OC-centric fic
Jun. 4th, 2008 02:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladybug_archiveFor some time I've been working on a fic to explain how Azazel Rakesh escaped alive when he was buried in the avalanche in Another Simple Mission. I keep putting it aside and then taking it up again. Recently I took it up and found that it kept coming. I always wanted it to be a character study and exploration, and it's definitely become that. Since the only characters in it are two OCs of mine, and canon is only mentioned in passing, I'm not posting it to FF.net. Possibly it would be of interest to some people here who otherwise don't follow my FF7 stuff, but I don't know. I rarely write any kind of OC fic, as most here know, and I'm rather proud of this.
A note on the names, based on information from http://www.20000-names.com :
Gunju = an African Ganda name meaning "wild cat"
Azazel = a Hebrew name meaning "the scapegoat"
If anyone knows Hebrew, I'd be interested in knowing the correct pronunciation of his name. I say "uh-ZAY-zul", but I might be totally murdering it. XD;
EDIT: Apparently if I watched Supernatural, I'd know how to pronounce it. Haha. Amusing. **has never been interested in that show.**
Their family name Rakesh is a Hindi name meaning "lord of the night", if anyone wants to know. They're such colorful villains.
Amid the Falling Snow
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are mine and so is the story. While the characters are OCs for my FF7 verse, the focus in this story is solely on them, with only passing references to canon. Therefore, I do not attach the "FF7" label to the title. It takes place during my story Another Simple Mission, but knowledge of that story's contents is not necessary. For some time I have wondered how Azazel got out of his predicament, and I have wanted to write this. Thanks to Kaze and Lisa for plot help! I really like how the brothers' characters, more especially Azazel's, have been fleshed out by this project.
All around him there was only snow.
He was slumped forward within it, his head resting on his left shoulder. His right arm was clutched to his chest for some reason; he was too dazed to remember why. The powder was covering him as a cold and deadly blanket, going completely over his head without his permission. Only his left hand hung limply out of the covering, where new snowflakes pelted the glove as well as the strip of bare flesh between the wrist and the beginning of the tan coat's sleeve.
Screams . . . the firing of a gun . . . an angry chocobo. . . . The memories were scattered, flitting in and out of his semi-conscious mind. There had been an avalanche, and a cliff. . . . He had fallen over the edge, only to be caught by the roaring force of the loosened snow and carried to the bottom with it. Was he really buried alive now? Maybe it was a bad dream. He was lucid enough to process some thought, but he had struck his head somewhere on the way down. That would account for the throbbing as well as for the lack of incentive to move.
But . . . he had to move, didn't he? Otherwise he would not survive. Yet even that scenario could not revive him enough so that he would fight for his freedom. If it was a bad dream, there was no need to do anything. After a while he would awaken somewhere safe and all would be fine. However, if it was not a bad dream . . .
Something else touched his hand---something that was not another snowflake. But this was cool also---downright icy---and there was something about it that sent a chill into his very bloodstream. The fingers curled. It was enough to rouse him a good deal.
"Brother?"
Brother . . . so he was delirious now. That was the only explanation that made sense. His brother was . . .
"You've gotten yourself into such a mess, Brother." The smirking tones were obvious. "But you aren't that far below the top. Take your hand and dig yourself out."
So now phantoms were telling him what to do. This would be something to think about once he was out of the snow. But for now the solution sounded worth following. He really was trapped. And he would suffocate if he did not do something.
Raising his hand, he twisted it around to feel for the nearby snow. There it was. Should he dig above himself, or in front of himself? He brushed away some of the powder in close proximity to his hand. That was easy enough. A pocket of air was forming now. He gasped, drawing in the oxygen. The welcome air rushed into his mouth so quickly that he choked. Strange, that he had not realized how depleted his supply was until he was greeted by it again.
"Good. You are listening to me, then. Come out the rest of the way."
He half-wanted to pass a hand over his aching eyes. But his left hand was occupied and his right . . . he could not seem to move his right. There was some kind of numbness present, nearly cutting off any sense of pain. It must be because of the cold. Maybe his hand was badly frost-bitten. Yet he could still feel something. Something was wrong, something was . . . missing? His hand should be there. But when he looked down, barely able to see from the thin stream of light, there was only blood around the edge of the coat sleeve. Nothing was visible beyond it. His eyes widened.
"Yes, the Shinra dog cut off your hand. If you can make it through this storm to find civilization, you'll have to see about a replacement."
This really was getting ludicrous. Of course, he remembered that now. There had been a battle, and Sephiroth had been forced to sever the man's hand when he had drawn a gun and fired at the SOLDIER General and his friend. But his brother could not know about it. His brother would not know about anything, ever again.
Using his left arm as support, he pushed himself forward against the hole. It crumbled and he was able to emerge while snow fell and stuck in his stringy black hair. Now he was kneeling amid the heavily-packed dendritic crystals, shuddering, his eyes staring at the whiteness ahead of him and yet not seeing it. And he was not alone. He could sense it.
He raised his gaze to find himself looking in a mirror---a translucent mirror. His twin brother was smirking down at him, his arms crossed over his blue prison guard's uniform. The proof of his delirious state.
"This is how I know I must have a concussion," he said. "You died three weeks ago."
"And how ingenious of you, to use my body to lead the Shinra dogs on this mad chase. Though that suit looks much better on you than me."
"I've always said that you're the sadist and I'm the . . ." He stopped, frowning. Hallucinations were not supposed to talk back. It must be even worse than he had thought. Either that, or . . .
"I promised I would haunt you if I died, didn't I?" the spectre grinned.
"I was foolish enough to think you were kidding."
He still was not sure what to believe. Maybe it was real, as indicated, or maybe it was nothing more than his own sick mind. Everything had been quite a shock. It would not be inconceivable that he could imagine up such a delusion. His brother had been in his thoughts of late, after all---both with his death and the plan to use his body to involve the SOLDIERs in Broken Circle's goals. It could have all been perfect. If only they could have found the Compass. That was the key to everything.
"You still don't believe I'm real, do you?" The ghost came closer, walking around the other in a slow, methodical circle. "You think it's all because of this." He reached out, hitting the tender part of the living man's head with the palm of his hand. But with him being a spirit, nothing was felt other than another icy sensation.
"I always tried to be scientific." Even so, he was continuing this conversation. And he was watching the spectre's every move. He would feel ridiculous if this was all in his mind. Not that anyone would ever know what had happened. He would never tell.
"Azazel Rakesh, the scapegoat, disbeliever of the paranormal," smirked the phantom.
"That's a big word for Gunju Rakesh, the wildcat, underachiever at school," Azazel said.
"I'm not as illiterate as all that." Gunju gave a mock bow. "Books never interested me, yet I did learn from them."
He straightened up again. "But! I do know a lot about wounds," he said. "And being out in the cold, with a possible concussion and a definite missing hand, is not good for your health."
"Even I'm aware of that, without all the studying you must have done on the subject," Azazel retorted. "What do you suggest I do? Cauterize the wound with a Fire materia?" He was only half-sarcastic. Gunju was a masochist as well as a sadist, and in Azazel's position he probably would have done it.
"That could be interesting," Gunju smiled, "if you'd have the stomach for it. And the materia."
Azazel frowned. "You're enjoying this, aren't you."
Gunju shrugged. "I just wonder how you're going to handle it. And to find civilization. Maybe you'll end up joining me instead."
"Oh wonderful." Azazel pulled his right arm further into the coat sleeve, reaching with his left hand to close over the edges. He was already dizzy from the blood loss. Or maybe that was the headache. Or even both. And there were no other living humans in sight. Becoming a ghost might not be so far-fetched.
"If you've been scouting around the area for a while, then you should know if there's anywhere I can go," he said.
"There's an old man up near the Northern Crater," Gunju answered. "Of course we're not terribly close to it, but I've heard that the man goes out looking for people lost in the snow. He might wander over here."
"I can't depend on that," Azazel retorted. "I'll have to start walking."
"Then I'll keep you company," Gunju smiled.
Azazel began to get up. He blinked away the spots in front of his eyes, but they promptly returned. This would be interesting, as Gunju would say. He might not make it very far before hypothermia would start to set in---if it had not begun already. His left hand was beginning to feel somewhat numb.
And he would have to hold his right arm up to stop the flow of bleeding. Though the chill temperatures had brought it to a halt for the time being, he would not take any chances on it starting again. Interesting, that that fact could save him from bleeding to death, while at the same time the cold could kill him if he remained out in it too long.
It was more comfortable to keep that arm raised anyway. Maybe it was mostly psychological, but he felt better to be able to see what was happening with it at all times. He brought it close to his chest. When he got back to where it was warm, he would likely feel the full force of the pain. He was not looking forward to that.
"Is the afterlife very dull?" he wondered. This was a partial display of how he was attempting to accept this, he supposed. He would not be asking something like this if he believed it was all in his head. And he was idly curious.
"I wouldn't know." Gunju smirked. "They kicked me out."
Azazel gave him a flat look. ". . . Why doesn't that surprise me."
"Why should it?"
". . . Touché."
Gunju had no trouble in keeping up as Azazel began to stumble through the snow. "You sound so weary, Brother," he observed. "Are you tired of me already?"
Azazel shook his head. "I'm just thinking how you never change."
"That would be so boring. The whole reason you recommended me to Dalton was because I couldn't keep a job anywhere."
"And look where it's gotten you." Azazel's look was withering. "Dalton was a bad influence. You and he took your hatred of Shinra much too far."
Gunju shrugged. "You hate them too, Brother," he said. "You're the one who provided the weapons for us in Dismal."
"That doesn't mean I wanted you to destroy the entire town, yourselves included." Azazel frowned. "Death is the easy way out. If you're going to do something, arrange it so that you'll be alive afterwards."
"It doesn't always work that way. Sephiroth would have killed me---I just decided to beat him to it. I wasn't going to let myself die at the hands of a Shinra dog."
Azazel just sighed. Gunju's wild nature had always been a problem. For a time, he had tried to work at Broken Circle, but Azazel had soon realized the folly of such a decision. Gunju could not stay still for five minutes in an office or in a manufacturing plant. He had no interest in making weapons; he just wanted to use them. When Dalton had mentioned needing assistance at the desert prison, Azazel had determined that it would be perfect for Gunju. But he was not going to think himself responsible for Gunju's death because of that.
His expression turned to annoyance. "In spite of Dalton's influence, you made your own decision in the end," he said. "You let your own foolishness kill you."
"You think like a businessman, not like a zealot," Gunju commented.
"That's why Broken Circle has been successful," Azazel answered. "If you'd been running it, it would have gone to Hell years ago."
Gunju smirked.
His ice-blue eyes narrowed as he watched his brother stumble. Hypothermia had started to set in some time ago, though Azazel did not seem to realize it. But he had been shivering much less and staggering much more. He would have to be forced to keep talking. And it should be a question that would require a good deal of concentration.
"Brother, what do you think of Dalton?"
Azazel blinked in surprise, looking over at his twin. Gunju's expression betrayed none of his feelings. It had seemed to be an idle query.
"What do I think of him?" Azazel repeated.
Gunju nodded. "You were in contact with him for some time before I met him," he said.
Azazel stared down at the snow. Maybe it would be easier to keep walking straight if he was watching where he was going. His steps blurred before him, doubling the longer he looked. He looked away, shutting his eyes. That had not been a help at all.
Remembering Gunju's inquiry, he opened his eyes as he looked over at the other. Gunju was still watching, expectant.
". . . As I said, he's a bad influence on you," Azazel said at last. "But . . . he has excellent business sense and I respect him for that. I always found him to be a sharp and cunning man."
"And he thinks highly of you, as well," Gunju said. "At times he feels that you're too cautious, yet he also realizes the prudence of such behavior . . . under certain circumstances, anyway."
"Which is more than can be said for you," Azazel frowned.
"You're too critical, Brother." Gunju smirked. "I can be cautious when I wish it."
"But not with your life, it seems."
Azazel staggered again. In desperation he clawed at the air with his left hand, struggling for balance. His fingers were barely willing to bend. Frowning, he forced himself to straighten up and stand amid the white. He would attempt a test. Staring at his hand, he fought to move his little finger down to touch his thumb, as well as to bring his thumb to meet it halfway. It should be a simple task, but it was not working. They would not move that far. For hypothermia to be this advanced, how long had he been laying under the snow? And how long had he been walking? It had not seemed a long time in one way, but in another it was an eternity.
"Keep moving."
Azazel knew he had to; when he could go no further was when he would surely die. And unlike Gunju, he desired to live more than anything else. Being held captive in a Shinra prison would have been abhorrent, but he would prefer it over death. Either he could have served his sentence or else planned an escape. Dalton seemed to be intending the former. Though he had planned to end his own life as Gunju had done, now that he was still alive he was going to make use of it.
Azazel raised a foot out of the snow, but it did not go very far. Instead it sank into the powder again. Maybe he would have to resort to a near-shuffle to travel. He would still be moving, but he would not have to struggle with the almost impossible task of keeping his feet on top of the powder. In this way he began to press forward once more. The snow protested, grabbing as it were to hold him back. For now he would just try to ignore it.
And would he ignore his brother's ghost too? Some part of his mind was still insisting that this was delirium and he should not pay attention to it. The conversation was only making him irritated.
He had been furious when the news had reached Broken Circle that Dismal had been conquered by SOLDIERs. But what had angered him more was that the mayor of the town had attempted to blow up the entire village, taking himself and the other citizens with it. Gunju had been in on the plan, and had been going to further it, but upon being defeated by the General his detonation device had been taken from him. Then he had thrust himself over a balcony railing to deliberately end it all.
Azazel still remembered the mixed emotions when the double agents had delivered his brother's body, which they had stolen from the SOLDIERs at Dismal. For a long time he had stood, staring down at the battered form. Blood had coated the torn clothing and flesh from where the sword wounds had been inflicted, and more of the crimson substance had been upon the thin lips, evidence of the internal injuries. The neck had been shattered from the fall. The fact that Gunju had been smirking even in death was not surprising, but it had served to fuel Azazel's feelings.
"So! This was what your wild behavior led to, was it?" he had cried at long last. "I should have known better than to send you somewhere like Dismal. I should have known Dalton was a fanatic and he would only serve to influence you to new extremes." And he had paced the floor as a caged animal.
Perhaps he only lied to himself. Perhaps, at least to some extent, he did hold himself responsible. The final decision had been Gunju's, of course---but he might have not made the decision had he not been put in such a situation. Azazel had been furious at everyone involved---Gunju, Dalton, the SOLDIERs . . . and himself. A mere three weeks later, those feelings had not changed.
He rarely lost his temper as he had done during the battle with Sephiroth and Zack. That had been his undoing and had placed him in this situation. He could have inadvertently killed himself. And he still might die because of his foolishness. Had he lost his cool because of the emotions raging in his soul? If so, the only difference between his fate and Gunju's was that Gunju had meant to do what he had done to himself.
But that was still a galactic difference.
"You seem bitter," Gunju commented, bringing him back to the present.
Azazel frowned. "Bitter that my brother committed suicide when he knew that Sephiroth had him beaten, and is now a wandering spirit? Yes, maybe I am," he shot back.
Gunju shrugged. "We had different ideas of priorities. Do you honestly think I would have lasted a week in prison, Brother?"
Azazel sighed in exasperation. "Not likely, no. Unless you rallied other inmates to your side and initiated a breakout. You could have done it, you know. Many in the prisons despise Shinra, as we do."
"Yes," Gunju mused, "I suppose I could have, at that. But I didn't think of it at the time; if Sephiroth had spared my life, which I doubt, I would have needed weeks of recovery in the prison hospital."
"As demeaning as that would have been, you still would have been alive."
It also angered him that Gunju took it all in stride. It did not seem to bother him in the least that he no longer existed on the mortal plane. If the incident had repeated, he would have done the same thing again.
"Why does it bother you so much?" Gunju asked. "You couldn't have stopped me if you had been there."
"That's exactly why it bothers me," Azazel retorted. "No one can contain you. You live up to your name in the fullest sense of the term."
"And you, Brother, do you consider yourself the scapegoat then?" Gunju mused.
Azazel opened his mouth to retort, but closed it again. No, it was not him alone. Perhaps he had made everyone the scapegoat for Gunju's mistake. Or perhaps that was also untrue and all of them actually were responsible to certain degrees. Right now he could not think clearly, because of his anger or the cold or both.
"I don't know," he said at last. If one truly was at fault, even if only in part, they would not be a scapegoat, would they?
"Would you be as angry if Sephiroth had killed me instead?"
And that was not something he knew, either. In that scenario, he would have probably held more anger towards Sephiroth than he did, and yet that would really be illogical. Gunju had initiated the fight between them, and of course Sephiroth would have to defend himself. Maybe Azazel still would have been mostly angry at Gunju, for allowing himself to be drawn so deeply into the mess. He and Dalton still would have been prepared to detonate the entire village.
"You still would have planned to end your life, even if Sephiroth had ended it for you," he said then.
"Guilty as charged." Gunju frowned more. Azazel was swaying now, sometimes only barely able to keep himself from collapsing. Soon even making him discuss these topics would not be enough to keep him awake and aware.
"What if that hadn't been an issue at all?" he suggested. "What if we had never planned to blow up Dismal and I had not killed myself upon defeat?"
". . . No, I wouldn't be as angry then." Azazel looked at his brother. "I hate that you threw your life away."
"I don't really know what to tell you," Gunju said. "It's already done."
"How well I know. And I hate that you're so nonchalant about it." Somewhere in the back of his mind, Azazel wondered what on earth he was doing. It was not like him to blurt out anything like this. But he had been so on edge ever since he had learned of his brother's suicide. Screaming at Gunju's dead body had not been good enough---not that yelling at his spirit was much better. What did he even hope to accomplish? Gunju would never change, as both of them knew too well, and it was too late for that, anyway.
"There wouldn't be much point in reacting some other way, would there?"
Azazel was silent for a long moment, concentrating on making his way across the current snowdrift. It was sloping upward, and that was going to be a challenge in his current condition. He could hardly keep walking straight as it was, without trying to go uphill now. He struggled to bring his left arm out in front of him as he plowed ahead. Maybe he would be able to make it without trouble. The ground was starting to slope where he was moving. It was not that steep, but in his condition it was still not good. He stumbled, grabbing in desperation at the tightly packed snow. But then he slowly straightened up. He would continue to struggle forward. That was all he could do---just keep going.
He staggered, his sense of balance vanishing altogether. He could not fall! If he hit the ground it was not likely that he would be able to get up again. Using his left arm was impossible, but he flailed in desperation as he slammed into the side of the snowdrift. Now it was all that was supporting him. Holding out his useless arm for equilibrium, he fought to get his feet under him again. He was not ready to crawl. That was too close to collapsing, and his arms could not support him.
Somehow he managed to stand, though it was a mystery as to how he had accomplished it. He pressed forward, his hair blowing wildly into his face as he stumbled into the wind. Trying to reach up and brush it aside was pointless; his hand was so numb that he could not even feel when it touched his hair.
Now he was coming to the top. But as he stared out at the terrain through the flying pieces of hair, he was not pleased. Other, higher snowdrifts were visible in the distance. It was enough to make him feel sickened. There was not an end in sight. Suddenly it all seemed impossible.
He shut his eyes in frustration. ". . . You've always been so selfish, Gunju," he muttered, not even certain why he was saying it. Was it because of Gunju's suicide? Or just a general statement?
"And you haven't been?"
Azazel opened his eyes, focusing on a point not far from where he was standing. He would concentrate on getting there right now. Then he would make another small goal for himself. Perhaps in that way he would be able to cover a lot more ground. And he would have to take the snowdrifts as they came. There was not a way around them.
He took a step forward. "I didn't say that."
They were both selfish people. Dalton, too. He knew that quite well. They could preach all they wanted about how Shinra was wicked and they wanted to topple it, but Azazel was not so sure that their intentions were any better than Shinra's. At least not his own; he did not like Shinra's monopoly of the planet because he himself wanted more control over it. And Gunju certainly was not the type to fight for anyone other than himself. He truly abhorred Shinra and SOLDIER, but very little of that loathing came because he was outraged over their treatment of the people in general; he had mostly been furious over how he and Azazel had been oppressed when they had lived in the slums of Midgar. He had committed acts just as bad, or worse, than SOLDIER.
And Dalton . . . Dalton was a mystery, really. Azazel suspected that sometime long ago Dalton had begun his quest with a determination to do what he felt was the right thing, but that he had become corrupted by his own power. Maybe that was what happened to anyone in such a position, even if they had worthwhile goals at the start.
Azazel's had always been selfish. He had just wanted to get ahead in the world. Because he and Gunju had grown up poor, he had determined that they would not always live like that. Once he had secured a job, he had used his smarts and cunning to get into ever higher positions at Broken Circle until at last he had bought enough shares of company stock to take it over. And that was not enough for him; he wanted more.
The SOLDIERs spoke of how they wanted to make the world better, but many of them, if not most, were selfish too. Many desired power---to be First Class, to be as good as General Sephiroth---and many others, mostly the young recruits, wanted adventure and heroism. But even wanting to be a hero was not necessarily a selfless goal. Many wished for that because of the recognition and praise they would get for it. In some way, Sephiroth's open rejection of being called a hero made Azazel respect him. Sephiroth knew what his goals were and did not pretend; he just wanted to survive, and he did not want to be praised for it. And if he did do something to help someone, he did not feel that he should be honored for that, either---since lending assistance was what should be being done in the first place.
Somehow, while Azazel had been doing all of this thinking, he had managed to climb another snowdrift and advance to the next one. But the third did not intend to let him pass. He only succeeded in ascending part of the way.
Now everything was beginning to go out of focus. Azazel paused, blinking to try and rid himself of the double vision. He wanted to raise his left hand and rub at his eyes, but it would not move. And the longer he stayed still, the more his legs seemed to refuse cooperation as well. He struggled to push his left leg forward. It slid several inches in the snow and hit what felt like a rock. His already-shaky equilibrium vanished altogether as he plunged headfirst into the white, unable to do anything to stop his descent.
It was odd, that the snow did not feel icy against his face when he crashlanded. Was this what he had been trying to escape? Such foolishness. It would not harm him. It would be easy to lay here for some time, even to sleep, before getting up again. A rest would refresh and revitalize him so that he would be able to continue the journey without so many hindrances.
What was he thinking? If he went to sleep now, he would never wake up. He really would join Gunju. And that was not what he wanted.
He concentrated, forcing the remainder of his energy into his legs. If he could get to his knees at least, he could crawl for another distance. But maybe it would all be for naught anyway. Maybe there was no one to help him.
Even crawling would be impossible. His legs had become rubber. He was only able to raise half out of the snow before collapsing into it again.
"Brother. Get up!"
Forming words was another near-impossibility. He could think of what he wanted to say, but his mouth did not want to obey. But at last his lips parted. "I've tried," he retorted. He was barely able to understand himself. Would it make any sense to Gunju? "I didn't think you'd mind . . . if I joined you." What nonsense he was spewing.
"No . . . I wouldn't especially mind," Gunju agreed. "But as I said, our priorities are different." He came closer to the fallen form. "And it would be difficult to haunt you if you were with me."
"This is true." Azazel stared blankly at the snow. It was swirling across his line of vision, taunting and tormenting him. So, was this his end? He would slip into unconsciousness and then death, while his brother, or his delusion, or whatever it was, looked on, unable to do a thing about it? And Sephiroth and his friend . . . had they survived the avalanche? If so, it was not likely that they would come through this storm. That was a satisfying thought, at least. If he had to die, he would take them down with him, one way or another.
"You really need to stay awake, Brother."
Even keeping his eyes open was becoming futile. ". . . Entertain me," he said, without really thinking about it.
"Hmm . . . without a victim, or without you able to reply to what I say, that could prove difficult." Gunju mulled over the matter. "I could tell about how I 'punished' the first inmates to act up in the prison once I became the guard."
Azazel really did not care for tales of Gunju's acts of sadism. But maybe it would be so shocking he would be forced to stay awake. "Fine," he mumbled.
"Well," Gunju began, "as you know, Dalton was having quite a time getting them to cooperate, which is when you recommended me. And once I arrived, I immediately assessed the problem. There were not enough guards and not enough harsh punishments to keep them in line. Dalton is an excellent strategist, but not so well-versed in physical combat. He can hold his own, of course, but not against all of the men rising in rebellion. And he was concerned it would come to that.
"I have to say I'm quite proud of the fact that the electropoles were my idea. Dalton was intrigued by the concept, and that's when he sent out to Broken Circle to have them made. I put them to good use as soon as the shipment came. Two of the men were brawling, disrupting life in the prison, and the other men were enjoying this new spectator sport.
"Suddenly I was there in their midst, stabbing the electropole between the two fighters. Their screams of surprise and agony rent the air as the electricity was channeled into their pathetic forms. Gradually I increased the voltage, watching as they writhed in anguish. They were such whimpering cowards, really, even though they professed such bravery. It was so pleasing, to tear away their facades and expose them as the frightened puppies they were. Some of the other inmates tried to move forward to stop me, but the other guards stopped them with electropoles of their own."
Gunju's story continued, describing in detail how he had tortured the brawlers until they were unconscious from the electricity. For a time Azazel focused on it, deplorable as it was, but even that was drifting from his senses. Now his brother was speaking through a dense fog, his voice growing farther away. The world around Azazel was becoming dim, the whirling snow fading into the darkness. The sounds were slipping into a void too. Instead of hearing Gunju through the fog, now even a mumble was barely discernible.
Until he abruptly pushed his way through again.
"Brother! You aren't listening."
But Azazel could not even manage a retort. He sank into the darkness.
****
The crackling fire was the first sound to meet his ears. The flames of Hell, if there was such a place? It did not feel as though the blaze had reached him. Or maybe he was still too numb from the hypothermia to feel it. Would a spirit continue to endure the pains of the body, even if only in the mind? He would have to ask Gunju sometime.
He forced his eyes open. The flames were across from him, behind the safety grate of a fireplace. To the side was a window, through which the snow could still be seen coming down. The walls were made of wood, giving the room a rustic look. And he appeared to be laying in a bed.
Then he was not dead after all. A confused frown came over his features. Where was he?
"Are you awake, Brother?"
He turned his head to the other side. Gunju was standing next to the bed, his arms crossed. So it seemed that unless Azazel had taken leave of his senses altogether, seeing Gunju had not been a delusional manifestation of his own unsettled soul. He was not certain whether that was a comfort or not.
Instead he decided that it would be a good time to test his voice. ". . . How did I get here?" His voice was rasping, a great difference from the usual smooth tones he prided himself on for business purposes.
"I decided to go looking for that old man myself after you passed out," Gunju said. "After all, there wouldn't have been much point staying with you then."
". . . And you found him?"
Gunju nodded with a smirk. "He didn't even seem that surprised to see me," he said. "He greeted me in a very congenial manner and didn't think twice about my current state." He gestured at his translucent form. "So instead of wasting time trying to haunt him I said that my brother had fainted out in the snow and needed assistance. And I mentioned about the missing hand."
At the reminder, Azazel's gaze traveled to his right arm, which was laying on top of the covers. It was heavily bandaged at the wrist, though crimson was still sneaking through the gauze. Only now, as he was fully waking up, were the pain and the strange sensations filling his awareness. He had been too deeply affected by the hypothermia before. His right hand had been dominant; without it he would have to train himself to use his left.
He had not completely processed the reality while in the snow, and it still seemed almost unreal in a way---that his hand was gone. The throbbing and the thousand imaginary needles in his wrist testified to the fact, but seeing the bandaging was what drove it into his mind. And he did not intend to get used to the stump. He would acquire a prosthetic hand. The technology was good enough now that he might even be able to get one wired into his nerves, one that would be able to feel and distinguish things just as a real hand could.
"Apparently he's quite skilled with his medical knowledge," Gunju said, breaking into Azazel's thoughts. "He kept you from dying. And you were very far gone by the time we got back." He smirked again. "Of course, your resilience played a large part in your survival as well. The man wasn't sure if you were alive, but I was certain that if you were dead, I would know it."
"You would." Azazel let his gaze scan the room. "How long has it been?"
A shrug. "A day or two, maybe more. You've had a rough time of it, but I imagine it's now safe to say you will be fine." Gunju gave his brother a sidelong glance. "And Sephiroth has officially reported you to SOLDIER as missing and probably dead."
The name was not surprising to hear, but Azazel did not appreciate it anyway. "So he survived then."
"Yes, both he and Commander Fair are alive. But I believe the more pressing question now is, What will you do?"
". . . It will be a good thing," Azazel mused, pushing aside his frustration. "I will lay low for a while. You can visit Dalton and find out what his plans are, and let him know about me. Once his sentence is up, or once he manages to escape, we can decide further how to topple Shinra."
Gunju nodded. "But won't it drive you mad, to not have work to do?"
"I can always create another Broken Circle. Meanwhile . . ." Azazel frowned at his right wrist. "I'm going to have to learn to manage with one hand until I'm recovered enough to leave here. Then I can dip into some of my savings and pay for a prosthetic."
"True," Gunju said. "Well, one thing is certain---life, and death, won't be dull any time soon."
Azazel studied him. "I'm guessing you'll be haunting me all the time now?"
"Of course, when I'm not haunting Dalton," Gunju smirked. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Not really." Undoubtedly it would be irritating at times, especially if Gunju decided to prank him in poltergeist fashion, but Gunju had seen to it that Azazel had the chance to survive, so he supposed he could not be too annoyed. Besides, it would be nice enough to not be alone while he was in hiding.
Maybe. When the person was Gunju, that was debatable.
". . . Do you recall any of what we discussed in the snow?" Gunju wondered.
Azazel frowned. Somewhere in his mind he had vague recollections of blurting out more than he had wanted. The hypothermia had loosened his tongue. "Some," he said.
"You seem to have issues over my . . . current state of being," Gunju said.
". . . It isn't so much that as it is how you came to be in that state," Azazel retorted. He did not want to discuss this right now. He was too weary. What was done, was done, no matter how much he disliked it. And talking about it would get them nowhere, especially with Gunju's attitude.
For once Gunju backed down, merely giving a shrugging gesture. He did not find it a necessary topic, either; he had only delved into it before to keep Azazel awake. And since Azazel was logical, he would already know that he would have to get over his feelings eventually, or at least to push them to the side. No matter how difficult it was, he would do it.
Silence reigned.
". . . I just have one question," Azazel said then.
"Oh?"
He gave Gunju a withering look. "Would you have really stayed to haunt the old man if he had been disturbed by you?"
Gunju blinked before an amused smile crept over his features. "Naturally," he replied then, his own tone mimicking Azazel's smooth style. "I would have haunted him into listening to me."
Azazel let out a sigh. "Of course," he said.
Gunju was right---it would not be dull.
I really want to write a shorter fic where Azazel finally meets Dalton again after Meteor, and greets him by punching him in the jaw. XD; I keep thinking that Azazel will not have the closure he wants until he meets with Dalton again.
A note on the names, based on information from http://www.20000-names.com :
Gunju = an African Ganda name meaning "wild cat"
Azazel = a Hebrew name meaning "the scapegoat"
If anyone knows Hebrew, I'd be interested in knowing the correct pronunciation of his name. I say "uh-ZAY-zul", but I might be totally murdering it. XD;
EDIT: Apparently if I watched Supernatural, I'd know how to pronounce it. Haha. Amusing. **has never been interested in that show.**
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are mine and so is the story. While the characters are OCs for my FF7 verse, the focus in this story is solely on them, with only passing references to canon. Therefore, I do not attach the "FF7" label to the title. It takes place during my story Another Simple Mission, but knowledge of that story's contents is not necessary. For some time I have wondered how Azazel got out of his predicament, and I have wanted to write this. Thanks to Kaze and Lisa for plot help! I really like how the brothers' characters, more especially Azazel's, have been fleshed out by this project.
All around him there was only snow.
He was slumped forward within it, his head resting on his left shoulder. His right arm was clutched to his chest for some reason; he was too dazed to remember why. The powder was covering him as a cold and deadly blanket, going completely over his head without his permission. Only his left hand hung limply out of the covering, where new snowflakes pelted the glove as well as the strip of bare flesh between the wrist and the beginning of the tan coat's sleeve.
Screams . . . the firing of a gun . . . an angry chocobo. . . . The memories were scattered, flitting in and out of his semi-conscious mind. There had been an avalanche, and a cliff. . . . He had fallen over the edge, only to be caught by the roaring force of the loosened snow and carried to the bottom with it. Was he really buried alive now? Maybe it was a bad dream. He was lucid enough to process some thought, but he had struck his head somewhere on the way down. That would account for the throbbing as well as for the lack of incentive to move.
But . . . he had to move, didn't he? Otherwise he would not survive. Yet even that scenario could not revive him enough so that he would fight for his freedom. If it was a bad dream, there was no need to do anything. After a while he would awaken somewhere safe and all would be fine. However, if it was not a bad dream . . .
Something else touched his hand---something that was not another snowflake. But this was cool also---downright icy---and there was something about it that sent a chill into his very bloodstream. The fingers curled. It was enough to rouse him a good deal.
"Brother?"
Brother . . . so he was delirious now. That was the only explanation that made sense. His brother was . . .
"You've gotten yourself into such a mess, Brother." The smirking tones were obvious. "But you aren't that far below the top. Take your hand and dig yourself out."
So now phantoms were telling him what to do. This would be something to think about once he was out of the snow. But for now the solution sounded worth following. He really was trapped. And he would suffocate if he did not do something.
Raising his hand, he twisted it around to feel for the nearby snow. There it was. Should he dig above himself, or in front of himself? He brushed away some of the powder in close proximity to his hand. That was easy enough. A pocket of air was forming now. He gasped, drawing in the oxygen. The welcome air rushed into his mouth so quickly that he choked. Strange, that he had not realized how depleted his supply was until he was greeted by it again.
"Good. You are listening to me, then. Come out the rest of the way."
He half-wanted to pass a hand over his aching eyes. But his left hand was occupied and his right . . . he could not seem to move his right. There was some kind of numbness present, nearly cutting off any sense of pain. It must be because of the cold. Maybe his hand was badly frost-bitten. Yet he could still feel something. Something was wrong, something was . . . missing? His hand should be there. But when he looked down, barely able to see from the thin stream of light, there was only blood around the edge of the coat sleeve. Nothing was visible beyond it. His eyes widened.
"Yes, the Shinra dog cut off your hand. If you can make it through this storm to find civilization, you'll have to see about a replacement."
This really was getting ludicrous. Of course, he remembered that now. There had been a battle, and Sephiroth had been forced to sever the man's hand when he had drawn a gun and fired at the SOLDIER General and his friend. But his brother could not know about it. His brother would not know about anything, ever again.
Using his left arm as support, he pushed himself forward against the hole. It crumbled and he was able to emerge while snow fell and stuck in his stringy black hair. Now he was kneeling amid the heavily-packed dendritic crystals, shuddering, his eyes staring at the whiteness ahead of him and yet not seeing it. And he was not alone. He could sense it.
He raised his gaze to find himself looking in a mirror---a translucent mirror. His twin brother was smirking down at him, his arms crossed over his blue prison guard's uniform. The proof of his delirious state.
"This is how I know I must have a concussion," he said. "You died three weeks ago."
"And how ingenious of you, to use my body to lead the Shinra dogs on this mad chase. Though that suit looks much better on you than me."
"I've always said that you're the sadist and I'm the . . ." He stopped, frowning. Hallucinations were not supposed to talk back. It must be even worse than he had thought. Either that, or . . .
"I promised I would haunt you if I died, didn't I?" the spectre grinned.
"I was foolish enough to think you were kidding."
He still was not sure what to believe. Maybe it was real, as indicated, or maybe it was nothing more than his own sick mind. Everything had been quite a shock. It would not be inconceivable that he could imagine up such a delusion. His brother had been in his thoughts of late, after all---both with his death and the plan to use his body to involve the SOLDIERs in Broken Circle's goals. It could have all been perfect. If only they could have found the Compass. That was the key to everything.
"You still don't believe I'm real, do you?" The ghost came closer, walking around the other in a slow, methodical circle. "You think it's all because of this." He reached out, hitting the tender part of the living man's head with the palm of his hand. But with him being a spirit, nothing was felt other than another icy sensation.
"I always tried to be scientific." Even so, he was continuing this conversation. And he was watching the spectre's every move. He would feel ridiculous if this was all in his mind. Not that anyone would ever know what had happened. He would never tell.
"Azazel Rakesh, the scapegoat, disbeliever of the paranormal," smirked the phantom.
"That's a big word for Gunju Rakesh, the wildcat, underachiever at school," Azazel said.
"I'm not as illiterate as all that." Gunju gave a mock bow. "Books never interested me, yet I did learn from them."
He straightened up again. "But! I do know a lot about wounds," he said. "And being out in the cold, with a possible concussion and a definite missing hand, is not good for your health."
"Even I'm aware of that, without all the studying you must have done on the subject," Azazel retorted. "What do you suggest I do? Cauterize the wound with a Fire materia?" He was only half-sarcastic. Gunju was a masochist as well as a sadist, and in Azazel's position he probably would have done it.
"That could be interesting," Gunju smiled, "if you'd have the stomach for it. And the materia."
Azazel frowned. "You're enjoying this, aren't you."
Gunju shrugged. "I just wonder how you're going to handle it. And to find civilization. Maybe you'll end up joining me instead."
"Oh wonderful." Azazel pulled his right arm further into the coat sleeve, reaching with his left hand to close over the edges. He was already dizzy from the blood loss. Or maybe that was the headache. Or even both. And there were no other living humans in sight. Becoming a ghost might not be so far-fetched.
"If you've been scouting around the area for a while, then you should know if there's anywhere I can go," he said.
"There's an old man up near the Northern Crater," Gunju answered. "Of course we're not terribly close to it, but I've heard that the man goes out looking for people lost in the snow. He might wander over here."
"I can't depend on that," Azazel retorted. "I'll have to start walking."
"Then I'll keep you company," Gunju smiled.
Azazel began to get up. He blinked away the spots in front of his eyes, but they promptly returned. This would be interesting, as Gunju would say. He might not make it very far before hypothermia would start to set in---if it had not begun already. His left hand was beginning to feel somewhat numb.
And he would have to hold his right arm up to stop the flow of bleeding. Though the chill temperatures had brought it to a halt for the time being, he would not take any chances on it starting again. Interesting, that that fact could save him from bleeding to death, while at the same time the cold could kill him if he remained out in it too long.
It was more comfortable to keep that arm raised anyway. Maybe it was mostly psychological, but he felt better to be able to see what was happening with it at all times. He brought it close to his chest. When he got back to where it was warm, he would likely feel the full force of the pain. He was not looking forward to that.
"Is the afterlife very dull?" he wondered. This was a partial display of how he was attempting to accept this, he supposed. He would not be asking something like this if he believed it was all in his head. And he was idly curious.
"I wouldn't know." Gunju smirked. "They kicked me out."
Azazel gave him a flat look. ". . . Why doesn't that surprise me."
"Why should it?"
". . . Touché."
Gunju had no trouble in keeping up as Azazel began to stumble through the snow. "You sound so weary, Brother," he observed. "Are you tired of me already?"
Azazel shook his head. "I'm just thinking how you never change."
"That would be so boring. The whole reason you recommended me to Dalton was because I couldn't keep a job anywhere."
"And look where it's gotten you." Azazel's look was withering. "Dalton was a bad influence. You and he took your hatred of Shinra much too far."
Gunju shrugged. "You hate them too, Brother," he said. "You're the one who provided the weapons for us in Dismal."
"That doesn't mean I wanted you to destroy the entire town, yourselves included." Azazel frowned. "Death is the easy way out. If you're going to do something, arrange it so that you'll be alive afterwards."
"It doesn't always work that way. Sephiroth would have killed me---I just decided to beat him to it. I wasn't going to let myself die at the hands of a Shinra dog."
Azazel just sighed. Gunju's wild nature had always been a problem. For a time, he had tried to work at Broken Circle, but Azazel had soon realized the folly of such a decision. Gunju could not stay still for five minutes in an office or in a manufacturing plant. He had no interest in making weapons; he just wanted to use them. When Dalton had mentioned needing assistance at the desert prison, Azazel had determined that it would be perfect for Gunju. But he was not going to think himself responsible for Gunju's death because of that.
His expression turned to annoyance. "In spite of Dalton's influence, you made your own decision in the end," he said. "You let your own foolishness kill you."
"You think like a businessman, not like a zealot," Gunju commented.
"That's why Broken Circle has been successful," Azazel answered. "If you'd been running it, it would have gone to Hell years ago."
Gunju smirked.
His ice-blue eyes narrowed as he watched his brother stumble. Hypothermia had started to set in some time ago, though Azazel did not seem to realize it. But he had been shivering much less and staggering much more. He would have to be forced to keep talking. And it should be a question that would require a good deal of concentration.
"Brother, what do you think of Dalton?"
Azazel blinked in surprise, looking over at his twin. Gunju's expression betrayed none of his feelings. It had seemed to be an idle query.
"What do I think of him?" Azazel repeated.
Gunju nodded. "You were in contact with him for some time before I met him," he said.
Azazel stared down at the snow. Maybe it would be easier to keep walking straight if he was watching where he was going. His steps blurred before him, doubling the longer he looked. He looked away, shutting his eyes. That had not been a help at all.
Remembering Gunju's inquiry, he opened his eyes as he looked over at the other. Gunju was still watching, expectant.
". . . As I said, he's a bad influence on you," Azazel said at last. "But . . . he has excellent business sense and I respect him for that. I always found him to be a sharp and cunning man."
"And he thinks highly of you, as well," Gunju said. "At times he feels that you're too cautious, yet he also realizes the prudence of such behavior . . . under certain circumstances, anyway."
"Which is more than can be said for you," Azazel frowned.
"You're too critical, Brother." Gunju smirked. "I can be cautious when I wish it."
"But not with your life, it seems."
Azazel staggered again. In desperation he clawed at the air with his left hand, struggling for balance. His fingers were barely willing to bend. Frowning, he forced himself to straighten up and stand amid the white. He would attempt a test. Staring at his hand, he fought to move his little finger down to touch his thumb, as well as to bring his thumb to meet it halfway. It should be a simple task, but it was not working. They would not move that far. For hypothermia to be this advanced, how long had he been laying under the snow? And how long had he been walking? It had not seemed a long time in one way, but in another it was an eternity.
"Keep moving."
Azazel knew he had to; when he could go no further was when he would surely die. And unlike Gunju, he desired to live more than anything else. Being held captive in a Shinra prison would have been abhorrent, but he would prefer it over death. Either he could have served his sentence or else planned an escape. Dalton seemed to be intending the former. Though he had planned to end his own life as Gunju had done, now that he was still alive he was going to make use of it.
Azazel raised a foot out of the snow, but it did not go very far. Instead it sank into the powder again. Maybe he would have to resort to a near-shuffle to travel. He would still be moving, but he would not have to struggle with the almost impossible task of keeping his feet on top of the powder. In this way he began to press forward once more. The snow protested, grabbing as it were to hold him back. For now he would just try to ignore it.
And would he ignore his brother's ghost too? Some part of his mind was still insisting that this was delirium and he should not pay attention to it. The conversation was only making him irritated.
He had been furious when the news had reached Broken Circle that Dismal had been conquered by SOLDIERs. But what had angered him more was that the mayor of the town had attempted to blow up the entire village, taking himself and the other citizens with it. Gunju had been in on the plan, and had been going to further it, but upon being defeated by the General his detonation device had been taken from him. Then he had thrust himself over a balcony railing to deliberately end it all.
Azazel still remembered the mixed emotions when the double agents had delivered his brother's body, which they had stolen from the SOLDIERs at Dismal. For a long time he had stood, staring down at the battered form. Blood had coated the torn clothing and flesh from where the sword wounds had been inflicted, and more of the crimson substance had been upon the thin lips, evidence of the internal injuries. The neck had been shattered from the fall. The fact that Gunju had been smirking even in death was not surprising, but it had served to fuel Azazel's feelings.
"So! This was what your wild behavior led to, was it?" he had cried at long last. "I should have known better than to send you somewhere like Dismal. I should have known Dalton was a fanatic and he would only serve to influence you to new extremes." And he had paced the floor as a caged animal.
Perhaps he only lied to himself. Perhaps, at least to some extent, he did hold himself responsible. The final decision had been Gunju's, of course---but he might have not made the decision had he not been put in such a situation. Azazel had been furious at everyone involved---Gunju, Dalton, the SOLDIERs . . . and himself. A mere three weeks later, those feelings had not changed.
He rarely lost his temper as he had done during the battle with Sephiroth and Zack. That had been his undoing and had placed him in this situation. He could have inadvertently killed himself. And he still might die because of his foolishness. Had he lost his cool because of the emotions raging in his soul? If so, the only difference between his fate and Gunju's was that Gunju had meant to do what he had done to himself.
But that was still a galactic difference.
"You seem bitter," Gunju commented, bringing him back to the present.
Azazel frowned. "Bitter that my brother committed suicide when he knew that Sephiroth had him beaten, and is now a wandering spirit? Yes, maybe I am," he shot back.
Gunju shrugged. "We had different ideas of priorities. Do you honestly think I would have lasted a week in prison, Brother?"
Azazel sighed in exasperation. "Not likely, no. Unless you rallied other inmates to your side and initiated a breakout. You could have done it, you know. Many in the prisons despise Shinra, as we do."
"Yes," Gunju mused, "I suppose I could have, at that. But I didn't think of it at the time; if Sephiroth had spared my life, which I doubt, I would have needed weeks of recovery in the prison hospital."
"As demeaning as that would have been, you still would have been alive."
It also angered him that Gunju took it all in stride. It did not seem to bother him in the least that he no longer existed on the mortal plane. If the incident had repeated, he would have done the same thing again.
"Why does it bother you so much?" Gunju asked. "You couldn't have stopped me if you had been there."
"That's exactly why it bothers me," Azazel retorted. "No one can contain you. You live up to your name in the fullest sense of the term."
"And you, Brother, do you consider yourself the scapegoat then?" Gunju mused.
Azazel opened his mouth to retort, but closed it again. No, it was not him alone. Perhaps he had made everyone the scapegoat for Gunju's mistake. Or perhaps that was also untrue and all of them actually were responsible to certain degrees. Right now he could not think clearly, because of his anger or the cold or both.
"I don't know," he said at last. If one truly was at fault, even if only in part, they would not be a scapegoat, would they?
"Would you be as angry if Sephiroth had killed me instead?"
And that was not something he knew, either. In that scenario, he would have probably held more anger towards Sephiroth than he did, and yet that would really be illogical. Gunju had initiated the fight between them, and of course Sephiroth would have to defend himself. Maybe Azazel still would have been mostly angry at Gunju, for allowing himself to be drawn so deeply into the mess. He and Dalton still would have been prepared to detonate the entire village.
"You still would have planned to end your life, even if Sephiroth had ended it for you," he said then.
"Guilty as charged." Gunju frowned more. Azazel was swaying now, sometimes only barely able to keep himself from collapsing. Soon even making him discuss these topics would not be enough to keep him awake and aware.
"What if that hadn't been an issue at all?" he suggested. "What if we had never planned to blow up Dismal and I had not killed myself upon defeat?"
". . . No, I wouldn't be as angry then." Azazel looked at his brother. "I hate that you threw your life away."
"I don't really know what to tell you," Gunju said. "It's already done."
"How well I know. And I hate that you're so nonchalant about it." Somewhere in the back of his mind, Azazel wondered what on earth he was doing. It was not like him to blurt out anything like this. But he had been so on edge ever since he had learned of his brother's suicide. Screaming at Gunju's dead body had not been good enough---not that yelling at his spirit was much better. What did he even hope to accomplish? Gunju would never change, as both of them knew too well, and it was too late for that, anyway.
"There wouldn't be much point in reacting some other way, would there?"
Azazel was silent for a long moment, concentrating on making his way across the current snowdrift. It was sloping upward, and that was going to be a challenge in his current condition. He could hardly keep walking straight as it was, without trying to go uphill now. He struggled to bring his left arm out in front of him as he plowed ahead. Maybe he would be able to make it without trouble. The ground was starting to slope where he was moving. It was not that steep, but in his condition it was still not good. He stumbled, grabbing in desperation at the tightly packed snow. But then he slowly straightened up. He would continue to struggle forward. That was all he could do---just keep going.
He staggered, his sense of balance vanishing altogether. He could not fall! If he hit the ground it was not likely that he would be able to get up again. Using his left arm was impossible, but he flailed in desperation as he slammed into the side of the snowdrift. Now it was all that was supporting him. Holding out his useless arm for equilibrium, he fought to get his feet under him again. He was not ready to crawl. That was too close to collapsing, and his arms could not support him.
Somehow he managed to stand, though it was a mystery as to how he had accomplished it. He pressed forward, his hair blowing wildly into his face as he stumbled into the wind. Trying to reach up and brush it aside was pointless; his hand was so numb that he could not even feel when it touched his hair.
Now he was coming to the top. But as he stared out at the terrain through the flying pieces of hair, he was not pleased. Other, higher snowdrifts were visible in the distance. It was enough to make him feel sickened. There was not an end in sight. Suddenly it all seemed impossible.
He shut his eyes in frustration. ". . . You've always been so selfish, Gunju," he muttered, not even certain why he was saying it. Was it because of Gunju's suicide? Or just a general statement?
"And you haven't been?"
Azazel opened his eyes, focusing on a point not far from where he was standing. He would concentrate on getting there right now. Then he would make another small goal for himself. Perhaps in that way he would be able to cover a lot more ground. And he would have to take the snowdrifts as they came. There was not a way around them.
He took a step forward. "I didn't say that."
They were both selfish people. Dalton, too. He knew that quite well. They could preach all they wanted about how Shinra was wicked and they wanted to topple it, but Azazel was not so sure that their intentions were any better than Shinra's. At least not his own; he did not like Shinra's monopoly of the planet because he himself wanted more control over it. And Gunju certainly was not the type to fight for anyone other than himself. He truly abhorred Shinra and SOLDIER, but very little of that loathing came because he was outraged over their treatment of the people in general; he had mostly been furious over how he and Azazel had been oppressed when they had lived in the slums of Midgar. He had committed acts just as bad, or worse, than SOLDIER.
And Dalton . . . Dalton was a mystery, really. Azazel suspected that sometime long ago Dalton had begun his quest with a determination to do what he felt was the right thing, but that he had become corrupted by his own power. Maybe that was what happened to anyone in such a position, even if they had worthwhile goals at the start.
Azazel's had always been selfish. He had just wanted to get ahead in the world. Because he and Gunju had grown up poor, he had determined that they would not always live like that. Once he had secured a job, he had used his smarts and cunning to get into ever higher positions at Broken Circle until at last he had bought enough shares of company stock to take it over. And that was not enough for him; he wanted more.
The SOLDIERs spoke of how they wanted to make the world better, but many of them, if not most, were selfish too. Many desired power---to be First Class, to be as good as General Sephiroth---and many others, mostly the young recruits, wanted adventure and heroism. But even wanting to be a hero was not necessarily a selfless goal. Many wished for that because of the recognition and praise they would get for it. In some way, Sephiroth's open rejection of being called a hero made Azazel respect him. Sephiroth knew what his goals were and did not pretend; he just wanted to survive, and he did not want to be praised for it. And if he did do something to help someone, he did not feel that he should be honored for that, either---since lending assistance was what should be being done in the first place.
Somehow, while Azazel had been doing all of this thinking, he had managed to climb another snowdrift and advance to the next one. But the third did not intend to let him pass. He only succeeded in ascending part of the way.
Now everything was beginning to go out of focus. Azazel paused, blinking to try and rid himself of the double vision. He wanted to raise his left hand and rub at his eyes, but it would not move. And the longer he stayed still, the more his legs seemed to refuse cooperation as well. He struggled to push his left leg forward. It slid several inches in the snow and hit what felt like a rock. His already-shaky equilibrium vanished altogether as he plunged headfirst into the white, unable to do anything to stop his descent.
It was odd, that the snow did not feel icy against his face when he crashlanded. Was this what he had been trying to escape? Such foolishness. It would not harm him. It would be easy to lay here for some time, even to sleep, before getting up again. A rest would refresh and revitalize him so that he would be able to continue the journey without so many hindrances.
What was he thinking? If he went to sleep now, he would never wake up. He really would join Gunju. And that was not what he wanted.
He concentrated, forcing the remainder of his energy into his legs. If he could get to his knees at least, he could crawl for another distance. But maybe it would all be for naught anyway. Maybe there was no one to help him.
Even crawling would be impossible. His legs had become rubber. He was only able to raise half out of the snow before collapsing into it again.
"Brother. Get up!"
Forming words was another near-impossibility. He could think of what he wanted to say, but his mouth did not want to obey. But at last his lips parted. "I've tried," he retorted. He was barely able to understand himself. Would it make any sense to Gunju? "I didn't think you'd mind . . . if I joined you." What nonsense he was spewing.
"No . . . I wouldn't especially mind," Gunju agreed. "But as I said, our priorities are different." He came closer to the fallen form. "And it would be difficult to haunt you if you were with me."
"This is true." Azazel stared blankly at the snow. It was swirling across his line of vision, taunting and tormenting him. So, was this his end? He would slip into unconsciousness and then death, while his brother, or his delusion, or whatever it was, looked on, unable to do a thing about it? And Sephiroth and his friend . . . had they survived the avalanche? If so, it was not likely that they would come through this storm. That was a satisfying thought, at least. If he had to die, he would take them down with him, one way or another.
"You really need to stay awake, Brother."
Even keeping his eyes open was becoming futile. ". . . Entertain me," he said, without really thinking about it.
"Hmm . . . without a victim, or without you able to reply to what I say, that could prove difficult." Gunju mulled over the matter. "I could tell about how I 'punished' the first inmates to act up in the prison once I became the guard."
Azazel really did not care for tales of Gunju's acts of sadism. But maybe it would be so shocking he would be forced to stay awake. "Fine," he mumbled.
"Well," Gunju began, "as you know, Dalton was having quite a time getting them to cooperate, which is when you recommended me. And once I arrived, I immediately assessed the problem. There were not enough guards and not enough harsh punishments to keep them in line. Dalton is an excellent strategist, but not so well-versed in physical combat. He can hold his own, of course, but not against all of the men rising in rebellion. And he was concerned it would come to that.
"I have to say I'm quite proud of the fact that the electropoles were my idea. Dalton was intrigued by the concept, and that's when he sent out to Broken Circle to have them made. I put them to good use as soon as the shipment came. Two of the men were brawling, disrupting life in the prison, and the other men were enjoying this new spectator sport.
"Suddenly I was there in their midst, stabbing the electropole between the two fighters. Their screams of surprise and agony rent the air as the electricity was channeled into their pathetic forms. Gradually I increased the voltage, watching as they writhed in anguish. They were such whimpering cowards, really, even though they professed such bravery. It was so pleasing, to tear away their facades and expose them as the frightened puppies they were. Some of the other inmates tried to move forward to stop me, but the other guards stopped them with electropoles of their own."
Gunju's story continued, describing in detail how he had tortured the brawlers until they were unconscious from the electricity. For a time Azazel focused on it, deplorable as it was, but even that was drifting from his senses. Now his brother was speaking through a dense fog, his voice growing farther away. The world around Azazel was becoming dim, the whirling snow fading into the darkness. The sounds were slipping into a void too. Instead of hearing Gunju through the fog, now even a mumble was barely discernible.
Until he abruptly pushed his way through again.
"Brother! You aren't listening."
But Azazel could not even manage a retort. He sank into the darkness.
The crackling fire was the first sound to meet his ears. The flames of Hell, if there was such a place? It did not feel as though the blaze had reached him. Or maybe he was still too numb from the hypothermia to feel it. Would a spirit continue to endure the pains of the body, even if only in the mind? He would have to ask Gunju sometime.
He forced his eyes open. The flames were across from him, behind the safety grate of a fireplace. To the side was a window, through which the snow could still be seen coming down. The walls were made of wood, giving the room a rustic look. And he appeared to be laying in a bed.
Then he was not dead after all. A confused frown came over his features. Where was he?
"Are you awake, Brother?"
He turned his head to the other side. Gunju was standing next to the bed, his arms crossed. So it seemed that unless Azazel had taken leave of his senses altogether, seeing Gunju had not been a delusional manifestation of his own unsettled soul. He was not certain whether that was a comfort or not.
Instead he decided that it would be a good time to test his voice. ". . . How did I get here?" His voice was rasping, a great difference from the usual smooth tones he prided himself on for business purposes.
"I decided to go looking for that old man myself after you passed out," Gunju said. "After all, there wouldn't have been much point staying with you then."
". . . And you found him?"
Gunju nodded with a smirk. "He didn't even seem that surprised to see me," he said. "He greeted me in a very congenial manner and didn't think twice about my current state." He gestured at his translucent form. "So instead of wasting time trying to haunt him I said that my brother had fainted out in the snow and needed assistance. And I mentioned about the missing hand."
At the reminder, Azazel's gaze traveled to his right arm, which was laying on top of the covers. It was heavily bandaged at the wrist, though crimson was still sneaking through the gauze. Only now, as he was fully waking up, were the pain and the strange sensations filling his awareness. He had been too deeply affected by the hypothermia before. His right hand had been dominant; without it he would have to train himself to use his left.
He had not completely processed the reality while in the snow, and it still seemed almost unreal in a way---that his hand was gone. The throbbing and the thousand imaginary needles in his wrist testified to the fact, but seeing the bandaging was what drove it into his mind. And he did not intend to get used to the stump. He would acquire a prosthetic hand. The technology was good enough now that he might even be able to get one wired into his nerves, one that would be able to feel and distinguish things just as a real hand could.
"Apparently he's quite skilled with his medical knowledge," Gunju said, breaking into Azazel's thoughts. "He kept you from dying. And you were very far gone by the time we got back." He smirked again. "Of course, your resilience played a large part in your survival as well. The man wasn't sure if you were alive, but I was certain that if you were dead, I would know it."
"You would." Azazel let his gaze scan the room. "How long has it been?"
A shrug. "A day or two, maybe more. You've had a rough time of it, but I imagine it's now safe to say you will be fine." Gunju gave his brother a sidelong glance. "And Sephiroth has officially reported you to SOLDIER as missing and probably dead."
The name was not surprising to hear, but Azazel did not appreciate it anyway. "So he survived then."
"Yes, both he and Commander Fair are alive. But I believe the more pressing question now is, What will you do?"
". . . It will be a good thing," Azazel mused, pushing aside his frustration. "I will lay low for a while. You can visit Dalton and find out what his plans are, and let him know about me. Once his sentence is up, or once he manages to escape, we can decide further how to topple Shinra."
Gunju nodded. "But won't it drive you mad, to not have work to do?"
"I can always create another Broken Circle. Meanwhile . . ." Azazel frowned at his right wrist. "I'm going to have to learn to manage with one hand until I'm recovered enough to leave here. Then I can dip into some of my savings and pay for a prosthetic."
"True," Gunju said. "Well, one thing is certain---life, and death, won't be dull any time soon."
Azazel studied him. "I'm guessing you'll be haunting me all the time now?"
"Of course, when I'm not haunting Dalton," Gunju smirked. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Not really." Undoubtedly it would be irritating at times, especially if Gunju decided to prank him in poltergeist fashion, but Gunju had seen to it that Azazel had the chance to survive, so he supposed he could not be too annoyed. Besides, it would be nice enough to not be alone while he was in hiding.
Maybe. When the person was Gunju, that was debatable.
". . . Do you recall any of what we discussed in the snow?" Gunju wondered.
Azazel frowned. Somewhere in his mind he had vague recollections of blurting out more than he had wanted. The hypothermia had loosened his tongue. "Some," he said.
"You seem to have issues over my . . . current state of being," Gunju said.
". . . It isn't so much that as it is how you came to be in that state," Azazel retorted. He did not want to discuss this right now. He was too weary. What was done, was done, no matter how much he disliked it. And talking about it would get them nowhere, especially with Gunju's attitude.
For once Gunju backed down, merely giving a shrugging gesture. He did not find it a necessary topic, either; he had only delved into it before to keep Azazel awake. And since Azazel was logical, he would already know that he would have to get over his feelings eventually, or at least to push them to the side. No matter how difficult it was, he would do it.
Silence reigned.
". . . I just have one question," Azazel said then.
"Oh?"
He gave Gunju a withering look. "Would you have really stayed to haunt the old man if he had been disturbed by you?"
Gunju blinked before an amused smile crept over his features. "Naturally," he replied then, his own tone mimicking Azazel's smooth style. "I would have haunted him into listening to me."
Azazel let out a sigh. "Of course," he said.
Gunju was right---it would not be dull.
I really want to write a shorter fic where Azazel finally meets Dalton again after Meteor, and greets him by punching him in the jaw. XD; I keep thinking that Azazel will not have the closure he wants until he meets with Dalton again.
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Date: 2008-06-04 09:47 am (UTC)And, oh, the angst! The two brothers, pretty much fighting/argueing the entire way, and Gunju finally saves him. And, ah! That accounts for Yugi-tachi noticing the fake hand!
Now I want to read "Another Simple Mission"!
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Date: 2008-06-04 09:54 am (UTC)Yeah, those two and their interaction. On good days, they banter. On bad days, they argue. I tried to capture both. ^^
Azazel and his fake hand. ^^ Yeah, he got it when they were still on Gaia. It's first mentioned in A Simple Mission in Triplicate, the first FF7 fic where Dalton and the Rakeshes are on Earth.
Just a Simple Mission should probably be read first, since it's the first in the trilogy. ^^ Then Another Simple Mission and Triplicate follow, in that order. The other day I was thinking of writing A Simple Mission Two and a Half, continuing things in Another Simple Mission somehow. I probably wouldn't, though, because I deliberately left things with closure and yet some things unsolved in Another Simple Mission, and they don't get sorted out until Triplicate.
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Date: 2008-06-04 11:04 pm (UTC)How do you pronounce Azazel, then? I think I've been pronouncing it differently. XD; And now I'm wondering if Gunju and Rakesh are pronounced in some different way, even though they seem pretty straightforward. XD
LOL. Closure for Azazel will be punching Dalton. XD **wonders which hand he'd use.** I think you should definitely write that fic! It would really be interesting to see the confrontation between the two.
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Date: 2008-06-05 12:09 am (UTC)Haha, being kicked out of the afterlife is an old joke Aubrie and I used in RPs. X3 It always amuses me.
I have no idea. XD; I just looked up "azazel" and found that there's a Supernatural villain called that. Apparently some demon. Maybe I could look up some clip from the show and they'd pronounce it.
I say Gunju with a long O, ("GOON-ju"), but my mom says GUNju. I dunno which is right. XD Rakesh is ... I dunno how to demonstrate, because every way I've thought of displaying the pronunciation could be read in different ways. XD; Um ... oh. "Ra" like radish/A like apple, and then "kish." LOL.
I just had a thought, though: since they're on another planet, the names might be pronounced differently than on Earth. I could probably pronounce them any way I like, even if by Earth standards it's wrong. LOL.
Buwahaha. XD **has this image of Azazel going, "Welcome back. **punch!** And Dalton stumbling back over a chair and both him and it toppling to the floor.
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Date: 2008-06-05 02:03 am (UTC)LOL. I've been saying GUNju, and then for Rakesh.... I've been either saying "Ra" like you do, or "Ra" as in the Egyptian sun god. XD And then just "kesh."
**and just noticed that she can't seem to settle on a clear pronunciation.** XD; Or maybe I'm just pronouncing things halfway between the two options, and that's why I can't decide.... **ponders.**
LOL. I agree with that! So are those the official pronunciations then?
LOL. Did he really topple over the chair, too?
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Date: 2008-06-05 02:08 am (UTC)**amused at Rakesh being pronounced like the Sun god.**
They might be! Though I still want to know the real Earth pronunciations.
Yep. XD So he's laying on top of the chair on the floor.
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Date: 2008-06-05 03:04 am (UTC)**nods.** Yeah, me too! It would be nice to know at least.
LOL. "Nice to see you, too, Azazel." XD
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Date: 2008-06-05 03:23 am (UTC)**snickers.**
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Date: 2008-06-05 03:19 am (UTC)I just love how surreal this is from beginning to end, especially the bits about Azazel's hand (or lack thereof). The way you described it was just so spine-tingling. X3
And I love, love, LOVE the idea of Dalton starting out with good intentions. That would make for some amazing fic.
Huh, I've always said it "ah-zah-ZEL". And "GOON-ju". I wonder how you're supposed to say it... XD
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Date: 2008-06-05 03:28 am (UTC)I should tinker with something exploring Dalton sometime. X3 **did that a bit in The Fruits of Jealousy, but he's still such an enigma.**
I'm with you on the GOON-ju. X3 Very interesting pronunciation of Azazel! Maybe I'll have to go try to find a Supernatural clip where they say it. XD;