I have to endure it, endure your sleazy smile, every time you come. Decades have surely passed. I'm sick of it. Sick of you. Sick of this world. Not that you care. I've seen that you don't. I know what you think. 'You're stuck here', your eyes betray from the other side, 'you belong to me, and there is no escape'.

You're a bastard.

I belong to no one. I would have cleansed this planet of life long ago, and every time I hear your voice, I wish I had. I wish it so much, want it so badly, I can taste your blood in my throat. But I was moving too fast when I approached this world. I crashed, and just that suddenly, I was entombed in this miserable rock. But that wasn't enough for you. No, no. I was found. Exhumed. Disturbed from the death sleep I was growing accustomed to. Then they handed me over to you.

Wires. Cables. Hoses. Whatever you had, you shoved into what was left of my body. You cut, you stitched, you flooded my veins with uninmaginable substances. Some were like fluid ice. Others burned beyond your wildest imaginings of Hell. You knew. I know you did, whether I was unable to scream or not. You tore me from my earthen grave just to seal me into your jars, like some pickled frog. Filled the glass with your precious Mako. And damn you... damn you for knowing it would bring life back into this tattered body.

Trapped inside of a useless form. Trapped inside of your gallery of horrors. Nothing to do. Nothing to hear. Nothing to see. Nothing, but your ghastly smug face.

Of course, you're not content to simply gloat. You have to be an ass, as well, and talk to me when you're here. I hear you. Every word. You always return to speaking of your fantasies. Longing for a way to remove me for just a little while; experimenting first-hand, you say. I know what you mean. What you want. And if you ever remove me, I will strike you dead with a plague to melt the flesh from your bones before you can lay your filthy hands on me.

One of the few amusement I'm afforded is your obsession with the idea. You want me bred as badly as I want you tied down so that I may remove your innards inch by bloody inch. You tell me how you try. The freaks and failures outside of my tomb, in your little reactors. I want my voice back just so I can laugh at every time you fail. You're getting quite good at it.

'I know where I went wrong', you always say. 'Next time, it will be flawless'.

Poor, deluded Hojo. Why do you think you fail in the first place? Because they're my cells, you imbecile. My body. And my hate for you, my spite for your 'work' permeates my very being. My cells are what deform your puppets, what will ultimately kill them all. I adore how you never notice. How you never even consider that I may not be as helpless as you believe.

Despite the pain and horror I dream of for you, I must admit you've had something of a breakthrough. I know your diseased mind well enough by now that I can follow you. See through your eyes. Hear through your mind. I've seen the females and their pregnant bellies. If you can't get to me, you'll get to others and dream? How romantic.

You're still failing, I notice. You gave the first woman my cells, and her child looked nothing like me. You waited until the next had been born before giving him my gift, but that's marked as a failure in your books, too, isn't it? Poor you. Frustrated at every turn.

Try it once more, Hojo. Do it for me? I know just the subjects. Your pretty little brunette. The one you're so certain is yours, alone. I know more than you think, dear. More than you know. She belongs to you the same way I do - only in your swaggering imagination. I've seen the man who wants her more. Impressive, frankly. The strong, quiet, protective type. Tall and dark, like you, but handsome. Apparently, your pretty little pet isn't blind, after all.

They keep their secrets from you well, but they're been careless in other matters. She's going to become a mother, you know. Oops, that's right. You don't. I see the glow on her face that you're oblivious to. I think it's time I came to whisper in your ear. To tell you what I want you to do. What I command you to do.

Through his senses, I will live again, Hojo. Be kind to my baby boy. The nicer you are to him, perhaps the quicker he'll make your death. Up to him, really. And don't disgust me with any Hojo, Jr. nonsense. My baby boy deserves so much better than you. So much better than this planet. He'll need something more traditional. More historic. Something to hearken to his ancestors. His true ancestors. His name will be... Sephiroth.

He'll be beautiful. Graceful. Elegant. Blessed. Irresistible to everyone who looks at him. Fast to learn. Stronger than you'll ever fathom. His father's muscles. His mother's silver hair and green eyes. Power to fulfill his mother's wishes and destroy this world and all you hold dear. The future of my race. The death knell of yours. He will be, in a word, perfect. My little angel. My ultimate soldier.