#s: thread

"You really are a strange person... You came to the hospital to visit me, and yet all this time, you haven't said a word."

Genesis never hesitates the point out the little peculiarities in his behavior. Over time, Sephiroth has come to appreciate the other man’s blunted opinions...even if he doesn’t necessarily like them. Knowing means he can correct it, and correcting it means Sephiroth has a reason to feel slightly less different than everyone else. Sephiroth makes a face-- which is less of a contorting of his features and more of a barely imperceptible twitch of his left eye.

There are nurses, doctors, and scientists shuffling about in the hallway outside. Everything is blanketed in off-white fluorescence and baby blue. A standing heart rate monitor next to Genesis’s head serenades them both with its monotonous beeping.

Beep... Beep...Beep...

What an infernal noise. Without meaning to, Sephiroth calculates an estimate of the other SOLDIER’s resting heart rate. Holding steady at 38bpm.

Truthfully, he wishes he could block it all out; these stimuli which generate an unpleasant static in the tips of his fingers, in the tense angle of his body, and memories best left undisturbed.

Fear... Hate...Two hallmarks of the human condition. He sees both vying desperately for dominance in a delightful dance of clumsy missteps and paltry defensive maneuvers whenever Cloud perceives the effects of the Reunion. A siren song so purely primordial that the so-called ex-SOLDIER can't even see the strings, plucked and played ever so delicately.

And Sephiroth is the maestro.

Even through a mere vessel, living feels addictive...Sephiroth can even sense the blond's quickening pulse and involuntary flush of warm blood rising rapidly to the skin. Adrenaline, sweeping through the extremities and screaming for flight in the wake of an unknown fear.

"Cloud...is that any way to greet an old friend? I've only your best interests at heart," he murmurs, a silky promise that slips through lips that aren't even his.

To the casual bystander, a strangely intimate scene in a dirty under city alleyway with two unlike actors: a young man with a burdensome sword clipped to his back, seemingly trapped against the wall by the body of another man in tattered robes that reveal the occasional glimpse of a numeric tattoo underneath.

continued from x--

Sephiroth observes Ravus sweep past him in a glum, unimpressed silence.

The war had been something of an enlightenment for him. Humans could bruise, bleed, beg. Hojo had accounted for some of this in the training simulations that he designed in preparation for Sephiroth’s very first field missions. The simulations were found...lacking.

Nothing quite prepared him for the shrieking discordance of his sword cutting through armor, muscle, and bone. How easily flesh gave way to steel.

Everyone dies differently. Some cried in their last moments, trying desperately to keep the light from fading from their eyes. Other were angry. Cursing him in a language he could not understand, the enemy grabbing his ankles with fading strength...And the beggars. Sephiroth hates the beggars the most.

‘Làm ơn cho tôi chạy trốn... làm ơn, làm ơn!’

A tongue he does not understand, sobbing, quivering voices, and supplicating hands seeking a savior who would not capitulate. Killing them quickly, cleanly, meant he did not have to bear witness to these forlorn vestiges of humanity. 

SNAP.

His tendency to tune out the advice of his “betters” has him caught out. The young teen hides his apparent surprise at the interruption of his thoughts by shifting about Ravus’s backside as the other man moves between the campfire and his victim.

Two more resounding cracks make Sephiroth turn his head away completely to mask his grimace.

[ txt > Tifa] Need you to provide a description of the men who came by the night before

This is not entirely how he imagines things would play out when he had made that promise to Cloud Strife nearly four years ago. The other man’s foresight served him well, between Rufus working him like a dog (and expecting him to behave like one to boot) and the growing turmoil within Shinra’s upper echelons.

Keeping his promises has become bothersome indeed, given Lockhart’s predilection for involvement. He stares at the glowing screen of the PHS in his hand while mulling over how to convince the young barkeep to divulge the information he needed. The seconds tick by in silence before he finally slides his thumb over several keys:

Forays into Midgar are best conducted at certain times during the week. Tuesday evenings in particular are his favorite. The work week has just begun, and wage-earners are still fresh from the weekend. Fewer people find excuses to eat out, fewer people are able to find time after sundown for recreational activities. Those few who do often find themselves on LOVELESS Ave. at an appointed time– naturally, to enjoy that evening’s performance of LOVELESS. 

In sum, fewer people on the street. 

Sephiroth draws the collar of his thick, woolen coat closer about his neck. His breath escapes in small puffs of misty condensation as he strolls down the street with his both hands deeply in his pockets. 

Protection from the bite of winter windchill gives him some comfort, though he has managed with less in worse weather. His footfalls against the cobblestone street seem amplified by the sparse crowds that usually fill in the silence with the thrum of their conversation and laughter. A few vagabonds here and there, equally bundled up for the winter, huddle under dim lamplight and talk amongst themselves. Sephiroth ignores the inevitable stares that follow him as though he has encountered an invisible net. 

If he has to guess, there are maybe twenty minutes remaining before the last act of LOVELESS closes and the theater releases its audience out into the street. He opts to continue walking with his eyes down and focus inward– only to find that after a few feet, a roadblock suddenly stands in his way.

‘ the deal is the deal. ‘

Leverage doesn't exist for him. The fact that he yet breathes even now is a miracle in of itself. Ignoring Cloud for the moment, Sephiroth closes his eyes in order to lose himself in the past and the many events that led him here. That fire of menace that burned in his heart is now merely a smoulder, bitter and acrid with ashes that seem to coat his entire tongue.

This Cloud wouldn't kill him if he chose to submit. The Cloud of yesteryear? He isn't so sure. His eyes open, half-lidded with a strange dejection. What is the value of a life? What is the value of his? He feels hollow, an empty chalice stained with old wine. He ignores the tremor in his hands and the suspicion that his arms will drop out of their very sockets. Even his bones ache with phantom vibrations; the consequences of bearing raw energy carried from one sword to the next.

Tomorrow, if he lives to see it, will be a terrible day.

With a dissatisfied click of his tongue, Sephiroth tosses the Masamune at the other man’s feet. It lands in a small cloud of dust, and he supposes even the dead earth that grasps at the toe of his boots is his fault. In the same breath, he fixes Cloud with as much withered defiance as he can muster. His eyes, still a bright and startling jade, lack the slitted pupils that were so quintessential to his self-image.

Loss has always made him a spiteful creature, though Sephiroth wonders if his pride truly outstrips his will to live. If Cloud hadn’t laid out his terms, he might have fought to the death.

It's a game he plays sometimes. Will they notice him before it's too late? Can they save themselves from the inevitable embarrassment or will they crash and burn miserably? Entertainment of this form often times stems from pure schadenfreude, moreso when you are the General of the Shinra army and the resident infantrymen are too caught up in their own heads to notice.

Like Zack's friend, Cloud, who so thoughtfully reminds him why exactly he enjoys this game so much. Unfortunately for Cloud, it would seem that the teen was on course for a direct impact. The hallway isn't that particularly small; Sephiroth could easily choose to sidestep the distracted infantryman if he had even an inkling of desire to.

Today, Sephiroth does not.

As anticipated, his lips quirk when the small blond bounces off his chest so much like an a wrestling dummy, though Sephiroth is careful to ensure that the folders pinned under his arm remain undisturbed by the collision.

Dreams ...A twilight that exists between reality and fantasy. He knows he lives and breathes in this null space contained purely within his mind, where wakefulness cannot reach. A bladed fan rotates overhead, the swsh swsh of the blades complemented by the soft buzz of dim halogen light bulbs. He counts, unblinking. 83 rotations per minute. His eyes fall away from the ceiling. The curtains at his bedside are drawn tightly shut. Nothing on the other side except an empty hallway. Maybe even nothingness.

When the nights are long, he listens to the beeping of the heart rate monitor. He remembers listening. Is he listening right now? The distinction is unclear. Beep beep beep...beep beep beep beep...He imagines the beat of a waltz, of a military ball room dance with swirling gowns and graceful footwork. Better to take his mind to other places than to roil in reality with the nausea spun from mako swimming thick in his veins.