• Disclaimer:
    I do not own any of the characters in this fanfiction, nor do I own parts of the storyline that form the framework for this fanfiction. Furthermore, I do not own the storyline portions that are taken directly from the original work; I simply included them in the story to “jog the memory” of fan readers who hadn’t seen the show or read the manga for a while. This is simply a not-for-profit fan-made tribute, written purely for the enjoyment of myself and anyone who may happen to stumble across it. However, the personal fan-artwork I have put into this publication is mine alone. Do not attempt to take credit for it.

    It should be noted that I write precisely what I feel like writing. You may review or comment on my works if you wish, but please keep in mind that I will not be making any edits to my stories (unless there is a stray spelling/grammar error somewhere) based upon feedback. I have no need to justify my writings to anyone, for any reason. Why? Because I’m putting in hours at the keyboard just for fun, and letting all of you read this for FREE. You didn’t pay for this, so you have no right to tell me how to write. Furthermore, I’m not forcing anyone to read this. If you don’t like it, then just read something else. My writings stand on their own – read ‘em or leave ‘em.

    Author’s biased “ratings” (or maybe I should call them "warnings" wink on a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being the lowest and 10 being the highest)

    Drama rating: 8
    Weirdness/randomness rating: 7
    Romance rating: 7
    Angst rating: 10
    Religious content rating: 9
    Violence rating: 8
    Blood/gore rating: 6
    Offensive language rating: 2
    Sexual content rating: 0
    Mary-Sue-ness rating: 8


    So, without further ado, I present to you my story: “Bring Me to Life.” Hope you enjoy!

    Pleasant readings,
    ~Arienne Keith~






    The poor creature looked up at her, wagging its tail in friendly greeting. When it didn’t receive any response, the dog lowered its eyes and stepped forward to lick her hand. She pulled away and covered her face. The dog set its chin on her knee and looked up at her, wagging its tail. She refused to even look at it.

    “You know what he will do to you if you don’t do it,” a voice said from behind her. Nero had been watching.

    “I know,” she replied. “I can do it. I just need a moment.” She stood and tried to back away from the dog, which only wagged its tail in more excitement as she stood up.

    She grabbed her katana and drew the bright blade from its sheath, preparing to carry out the Professor’s sentence. The dog sat and cocked its head to the side at the sound of the sword being drawn. The animal looked intelligently curious – completely oblivious to its fate.

    She took a deep breath. Her hands shook. They didn’t usually shake like this – years of training had taught her a steady hand and perfect accuracy; that sword had become a part of her body. She was quite adept at wielding it. The problem was with her conscience, not her skill. Several more seconds passed and she still hesitated. The dog, bored with the situation, laid down and watched her.

    “I overheard him saying he’d be coming down to check on you soon,” Nero informed her. Clouds of deep shadow waved about him as he spoke. His voice sounded quite clear despite the band of cloth across his mouth. Other bands stretched across his nose, forehead, and cheeks. He wore a strange black suit with blue glowing lines spanning portions of it. A pair of cruel-looking metal wings were folded up behind his back. His arms were bound in sleeves that were sewn to his suit like a straight jacket. Nero continued, “he’s on his way here and will arrive in a matter of minutes. I saw what he did to you last time –”

    “I know! I was there! Stop interrupting me!” she said angrily. She walked around to the side of the dog so she could make a cleaner, quicker, painless cut. She raised the katana in the air, and started to drop it, but stopped short of the dog’s neck. She pulled away and covered her mouth with one hand. It just wasn’t right – the animal had never taken a life, she didn’t need it for food, and it wasn’t ill and needing to be put out of its misery. As a result of the Professor’s experimentation, it was missing one eye and had a few strange masses that had grown underneath its skin – but the growth had been halted and the animal seemed perfectly happy now. They had plenty of supplies with which to feed and care for it. The only reason the creature’s death had been ordered was to test her readiness to kill, for the Professor wanted very badly to use such a capable person as an assassin to do his work. This creature was being wasted as a test, nothing more. It was all so stupid . . .

    Nero head-butted her so hard that she stumbled and nearly fell. With his arms sealed into his suit, he was unable slap her with his hand. His head worked quite well for the job anyway. “Must I do everything for you?” he snarled quietly. “Your weakness disgusts me.”

    His sharp ears had caught the sound of footsteps in the distance. The professor would be here very soon. He stepped closer to the hapless creature, and the shadows about him stretched out to engulf it. Nero’s “darkness” could absorb or extract almost anything. The creature was engulfed for a moment. It made no noise when it was within the shadows; the entire event seemed so peaceful and quiet. When the shadows receded, the animal lay dead. “Quickly now,” he said, “cut off the head or he’ll know for sure I did it for you.”

    Still somewhat shaky, she nodded, and made a clean cut all the way through with her blade. The movement was swift and sure, just as she’d always practiced it before. It was already over; it didn’t matter now. She cut with confidence.

    A small part of her felt angry at Nero for what he had done, yet she was still very grateful. She knew the Professor would punish her severely if he found out that she had failed yet again after so much training. “Thank you,” she said quietly to Nero, not daring to look over at him.

    “You have to get past this,” he said. “I won’t always be here, and you know I can’t stop the Professor if he gets angry . . .” Nero’s voice trailed off as his mind strayed into memory. Nero was extremely powerful, but not more powerful than his creator. The Professor knew how to control his test subjects. Furthermore, Nero had been defeated mentally long ago. His loyalty to the Professor was absolute.

    “I wish he would just choose you to do that sort of work for him,” she said, frustrated with the whole situation.

    “Look at me, Mordea,” he replied softly. “I could never blend in with the people out there.”

    For a moment she gazed at Nero. The two had been test subjects together for several years. Nero’s reclusive nature had kept most people away – and in any case, none of the other test subjects survived. He had been there her whole life, before she was even created by the Professor. She saw him as a brother – her only friend in this dark place. Nero looked just fine to her. She had seen the Professor wreak havoc on so many people’s bodies and seen so many awful things, but Nero was healthy. He was also ready to do the Professor’s bidding – he was much stronger that way. He was perfect for the job; why couldn’t the Professor see that?

    “Why not?” she answered. “You’re so much stronger; you can do what the Professor asks of you. I don’t understand why he didn’t choose you.”

    “You’ve been living in here too long,” he replied. “Don’t you remember what the people outside look like? I’m too different from them. I could never get close to a target.”

    Mordea studied him longer. She had seen the people who lived out on the surface only a few times, but she remembered vaguely what they looked like. They did not have such bands of cloth wrapped about their faces. They did not have steel wings, and their clothes did not glow. Most of all, they were not surrounded by creeping clouds of deep shadow. Nero was indeed different.

    She did not like to be reminded of how this situation was continuing to close around her. “Wait for the fall of night, and none of that would matter,” she argued.

    “That is exactly what smart targets will be ready for; they are ready to defend against it – especially the one the Professor wants. That one is hunted, and he is ready for us. He sleeps with his eyes open and a weapon next to his pillow. He is one of the Professor’s more powerful subjects. The creature within him was born out of the same darkness that I wield. He cannot be destroyed by something he is already part of . . .” Nero’s voice trailed off. “The one to bring him down must be able to hide in broad daylight, and finish him when he least expects it.”

    A second later the Professor walked in and looked briefly at the job, then praised Mordea for her progress. “You’ve come far, Mordea,” he said. “I created you to be the perfect machine.”

    He turned and looked directly at her. It was the first time he’d ever done that . . . as far back as she could remember, the Professor always stood sideways or with his back to her. He had never once looked her in the eye before now. “You took longer than expected to bloom. But today, I believe you’re finally ready.”

    He turned away once more and began to walk down the corridor. “Tomorrow you will leave. That one . . . the one who has angered me . . . will be quashed. He will be ended by your own hand. You should be honored, for tomorrow you will fulfill the purpose for which you were created.”

    “Professor, sir!” she called after him, keeping her head bowed.

    He paused. “Yes?”

    “Sir, it’s been two weeks now.”

    “I understand.” The Professor resumed his slow walk down the passageway, and Mordea followed him.

    She collapsed as they were walking, so the Professor dragged her inactive body the rest of the way. Her energy reserves were almost completely exhausted.

    Once they reached the lab, the Professor placed her in a dimly glowing chamber. The light within the chamber increased as the machines surrounding it roared to life. The sound of the motors climbed higher and higher in pitch. When the light grew to a maximum, thousands of exceedingly thin needles shot out of the chamber and into Mordea, piercing her skin at various depths. Her body was barely visible among the needles.

    After a few minutes, the needles withdrew. Her skin was red from being stuck in so many places. But after several seconds all redness was gone. She had regained the energy to move, as well as to heal herself. She sat up and climbed out of the chamber.

    The Professor shut down the machine and left the lab without a word. He never saw any point in making small talk with his subjects.

    Nero popped into the lab after the Professor left. “Mordea,” he said, “it’s your turn to dispose of the body.” Then he turned and left the lab.

    It wasn’t her turn, and Nero knew it. But she didn’t argue. He probably thought that it would help her finally get used to the idea of what she was going to have to do tomorrow.

    But it didn’t help. She wasn’t ready.

    * * *

    Wrapped in thought as she walked down the street, Mordea barely noticed the busyness of the various shops and eating places. The hurried nature of this business district mattered little to her. She had never been a part of Midgar before and cared little for the doings of the ordinary citizens about her.

    Mordea wandered the dirty streets, stopping occasionally to tug at her clothes. They were very different from the loose robes she usually wore about the lab, and were very uncomfortable. Before sending her out into Midgar, the Professor made her put on strange clothes – a long, casual green dress of sorts, and a fuzzy dark grey jacket to make her look as if she were trying to stay warm.

    In reality, she needed no warm clothing, for she was always deathly cold, from the inside out. The Professor’s experiments had grown her in the lab, but he did not fully awaken her body. She had no heartbeat, and most normal human body functions were absent in her. She did not age, did not require warmth, and did not need to eat or even breathe. What’s more, she possessed the ability to regenerate her own injuries. The Professor thought this was wonderful. She was the perfect weapon, for no one can kill what is already dead. Mordea was invincible. What the Professor did not know or even care about was the fact that her undead state brought her such misery.

    Being undead meant that she was constantly very cold, yet could do little to warm herself, for her body was not naturally warm. Outer heating sources could only warm her skin and outer extremities, but her core always remained icy-cold, even more so during the winter months. She had no heartbeat – no pulse, no sign of healthy life, no comforting thump-thump when she rested her hand upon her own chest. It felt empty and stagnant inside. There were times when she moved about and tried to shake things up to rid herself of this flat, settled, stagnant feeling, but nothing helped. It always seemed as if her insides had sunk into her legs and feet – which was understandable, since all her blood had settled there when it was not given any cause to move.

    The only thing required to keep her healthy was the chamber, which used many needles to deliver nutrients to her muscles, a few internal organs, and other “critical” body systems. It made sure her muscles and nerves had enough energy to function. Without these treatments she would eventually run out of energy and cease to function. It was “most efficient,” according to the Professor. Her muscular/skeletal structure and nervous system were the only things required for her to think and fight, and that was all that mattered to him.

    Mordea’s existence stretched on, and she saw many of her fellow test subjects die after undergoing too many gruesome experiments. But she always kept going. The Professor continued to play with her as well, testing the limits of her “invincibility.” The experiments were so painful . . . years stretched on and the Professor always found more ways to “test” his amazing creation. Since she could not die, she proved to be his favored test subject for the worst sorts of experiments – experiments that would kill an ordinary test subject. Limbs were removed and internal organs were severely damaged to see how her natural regeneration ability worked. Fortunately for Mordea, it worked quite well. He once tried to place enhanced, artificially grown organs within her to see if they would regenerate as well once they’d been within her body for a while. But her body never incorporated them, and when they failed to regenerate, he removed them. Her own natural organs were able to regrow themselves within the empty spaces. His efforts to protect her nervous system (for mobility’s sake) also kept her five senses very much alive. Because of the manner in which her nerves were preserved, she could not be anesthetized properly. When an artificial – albeit much stronger – skeletal structure was placed within her, she felt every moment of it.

    Her fellow test subjects had a lucky way of escape; they could die. However, her regenerative ability made her immortal. The brutality of the experiments had proven that time and time again. Suicide was impossible. She accepted her undead state without question.

    Accepting her position as a lab rat was more difficult. She had succeeded in escaping many times, but the Professor always tracked her down somehow. She suspected there was a tracking device hidden somewhere within her body. Then, the last time she escaped and was recaptured, he had come up with a new form of punishment. She never tried to run away again.

    This last thought snapped her focus back to her mission: she was determined to do what the Professor said and get it all over with. The Professor had always told her that she had been created for the purpose of hunting down and killing this specific target. When she completed her life’s purpose, he would end her existence as a reward. No more tests, no more torture, no more pain. She wasn’t sure how he was going to do it – it was his secret “trump card” that he refused to tell her about – but she would no longer have to suffer pacing the lonely world as one undead. She could become nothing and cease to exist. She would finally be laid to rest, quickly and painlessly. That was her payment for completing the assignment: ultimate escape.

    It suddenly occurred to her that finding her target would take a very long time if she simply wandered the streets looking about for him. Grabbing the arm of a nearby pedestrian, she asked, “what is the best way to find someone in this city?”

    Unaccustomed to Mordea’s strange tone, harsh stare, and stiff grip, the man struggled and leaned away. “Try a phone book,” he answered, voice trembling.

    “Where do I find a phone book?”

    “At a pay phone, like the one behind you.” As she released his arm, he made a wide arc about her and hastily continued on his way.

    She turned around and picked up the book inside the booth, flipping through the pages. It didn’t take her long to gain a rudimentary understanding of the book’s function. She began looking for the name of her target. His name was not in there. However, the Professor had given her a list of the names of the people with whom the target had associated himself.

    As she unfolded the list, a photo fell out. The Professor had given her an old picture of the target for identification. When he had first handed it to her, she had stared at it for a long time – long enough to earn a sharp “get moving!” from the Professor. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help that strange feeling that came over her when she saw the photo. The target looked oddly familiar, and part of her felt sad when she thought about it. She felt very sorry for him. He looked like a nice person . . . the kind of person who should never have had to cross paths with the Professor.

    Mordea picked up the phone and dialed the number for Cloud Strife. No sound came from the phone. After accosting another passerby, she gained information on how to use a pay phone – and some spare change to operate it as well. She dialed the number again, only to be directed to leave a voice message, which she did not do.

    However, Tifa Lockhart picked up her phone. “Who is this?”

    “I’m looking for Vincent Valentine. Can you tell me where to find him?”

    “I’m not sure,” Tifa said hesitantly. She was suspicious of the strange caller. “We don’t really know where he is. He just sort of disappeared after the last time we saw him. He keeps to himself and never says much.”

    “Where did you last see him?”

    “It’s been several years since he was with us. . . after that he just left. He said goodbye to us all and I haven’t heard from him since.”

    “If you could at least take a guess as to where he might be, what sort of place do you think he would stay in?”

    “I don’t know,” Tifa replied, irritated at this stranger’s eerie persistence. “Probably someplace where he knows he could never be found.”

    “Thank you.” Mordea hung up the phone.

    Lost as to what she should do, Mordea sat down on the sidewalk. She couldn’t ask the Professor for advice. However, she did remember him mentioning something about her target being someone who worked for the Turks – President ShinRa’s small group of infamous assassins. “All guns and no brains,” the Professor had remarked scathingly.

    By asking more questions and consulting the phone book again, Mordea made her way to all of the prominent gun shops in Midgar, using the small photo the Professor had given her to ask the shopkeepers if they had seen Vincent Valentine before.

    Walking between stores, Mordea suddenly caught sight of her reflection in a shop window. The green dress looked horrible on her. The bright color seemed to accentuate her zombie-like complexion. The cute ruffles and printed “Hello Kitty” design on the front looked particularly odd matched against her unsmiling expression. She was wearing a stranger’s suit, a suit she didn’t belong in . . . She was an abomination that should never have entered this world . . . She longed to disappear . . .

    Suddenly, someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Do you want to live?”

    Mordea turned to see where the voice was coming from. A young girl, probably no older than fourteen, was standing there with a book in her hands.

    “Do you want to live?” the girl repeated.

    Actually, I had nothingness in mind; life isn’t possible for me, Mordea thought to herself. “What are you talking about?” she asked the girl.

    “It’s eternal life,” the girl said. “Each of us is sentenced to death in hell when we die, but if you are willing to take the gift that is offered to you, that doesn’t have to happen.”

    Mordea just stared. She had never heard of such a thing. Perhaps the girl was feeble-minded . . .

    “And . . . I know a lot of the focus is on avoiding that eternal death . . . but there’s so much more to it than that. We are all dead as we walk around here, in these narrow lives. But if you accept the gift, you can truly begin to live, as you never have before. Life won’t be easier or better, necessarily . . . but you’ll never have to go through anything alone, and you can be assured that everything has a purpose, even if we don’t understand it at the moment.”

    “Live?” Mordea asked.

    “Yeah,” the girl said, handing her the book she was holding in her hands. “We all screw up because we’re not perfect. It is our punishment for the things we do that sentences us to death. If we have no hope, then we are dead, until we see our imperfections and admit that we need help and need to change. God can help you change if you’ll let Him. When you let Him change you, you become . . . alive.”

    The girl opened the book that Mordea now held in her hands. “Start right here,” she said, pointing to a partition of the book that was slightly past the middle. “It’s my favorite.”

    The whole thing sounded too good to be true. She doubted that anything presented in the little book could reverse what the Professor had done to her body. Somehow she doubted that the girl was talking about physical life and death, but even so, the analogy was quite tantalizing . . .

    “I have to go.” Mordea tucked the book inside her jacket continued on to the next shop – the last one she hadn’t checked. As she walked in, the bell hanging on the door handle jingled softly. A moment later, a short, fat man with curly dark hair and a moustache came to the counter. He was busily polishing some piece of metal with an oily rag. He looked her over with some curiosity. “Can I help you?”

    She showed the man the picture. “Has anyone by the name of Vincent Valentine come here?”

    He glanced at the picture. “I have an employee by that name working here,” the man replied, “but he doesn’t look much like that picture. Might be a different one.” The man backed away and turned his focus once more to his polishing.

    “Are you sure?” she asked, handing the picture to the man.

    The picture was a weathered photograph of a handsome young man, with shaggy black hair and sharp ocean-blue eyes. He wore a navy-colored suit, and he was not smiling.

    The gun shop owner reluctantly took the picture and stared at it. “I suppose that looks a bit like Valentine . . .” his voice trailed off. “But Valentine has red eyes and much longer hair. He’s very odd, but a good worker. He knows his stuff. I let him alone and the back of the shop here runs smooth as peaches. Never says anything, just fixes and builds the guns. Comes right on time, leaves right on time, and that’s that.” The man handed the picture back to her. “Why are you asking?”

    Mordea never spoke unless she decided it was necessary – except when the Professor was the one asking questions.

    “He’s in the back right now if you want to talk to him,” the shop owner offered.

    Mordea thought for a moment, then shook her head. She thanked the shop owner and walked away, glancing at the shop hours listed on the door as she left.

    After she went out the door, the shop owner went to the back to look at Valentine, wanting to tell him that someone had come looking for him. He took a few steps closer to Valentine and began to open his mouth. Valentine looked up at his boss, waiting. The shop owner stopped cold as those fiery red eyes seemed to bore holes right through him. Valentine was a good worker, but very intimidating. The shop owner had actually hired Vincent because he was afraid of what Vincent might do if he’d said no, and was relieved when Vincent turned out to be such a good worker. The little man closed his mouth and went about his business, shaking his head. It was probably nothing; Valentine didn’t need to know. He doubted that one such as Valentine would have any problems taking care of himself.

    Outside, Mordea fought with herself. What was she to do next? Ambush him on the way to work? That was exactly what he’d be ready for. Nero would be better suited for such a task . . . If she took Nero’s suggestion and “got close” to the target as the Professor had designed her to do, maybe it would be easier . . . But what exactly did that mean? How was one so strange as herself supposed to blend into this alien environment and get a hermit (of sorts) to trust her?

    Mordea continued walking as night began to fall. When it became dark, she ducked behind an old building and sat. As one undead, she did not require sleep. She just sat and thought about her job. It began to rain. She lifted her eyes to the sky. Such a beautiful night . . .

    I can’t do this, she thought, dropping her head. I’m just a fool. I’ll never be ready . . . the Professor will have no use for me . . .

    She got up and started walking back to the lab. She needed to talk to Nero.

    As she walked, it stopped raining, but the clouds continued to cover the moon. She found him a couple blocks away from the hidden lab, resting in the shadows.

    “What are you doing here?!” he hissed. “Do you know what will happen if he sees you here?”

    “I’m lost, Nero,” she said quietly. “I’ve found out where he works. It would be easy to ambush him. He leaves the shop at 8pm, and it would be dark, so–”

    Unable to use his bound arms, he struck her with his head. This time she fell to the ground. “That’s a good way to get us into trouble! I already told you my shadows don’t work on him!” Nero hissed. “Get past his guard. Get him to stop being so suspicious and let go of that gun. And when he does, all you have to do is–”

    “I don’t know how! This world is just so alien. The shop owner says he’s reclusive. What am I supposed to do? Just walk up to him on the street and say, ‘please trust me so it’ll be easier for me to kill you?’”

    “Of course not!” Nero snapped. Then he sighed. “I don’t know . . .”

    “Nero . . .” she began. Then she closed her mouth, dropped her head, and stared at the ground.

    Nero stared at the clouds above as the rain began to come down again. “Wait, I have an idea,” he said. “We’ll ambush him tomorrow night . . . but not in a way he’d expect,” he said, laughing. “Why, you poor little waif,” he said, turning to face her, “you need to be rescued.”

    * * *


    I don't log in here much, but my friend xxblack jelloxx does. Please send all comments to her and she'll tell me about them when I see her biggrin


    continued in part 1b:
    http://www.gaiaonline.com/arena/writing/fiction/vote/?entry_id=101036393#title