Chapter Text
Fact: the reason you can’t remember being a baby is because an infant’s brain is not developed enough to store episodic memories. This is true until roughly two years of age.
Fact: even if you can’t remember them, experiences in your infant and toddler years predispose you to certain psychological states
Fact: when Cloud Strife is born, Sephiroth is ten years old.
Fact: Gaia is not the only entity with enough power to make time travel a reality.
When he opens his eyes, he is both timeless and ten years old. The harsh white lighting of his room ( cell ) stings his retinas, making his cat-slit pupils contract into thin slivers. He inhales deeply, a necessary action for the first time in so very long. The air tastes of mako, antiseptic, and bleach.
The guards didn't ( don't ) watch him through the security cameras all the time. As well-funded as Hojo is, he doesn’t have that many resources to waste. Mostly, whatever bored soldier is on duty stays alert for any sudden movement from him (or the other subjects) and warnings from the monitoring systems. For this reason, they miss the slow, creeping smile that splits his face.
Even if they'd noticed and had the good sense to be alarmed, it wouldn’t have saved them.
He rises from his bed and calmly rips the door from its housing. And really, he thinks as the screaming begins, punctuated by the liquid squelch of tearing flesh and the crunching of bone, what right do they have to complain? They wanted a god, and a god is what they got.
Pity they didn’t have the intelligence to understand that creating a god and controlling a god are two different things.
The pristine white-and-grey of the basement complex is splattered liberally in blood red and mako green by the time he is finished. He works feverishly over the security center in the control room, flecks of blood spotting the monitors as his stained fingers fly over the keys. Hojo’s paranoia and territoriality over his research are working in Sephiroth’s favor: with some minor interference on his part, no one will even suspect the demise of the research team, much less send SOLDIERs to try and “put him down.”
His lips quirk at the thought. How cute.
He straightens from his bowed position, rolling his shoulders. It’s strange to be confined to an actual, mortal form again. He glances down at the white scrubs ( white no longer ) that cover his child’s body, then reaches up and absently picks a chunk of Hojo’s thoracic vertebrae from where it’s tangled in his hair. Well. He has plenty of time to spare. No reason not to shower and change into something more appropriate before moving on to his next task.
“Mother,” Sephiroth croons, laying his hand on the tank. There’s no shrine, not yet, and now not ever. There is merely his Mother, suspended in Hojo’s machinery as the mako siphons through her. No answering whisper sings in his mind, but he looks on fondly nonetheless.
Jenova gave him life. Jenova gave him the power to transcend time itself. And now, he’ll take everything Jenova has to give.
Tainted mako spills out in a hissing wave around his boots as he slashes the tank open with a commandeered broadsword. Her dormant body sags around the machinery like sodden cardboard. He reaches out, pressing one small palm to her decayed cheek in a tender gesture.
Her power becomes his ( again ), and Jenova is no more. He is alone.
But not for long.
Cloud Strife is a pale-skinned infant, fast asleep in a rough wooden cradle. It’s February, so the six-month-old is swathed in Nibel furs against the early spring chill. His eyes, when they flutter open, are an infant’s grey-blue, not yet the bright sapphire they will be. They are certainly not ringed in mako green, shining from the inside like disks of colored glass catching the sun.
There’s no recognition in Cloud’s face as he gazes up at his former equal ( his god, his everything, even if he refuses to admit it ). Of course not, his brain hasn’t yet developed the structures to house his episodic memory, much less rewired itself to accommodate the memories of the man Sephiroth carried all this way. He won’t know ( won’t resist him ) for years yet.
Sephiroth stares down in fascination.
“Good to see you, Cloud,” he murmurs breathlessly, stroking the back of one finger along a downy, baby-pink cheek the way he caresses Masamune’s blunt spine. Cloud blinks sleepily, squirming, and grasps the finger in one tiny hand. His grip is appallingly weak.
“Don’t worry,” Sephiroth croons, freeing his hand to begin bundling his lifelong enemy (sole and eternal equal) into a transportable loaf of baby-and-blankets. “Soon, you’ll be stronger than you ever could have dreamed. Is that not what you’ve always wanted? What you’ve only ever wanted?”
Cloud snuffles as Sephiroth lifts him from the cradle. Even with several sturdy furs, the bundle weighs practically nothing. He can’t resist pushing them away to gaze down into that little, uncomprehending face. “All this for you, Cloud,” he promises in a reverent whisper as those hazy gray eyes blink up at him. “Only ever for you.”
He returns to the labs, easily skirting past the oblivious support staff in the mansion proper before descending back into the basement. Cloud sneezes at the pungent miasma of slowly decaying viscera mixed with acrid mako. Sephiroth strokes an absent hand through baby-fine blond hair as he reads through Hojo’s notes. He can’t afford to make a mistake with this.
In the end, though, it’s simple enough: Sephiroth’s blood, as well as mako laced with his cells, are all he needs to ensure the return of his equal to his side, even if he must wait a few years to see that power grow to full bloom. Cloud will be stronger than ever before, a true challenger even with Sephiroth incarnate and fully possessed of his Mother’s power. The very thought makes his blood sing in anticipation, but he must be patient.
“Soon,” he promises the infant dozing in his arms. Abruptly, he wonders if his ten-year-old body is affecting him more than he assumed it would. He certainly doesn’t remember his adult body ever feeling this… giddy.
No matter. He rips a plexiglass viewing dome from a demolished cage and rigs a makeshift cradle from it, then sets about preparing the injections and calibrating the mako tank ( the same tank that gave him his own enhancements ) for it’s next ( last, tiny ) inhabitant.
When a familiar presence stirs finally ( finally ) to life in the back of his mind, S-cells integrating into the tiny form floating curled-up in the green light of the tank, Sephiroth’s breath catches in his throat. Little blue eyes flutter open behind the full-face breathing mask, just for a moment, meeting his enthralled gaze before sliding shut once more.
Sephiroth decides he’s never seen anything as beautiful as those blue irises ringed with mako green.
ShinRa is easy to fool. As Cloud floats serenely in the mako (drugged to the gills; Sephiroth has long since learned not to underestimate him, even if he is a baby at the moment) he composes fake progress reports, personnel evaluations, budget breakdowns, and requisition forms. The staff in the mansion above are methodically dismissed, replaced by ‘new hires’ that exist solely on paper to fool the company bureaucracy. In six months, only the two time travelers will remain.
The Turks are undoubtedly suspicious at the sudden turnover, but Hojo’s reputation and influence are enough to keep them away. And if they did find out somehow, what could they possibly do? Even in a ten-year-old body, Sephiroth is the most powerful being on the planet. He is exactly where he wants to be and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him.
He trains while he waits, pushing his child’s body to its limits. This, at least, is the same as the first time around. Cloud sleeps, growing and strengthening as the mako and S-cells integrate into him, laying the groundwork for enhancement beyond what even Hojo gave him. Six months pass. The mansion above becomes empty and silent. Supplies, some necessary, some for cover, are dropped off at the gates on weekly intervals. He brings them in at night, sorting and putting them away himself. It’s mundane, but he is a god. Gods don’t get bored.
(The several… inventive… hairstyles he attempts on himself are purely because he wants to and for no other reason.
And also have nothing to do with his decision to cut his hair to his shoulders.)
The first hint that he didn’t quite think everything through in his plan for World Conquest With Cloud At His Side comes in the form of Cloud nearly dying.
It’s alarming, beyond alarming, because at first there seems to be no reason for it. Cloud is fed the same nutritionally complete formula Sephiroth grew up on. The mako levels in his tank are perfectly and precisely calibrated. His muscles and nerves are being stimulated at empirically-determined intervals to develop appropriate muscle tone and provide proprioceptive feedback to his developing nervous system. Sephiroth’s cells have integrated seamlessly into Cloud’s body, as evidenced by the vague but strong connection between their minds.
So why does the child begin to spontaneously waste away like an invalid?
In a fervor, he reviews all the scientific literature on infancy he can get his hands on and comes to the obvious conclusion: he knows absolutely nothing about children.
As it would turn out, providing pro-social tactile stimuli to human children is not optional. Strange (he certainly can't remember anyone touching him outside of combat in his own childhood), but he’s an adaptable sort. He can adjust. Twice a week, he brings Cloud out of the mako and carries him around in a sling for twenty-four hours. According to the studies he read, skin-to-skin contact is the most efficient way of fulfilling minimum touch requirements, so he forgoes a shirt for the duration.
( It is not snuggling. Gods do not snuggle their foes, not even to keep them alive. )
By week two of the new schedule, Sephiroth comes to the very scientific conclusion that babies are soft, warm, and squishy.
Even babies that would otherwise grow up to kill him several times in a row.
He also allows Cloud to regain consciousness on those days, since apparently social interaction with the caregiver is vital to infant neurodevelopment. Cloud is glassy-eyed and distressed at first, but recovers quickly. Still lacking the capacity to hate him, he treats Sephiroth with a baby’s easy and unconditional affection, burbling happily as he chews on his fist and smooshes his cheek against his mortal enemy’s chest.
It makes Sephiroth feel strange inside, but he attributes that to the fact that he is mentally connected to a literal baby. There’s bound to be some strangeness.
Six more months pass. Sephiroth brings Cloud out of the mako tank permanently, guiding him through the process of adjusting to inhuman strength. The toddler’s eyes are half blue, half green, with pupils that elongate at the slightest emotional upset. He wonders if they will become like his, permanently slit, by the time Cloud is grown.
It’s easy to see the nascent traits of Cloud the man in Cloud the toddler. He’s quiet, though not shy. His hair defies all attempts to be tamed. He’s largely pliant and agreeable, but when he digs in his heels even Sephiroth cannot sway him. His tantrums tear metal and shatter glass. If Sephiroth were anyone else, he would have been dead several times over from the toddler’s emotional outbursts.
It pleases him immensely.
Another year passes. Cloud’s memories begin to surface—not enough for conscious recall, no, but enough for night terrors and semi-frequent headaches. Sephiroth spends a lot more time than he anticipated doing the whole ‘gentle tactile stimulation for caregiver bonding’ exercise in order to soothe Cloud’s distress. It’s the only thing that calms the boy down.
( One day, he’ll look back and finally be man enough to admit that he was snuggling his glorious rival. That day is not today. )
Between calming Cloud and training, Sephiroth also teaches his body to summon his wing, returning to him the power of flight. To his surprise, Cloud’s fascinated observation of his practice ends in not one, but two tiny white wings sprouting from the toddler’s back. A proper symmetrical pair, unlike Sephiroth’s single dramatic extra limb. They’re both equally thrilled, all the way up until the moment when Sephiroth realizes that Cloud is now capable of flight.
And can get places he shouldn’t be.
And is too strong to be penned in by mortal means.
Oh no.
Privy to his thoughts, the little demon giggles and takes off, scrambling into one of the smaller duct systems before Sephiroth can stop him. No amount of threatening gets him to come out, and the underdeveloped nature of Cloud’s brain makes it impossible to compel him to obey (a realization Sephiroth is extraordinarily unhappy to come to). The two-and-a-half-year-old is surprisingly stealthy too; the only reason Sephiroth can track his general location through the walls and ceiling is because of their connection.
Six hours later, when Cloud has finally been recovered from the ducts and is soundly asleep on his shoulder, covered in enough dust to make his hair resemble Sephiroth’s, he realizes that maybe, just maybe, despite the fact that he is a god, he may have, possibly, not thought this whole thing through.
Maybe.
“I should have snagged you when you had mako poisoning,” he mutters to the sleeping toddler. Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “And now I have to give you another bath.” He pinches harder. “...and baby-proof the vents.”
Why did he do this again?
...
Right, right, the ultimate victory: winning the planet and Cloud’s (arguably) voluntary compliance at the same time. It will all be worth it in the end.
Probably.
Sephiroth must be very bad at baby-proofing, because Cloud’s forays into the ventilation systems become a semi-regular occurrence. It makes him want to tear his hair out in frustration, but there’s really not much else he can do since Cloud (and him too, he supposes) needs to, you know, breathe.
He tries to ‘operant condition’ Cloud into obeying him about the vents, bribing him with extra sparring time to come out. The little demon just cackles and crawls deeper into the duct system, which is understandable since he likes annoying Sephiroth a lot more than he likes sparring.
Suddenly, Cloud freezes in place. Their mental connection sharpens from the dull haze of a toddler’s thoughts, then splinters with terror before being strangled to near-nothingness on Cloud’s end. Sephiroth pauses in the middle of threatening no dessert for a week, silver brows furrowing. His eyes widen in realization. Cloud’s memories must have finally become fully accessible.
While he’s crawling around in the air ducts.
Where even Sephiroth can’t reach him.
And has SOLDIER strength.
And is also able to fly.
Shit.
An offended screech tears through the ducts: “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!”
Well, sort of. He’s both unused to the new shape of his mouth and quite distressed, so it really sounds more like “WUH DA FUH DI‘OO DO?”
Oh, this is not ideal.
Inspiration strikes. Sephiroth reaches out again, intent on compelling Cloud to obey him now that his adult awareness has returned. Come to me, Cloud, come to me, out of the ducts, get back here you little shit I swear to Mother—
Cloud is having none of it. Incandescently angry and also teetering wildly between the sharp intellect of an adult and the uncontrollable emotion of his toddler body, he throws off Sephiroth’s command with the mental equivalent of a bitch slap. A wordless scream of adult-fueled toddler rage howls through the ducts, along with the mental impression of a lot of swear words and, oddly, a blond man’s face.
He doesn’t know what to make of that last part.
Cloud starts moving again. With the boy doing everything in his power to dampen their connection it’s difficult to track him, but Sephiroth manages after a few false starts. He has to locate and bust down a hidden door, but he finds Cloud out of the vents in a crypt (!?) that he had no idea was there seriously what the fuck Hojo—
He also finds a bewildered-looking man dressed in red being accosted by his boy, both of them sitting in an open coffin. He catches the tail end of whatever Cloud was saying (with surprisingly clear diction, apparently the boy adapts quickly) as he busts in: “—swear Vincent, your demon spawn of a son dragged me back in time, we need to go— ”
“Cloud,” Sephiroth growls, eyeing the man in red (Vincent? He feels like he should remember that name), “you will obey— ” He pauses as Cloud’s words finally register, blinking rapidly. “I—did you just say I’m his son?”
Cloud yelps, scrambling up Vincent’s torso and summarily attaching himself to his back like a feathery blond backpack. “Go! We’ve gotta get out of here!”
“Don’t you dare!” Sephiroth snaps, taking a threatening step forward. It probably doesn’t look that intimidating given that he’s twelve, but he does it anyway. The issue of his suddenly uncertain parentage takes a back seat. “You will not defy me, Cloud!”
Cloud growls like an angry kitten, ducking down until only his furious little eyes poke out over Vincent’s cloak. “Fuck off!”
The red-cloaked man glances back and forth between them as they argue. “What?” he asks plaintively, and is ignored.
“Cloud, come here,” Sephiroth says firmly, “or I will make you come here.”
The blond’s eyes narrow to slivers, slit-pupiled and glowing like embers with the force of his emotions. “Try it, asshole,” he snarls. “I don’t need Vincent’s help to hurt you.”
Sephiroth snorts derisively. “Cloud. You are a toddler. What exactly do you think you could accomplish?”
“Alright, stop, stop,” Vincent interjects, jumping out of the coffin with a grace that even Sephiroth can envy. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why are two unsupervised children arguing in my crypt?”
“I will gladly explain if you give me Cloud first,” Sephiroth says, holding his hands out pointedly.
“He’s a fucking liar! He’d probably just kill you!”
“I’m not stupid enough to kill someone who has even the faintest chance of being my father,” Sephiroth snaps back impatiently. “What, you think I want to be related to Hojo? I killed the man first chance I got!”
Vincent blinks. “Wait. Sephiroth?”
“Yes?”
Silence hangs awkwardly between them for a moment. Vincent suddenly looks dazed, as if he fit the last piece of a puzzle together and was promptly decked in the face for his efforts “I...think I need to sit down for a moment.”
Cloud groans in defeat.
Naginamini tagged this as Cloud "after he realizes Vincent is not on his side" and that made me cry-laugh so that's the caption we're going with
