Mako Reactor

I respectfully credit all Original Creators, namely Squaresoft, which became SquareEnix,for these characters. In this way, I pay homage to my Fandom's Original Creator, and illustrate my Community's belief that Fan Fiction is "fair use". I do not claim to own these characters. I do not make money or gil from using these protected characters, nor do I wish to make money or gil from them. In other words, I am borrowing these characters to entertain the adult fanfiction community, but I am doing so with the highest degree of respect to the engineers, game designers, music makers, voice actors.




Bitten by rabid plot bunny while attempting to finish Paper Tiger Burning. I make no apologies for the bunny.

AU applies here. Vincent Valentine is not a vampire, but he has demons to feed. I took the characters at gunpoint.

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“Hey, Hojo,” Strife said, ambling up to my spot before the fire.

I looked at him. He amazed me. Even after months of reparation and regret, of penance and atonement, the only one to accept my presence was this clone. The others avoided me like the plague. Not Strife. After the initial blow-up and week of mistrust, he’d taken me at my word. My crimes against him apparently didn’t withstand his forgiving nature.

I wished I had that sort of spirit. I had it on good authority this merciful mindset remained the key to happiness and longevity.

“Strife,” I greeted. I returned to cleaning my gun. I had to tend to this now. I possessed no other armaments in my arsenal. After taking that dunk in the ocean, we all counted fewer weapons. I acutely missed my little black box of drugs and supplements.

“You didn’t eat,” he said after a moment, sitting beside me.

“I don’t eat very much,” I grunted, pulling the wadding from the barrel of the hand cannon. The thought of eating with the people who despised me made my stomach churn. A long time ago it wouldn’t have mattered. I felt very accustomed to hatred. Now, my heart and my mind sensitive, I recoiled from the experience.

“You don’t sleep very much, either,” he commented.

“I’ve been insomniatic for fifty years, at least,” I replied.

“That long?” Strife pulled out his canteen and took a long swig from it.

“That long.” I stared through the barrel, satisfied with the cleanliness. I oiled the weapon, loaded it and tucked it back into my holster. “It’s hard to sleep when you’re insane.”

“You aren’t crazy now.” Strife took a pack of cigarettes from his shoulder pocket and shook two free. “Smoke?”

I accepted gratefully. “How did you keep these out of the salt water?” I asked, lighting up.

“I always keep my cigs in a waterproof bag, along with emergency matches and such.” Strife lit his cigarette as well, inhaling like an addict who only got to smoke a few times a day. “Tifa complains about the smell of tobacco, so I rarely indulge. Still, every now and then I just want that poison, you know?”

I knew all about wanting poison.

“I fully grasp the concept,” I said dryly.

We sat in silence a few minutes. Strife finished his smoke first, having shot-gunned it. “We take the plains tomorrow,” he announced. “After that we’ll march a few days and camp in Scissor Woods.”

“And after?” I inquired.

“After, we take down the Shin-Ra encampment.” Strife paused to light up again. “It’s a mobile military camp. I expect we’ll find medical supplies.”

“This is of note to you?” I asked.

“Yes.” Strife paused again. His brilliant blue eyes sought the darkening sky. “Vincent is sick.”

I glanced at the somber, red-caped ex-Turk. His black hair and red bandanna obscured most of his face. As always, he looked entirely pale and vampiric to me. His pallor and droop suggested mako depletion. Though not vampiric, he fed vampiric life forms, which amounted to the same thing; bloodlust. I doubted he knew it, but Lucretia introduced mako into his system as a way of easing the introduction of demons.

I’d watched him for weeks now, but I’d missed his illness.

“What are his symptoms?’ I asked.

“Lethargy, decreased strength, disorientation,” Strife recited. “His aim is off. He’s listless and uninterested in what goes on around him.”

All perfectly congruent with mako depletion…

“He speaks to you of his ailments?” I inquired.

“When I push,” Strife answered. “Vincent doesn’t say a lot under the best of circumstances.” He turned his head to look at me. “Why? Can you help him?”

“I might be able to help,” I said softly, considering what I would have to do. I had enough mako in my bodily fluids to help him, but the idea horrified me. He’d stolen my wife, fucked her, and then ruined her to ever return to me. I loathed him. I’d done my best to kill him, and then locked him away for all eternity.

Too bad eternity came a lot sooner than I imagined.

“I thought you lost your bag of tricks,” Strife said. His blue eyes evaluated me calmly.

“I did,” I answered. “But, I’m full of mako, Strife. I have even more than you.”

“You can’t do a blood transfusion here,” he replied. His eyes slowly widened as he caught my line of thought. “No,” he said. “He would never.”

“No, he probably wouldn’t.” I stirred the fire, my hands shaking. “That suits me fine. I wouldn’t either.”

Granted, Valentine had enough sexual charisma to make such a task less than onerous. Still, he had demons in him. Not for a minute did I think I could overpower him, fuck him, and let the mako do its work. The man was not submissive. I’d have to beat him half to death to accomplish my task. I simply didn’t care enough about him to make all that work worth the while.

Strife sighed. “We march in the morning,” he announced, standing. “Let me know if you come up with something.”

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We walked all day. I detested this slogging, physical effort. While we walked I watched Valentine, noticing what his friends noticed.

He was sick.

He stumbled, sweated blood and fought badly. His aim suffered so badly he fired a round into Strife while we fought a Marlboro. At the end of the day he took himself off and away from everyone else, sitting alone, his pale forehead emitting waxen water.

Strife approached me again.

“Vincent is falling,” he said, sitting beside me. He offered me a smoke and I took it gladly. “I’m not one to push, but I think he needs help before we reach Scissor Woods.”

“What do you want me to do?” I snapped.

“I want you to help him,” Strife said calmly.

“Fine, but the sort of help I can give Valentine will be intrusive at best and violating at worst.”

“I know that.” Strife took a long drag and looked at me. “He already hates you, Hojo. What else could you do to make it worse?”

“Have you ever had a cock up your ass, Strife?” I hissed. “Ever swallowed another man’s semen?” I pulled my cloak up around my shoulders tightly. “Until you can tell me you have, leave it. To some men, death is better than that sort of thing.”

Strife smiled sadly. “Vincent is not ready to die.” He stubbed out his smoke and looked at me. “He’s weak right now. If you’re going to help, do it soon.”

“Strife,” I said, summoning patience. “Valentine fucked my wife, not me. And, I’m not a rapist. Of all the things I’ve done, rape is not in that count.”

Strife nodded. His blue, blue eyes went to the sky. “I know,” he said gently. “But, Hojo, you’re the only one here with the needed mako and the required temperament. You’re a hard son of a bitch, practical and bloodless. You’re the only one that can fix Vincent.” He lit another cigarette and sighed. “Vincent won’t lie down and take it. I’m his friend. I have mako, but not enough.”

I looked at him. His earnest cobalt eyes and compassion caved me. I clenched my fists, feeling Jenova and mako stir…

“Vincent is too proud, too strong to take a remedy like this,” Strife continued. “I couldn’t wrestle him to the ground and fuck him,” he said bluntly. “I couldn’t even get it up for that. You could.”

“You’re asking me to kill myself,” I responded in kind. “He’s an animal, Strife, an animal with an angel’s skin, like my son. Plus, he already waits for an excuse to rip me apart.”

Strife winced. “I know,” he said softly. “And I know I don’t have the right to ask this. I’m only trying to save the life of my best friend.”

I looked at the ground. The dirt and flaky embers seemed so significant. What was I worth?

Nothing.

I was worth nothing.

I’d preserved my life against all odds, making end meet when they had not the slightest chance of coming together. I had nothing to live for, nothing. My son was dead, my wife was dead, and I lived against all reason.

“Tomorrow,” I said softly. “If he’s no better tomorrow, I’ll do what must be done.”