Written 23 May 2006
Hojo did not believe in a god.
Only fools placed their hearts in the hands of something that did not—could not—exist. This concept of divinity was a child’s security blanket against the dark, a weak defense against the insecurities that plagued the human heart like blowflies crawling over an hour-dead carcass and a willful ignorance that gave false hope to a selfish species. God was, in every sense of the word, dead.
But then, Hojo was genetically Homo sapiens, and even he was subject to natural law. All reason and logic proved it false; no logarithm or equation, which could predict the curl of a rose’s petal or the lifespan of a man, existed that could factor sin and forgiveness and transcendence. If everything was subject to these rules of order and entropy, thermodynamics and biological decomposition, then it was reasonable to infer that if something went counter to these laws then it could not exist. It was an impossibility, a dream, the most traitorous of all aspirations, hope.
It was humanity’s need for acknowledgment and self-actualization that prompted such mindless submission to the abstract. This divine being pandered to the instinctual social needs inherent in every animal and the need to be ruled. And it was for these reasons that Hojo despised the weakness in his body. His very human body.
Drawing up the plunger, tapping the side to loosen air bubbles, watching fluid drip from the needle of the syringe had become Hojo’s second nature. This was a clinical process with steps that embodied logic (too much will force shock to the nervous system, air will cause cardiac arrest) and conformed to a predetermined formula. The highest achievement is perfect order, after all, and his project was exactly that.
The boy was thin, but strong enough to break through reinforced glass. He was pale, but fast and controlled enough to catch a fluttering insect without thought and without crushing it. His lips neither smiled nor frowned, and his eyes shone with viridian power.
He was proof that God was as subject to natural law as any other animal.
Sephiroth—the emanations through which God manifests.
Was it ironic that even His followers gave Him a dual nature not unlike that of Man himself? The ten holy, and the ten unholy, sephiroth, all manifestations of something that defied all logic.
Crown, wisdom, understanding, mercy, strength, beauty, victory, splendor, foundation…kingdom; the ten holy ones. And of the ten unholy, only seven are known, the rest too terrible to speak of.
For the first time the boy screamed against the mako sliding into his flesh through the slender needle, straining against the straps that held him down, pinned like a pretty butterfly to a board. Hojo smiled thinly, mildly amused at the sound.
Perhaps even divinity could hurt.
The boy evolved from a promise to a fulfillment. And slowly Hojo twisted from him all sense of compassion, all awareness of that random factor called humanity—he was an angel wrought by the hands of men, then tied to the earth. He was an angel of death, and he called others to him like horseflies to honey. He was the manifestation of everything mankind hoped for, prayed for, lusted for—he was their Law, and he was their Judgment.
In the background a man with lank dark hair and a cold heart twisted his hands together and smiled that thin smile.
Perhaps God was not so mundane a construct. After all, Hojo had created one.-