#planetcry

shinra in all of it's wealth does not pay kira nearly enough for them to endure this with a smile on her face ... it is why she scowled at the lack of communication that came abruptly at sephiroth's words. there was only a certain length at which she can adjust to the sudden changes in the circumstance of a job, having made herself malleable throughout the years to adjust since coming to midgar. the turk being overworked and underpaid for the amount of tasks assigned to her did not help the dire state of her patience, but it seemed as though her sudden affliction to the shiva materia somehow made her more important to the job she did not really like to begin with. it is why she was there, gripping the tablet in her hand like it was her lifeline, staring almost eerily with how scarcely she had been blinking.

❛    if i knew the answer, do you think i would have bothered asking?   ❜ one of the things she hated when assigned first class jobs was the reminder that it continued to outrank her, and so briefings were more redacted lines than actual details to work on. ❛    look, you have your job, i have mine, and today that involves helping you whether you need it or not. i can't do that if you won't answer a single question.   ❜

she just wanted to avoid any more overtime and go home.

within the reflection of iridescent and opal, stood a cherub's lullaby of painted nova. black like midnight sacristy, it plagues her mind with darken pigments of shattered skies and madden glory : a collisional catastrophe harkens the holiness within its rot. the archaic legacy / a civilization's demise, is nothing more than an echo of yesterday's fragile song. she does not touch her family's materia, claims that she has no interest in it nor could she bear the contents of its foresight. but it is a lie you see, a mask that hides away her twisted slumber for a saint's heart depicting gold. she dreams of ruination, dances within its ghostly hall, until creation fervently builds life anew. there is a fascination of survival depicted within the rubble and it sings to her so sweetly within its silence. yet, it was not the dark that covets her closer towards the embrace of destruction : it has always ever been the light. a light so radiant / so enigmatic, it does not offer a sense of warmth — only a scorching veils of burning incense and sacrificially lit skin. it is the heavy price of holiness within her veins of stardust and iron. to the world : her family offers salvation through prayers and sacrifice, yet for her : she only understood the intimacy of demise. it is inevitable. it is constant. and life, ever so stubborn,  ... continues on.

she does not share her dreams as often as she did as a child. she has long understood that no one wanted to hear her morbid prattling and death induced song. a fleuret child must behave, they must soothe and not incite fear. but here is the truth : she held the oracle orb within her hand and foretold its primordial end. her mother wept that night and told her never to speak of it again for all will be well and the future is not set in stone. she had nearly forgotten that memory, she is all grown up now and the end of the world still felt so faraway. she lives her life without regrets, lingering within the fine line of nobility and whims. she ask for the strangest request at times, but continues to remain so deceptively normal that she begins to fool even herself. the world she knew remained in tact, until you visited her again with the song of haunting angels sown against your unseen wing.

❝ it’s time to show them what you really are. ❞ @planetcry