs to wait a while longer; he asks her her number. Partially curiosity and partially more that he has had too much of rhymes and holy writ thanks to Zack’s memories of Genesis, and Vincent’s whispers of redemption.
She trails from words of God (Sephiroth, Cloud thinks, birthed for divinity.) and creaks out a “Six.” Cloud takes note of the fact that the x is the hardest for her rusting jaws; not pertinent, perhaps, but there.
“The last Six.” She carries on. Cloud ruminates further as he angles his body just so, that she was probably part of a batch – mass produced. The rest had most likely been run down; electricity was no longer running through the old HQ building.
“Earth. Where is Earth?” Six interrupts his thoughts, apparently back to the start of her programming loop. Cloud would engage her again, but he could hear the approach of a slow buzzing that was not emitted from the bodies of any of the machines in the room; humanoid or other. He knows the waiting is over.
Shifting quickly; hand to sleeve, he draws the serrated knife from its sheath and slices wires from one of the Cylon’s helmet – the wire is so soft with age that it folds in on itself, hissing, whilst the Cylon collapses onto him; none of its parts working in tandem.
The second Cylon is taken care of by a few strikes to the back as a huge shuriken slams against it repeatedly; Yuffie rushes to haul the juddering machine off Cloud even as the second Cylon’s headlight winks out. The sounds of Avalanche and the WRO combining against the rest of the Cylons leech through to the rooftop.
Six is wide eyed and moves towards them; whether to fight or to see to her guards Cloud won’t know; a nightstick suddenly protrudes from her chest. Reno, innovative as ever, took the grappling hook over the ledge, rather than follow Yuffie up the stairs and he flicks the switch as the woman gasps, just to be sure. Electricity has an immediate effect and Cloud can see sparks snap between her fingers, her joints and the stench of burnt plastic alerts him to the melting of her skin. But for all that she does not act like a woman, she dies like one.
A few teetering steps forward and she falls – Cloud catches her and there are so many parallels here he can barely stand to think; of bodies with pink dresses and silver hair and why do his enemies choose to die in his arms? Six too, like Kadaj, reaches into empty air; Cloud tries to touch for comfort but she repositions it to empty air. “Gaia,” she says, Cloud thinks, but he is wrong. “Gaius.” She says, and for a faint second if Cloud looked up he could have seen a brown haired man, sorrow evident in the lines of his face, curl his knuckles around Six’s reaching hand. Cloud saw nothing; but he felt her weight lessen and sublimate; once again he was left with nothing but glitter on his fingers.
Fandom: FFVII
Summary: A five chaptered crossover fic, one chapter per crossover, based around Hojo and Shinra's science department.
Chapter one: Battlestar Galactica/FFVII.
Cloud glares age old defiance as his arms are held behind him at odd angles; the same look he gave Sephiroth, Hojo, even the first drill instructor had received a variant of this look. But this was nothing so benign as discipline.
The woman before him he almost mistook for Scarlett the first time he saw her; same red dress, same blonde hair. It would not have been much of a miracle for every cockroach of a Shinra department to come crawling from their graves; after Rufus’ and Tseng’s miraculous salvation Cloud has come to label few things impossible. But this woman is not of Shinra, not of Gaia, even. She is as cold as the metal soldiers at his back whose blade edged fingers bleed him even after they hold him still.
Psilons they were called, when they made the people aware of them; buzzing and hissing at each other Psilon, as the only word an eavesdropper might discern. As they gathered in the ruins of the Shinra buildings they were thought to be faulty Shinra machines; nothing to worry about; their clockwork would run down soon.
Then, they began to clear out the ruins farther and further into the city. Guns on their arms; Cloud would have almost have thought, Barrett, had not the robots been chrome and cold. They sent in the twice, thrice hero and that had been getting old for years. He saw their brand carved onto their hollow torsos; Cylons, not Psilons.
Blasting his way into the building, even as his materia flickered and died, they closed behind him and around him like a pack of razorblade dogs; the single, red light that shone from their visors blinking over him. Numbers were odds that could bring low every fighter and so they brought Cloud low.
Cloud watched solidly as they snapped First Tsurgi without deliberation; the blade snapped without even the façade of hatred as they marched over it, unhesitating. Cloud would have closed his eyes to thank Holy that he had not brought the Buster with him instead, but for the fact that he would not close his eyes on these creations.
Hojo seemed undying; spiting the living with all of his creations and sickening machinations. Two escort him higher in the building; he is put at the feet of the not-Scarlett.
The woman is defiantly modelled on Scarlett; from the breasts to the sharpness echoed in her almost but not quite human features, right down to the blood coloured dress and the derision in her eyes. “Where is Earth?” she grates at him, literally grates as the metal of one mandible catches an edge on the other.
Defective, then, as all things created by Hojo deteriorate into madness and misuse – this woman, this machine, followed the pattern long predetermined by her creator.
Cloud jabs one of his knees into the layer of grime and dust that has collected onto, he thinks, was once a helicopter landing pad but is now just one more ruin. His abrupt movement digs the cutting digits, of the two more obviously metal things behind him, further into his back; but his intent makes its way across as the muck splatters against the woman’s shoes and ankles. “There,” Cloud spits, “is your earth.”
She does not attempt to clean the mud off of herself; he supposed if he was rusting through as well, he wouldn’t bother either. Instead she mumbles a recitation over and over, about earth and ancestors and the divine. It sounds half like scripture, half like science.
She searches, most likely, for Jenova or the Cetra; it matters little to Cloud for neither exist on Gaia, haven’t done for years. Cloud knows – he decimated both.
(Blame beats inside of him every second; a heartbeat as mechanical as those clockwork hearts in the area with him.)
Cloud can see a half – blurred curl of ink carved into her naked arm; would feel pity but for the fact that she felt it not. It is a number like the one burnt into Sephiroth’s wrist, Cloud’s heel even branded into Nanaki’s shoulder. It is even in the same typeface; all the possibility that the same tool used for him was used for her.
He cannot see, and the waiting game needs to wait a while longer; he asks her her number. Partially curiosity and partially more that he has had too much of rhymes and holy writ thanks to Zack’s memories of Genesis, and Vincent’s whispers of redemption.
She trails from words of God (Sephiroth, Cloud thinks, birthed for divinity.) and creaks out a “Six.” Cloud takes note of the fact that the x is the hardest for her rusting jaws; not pertinent, perhaps, but there.
“The last Six.” She carries on. Cloud ruminates further as he angles his body just so, that she was probably part of a batch – mass produced. The rest had most likely been run down; electricity was no longer running through the old HQ building.
“Earth. Where is Earth?” Six interrupts his thoughts, apparently back to the start of her programming loop. Cloud would engage her again, but he could hear the approach of a slow buzzing that was not emitted from the bodies of any of the machines in the room; humanoid or other. He knows the waiting is over.
Shifting quickly; hand to sleeve, he draws the serrated knife from its sheath and slices wires from one of the Cylon’s helmet – the wire is so soft with age that it folds in on itself, hissing, whilst the Cylon collapses onto him; none of its parts working in tandem.
The second Cylon is taken care of by a few strikes to the back as a huge shuriken slams against it repeatedly; Yuffie rushes to haul the juddering machine off Cloud even as the second Cylon’s headlight winks out. The sounds of Avalanche and the WRO combining against the rest of the Cylons leech through to the rooftop.
Six is wide eyed and moves towards them; whether to fight or to see to her guards Cloud won’t know; a nightstick suddenly protrudes from her chest. Reno, innovative as ever, took the grappling hook over the ledge, rather than follow Yuffie up the stairs and he flicks the switch as the woman gasps, just to be sure. Electricity has an immediate effect and Cloud can see sparks snap between her fingers, her joints and the stench of burnt plastic alerts him to the melting of her skin. But for all that she does not act like a woman, she dies like one.
A few teetering steps forward and she falls – Cloud catches her and there are so many parallels here he can barely stand to think; of bodies with pink dresses and silver hair and why do his enemies choose to die in his arms? Six too, like Kadaj, reaches into empty air; Cloud tries to touch for comfort but she repositions it to empty air. “Gaia,” she says, Cloud thinks, but he is wrong. “Gaius.” She says, and for a faint second if Cloud looked up he could have seen a brown haired man, sorrow evident in the lines of his face, curl his knuckles around Six’s reaching hand. Cloud saw nothing; but he felt her weight lessen and sublimate; once again he was left with nothing but glitter on his fingers.
