#seven work

Fandom: Final Fantasy 7

AU: Amends

Fandom: FFVII (Compilation of)

Relationship: Vincent Valentine / Sephiroth, Vincent Valentine / The Turks / Rufus Shinra

AU: canon divergence

The General finds out that his connection to the Director of the Turks runs deeper than anyone imagined.

Summary:

Fandom: FFVII (Compilation of)

Relationship: Vincent Valentine / Sephiroth, Vincent Valentine / The Turks / Rufus Shinra

AU: canon divergence

Summary:

Hi, all!

This side blog will be exclusively for original content (with the possible exception of crossover fics with characters from known IPs).

I'll add some short stuff in the near future, mostly text - sadly, I've lost the digital version of most of my old drawings and rescanning everything just seems like a hassle, but I might get around it if the mood strikes.

If you have any questions about any of my OCs or the stories around them, feel free to reach out through here or any of the other socials found in my carrd. Also, if you're interested in short stories, whether original or fan fiction, I'll be setting up my ko-fi in the next days to take commissions, too!

Excerpt from the Encyclopedia Humanica, Vol. XX

Syz · y · gy |ˈsizijē|

noun 

a phenomenon in which a human wakes up devoid of his or her essence and wanders about absorbing other people’s ideas, thoughts, feelings, et cetera. Although there have been reports of such incidents occurring all through human history, it was not until the year 2127 that an explanation was found. 

When humans fall asleep, their essence escapes to a “dream realm”, also known as Syzygy, where they are their true selves. This is a necessary process for the human brain to regenerate and cope with its everyday toil and trouble. 

noun

the “dream realm” to which a human’s essence escapes during sleeping hours. The Syzygy is the human race’s place of origin and the place to which every human returns once its life-span runs its course. However, there is a paradox: while human essence needs the Syzygy to exist and thrive, human bodies are not able to survive in it.  

The existence of the Syzygy was not discovered until the year 2127, two years after the Insomniac Riots on Earth. Before that, whenever a human woke up disoriented or unaware of its surroundings, it was attributed to somnambulism or other sleep disorders. After the Insomniac Riots ended, Dr. Martha Jones and a multidisciplinary team examined the survivors and found a common neural pattern in the silent areas of their brains. In the weeks that followed, the same pattern was found in humans who had not exhibited any sort of sleepwalking tendencies. This pattern came to be known as The Way.

The Way was later confirmed to be a map to and of the Syzygy. Dr. Jones was able to activate the area using sonic probes; this induced a controlled sleepwalking state in all subjects that allowed Dr. Jones and her team to determine exactly what happened during a human’s sleeping hours and what dreams really were. In essence, dreams are memories of the Syzygy that seep into humans’ waking hours; they are a representation of the human essence’s yearning for its home. 

In the year 2160, after many years of research and experimentation, the team first led by Dr. Jones finally found a way to collectively activate The Way and lead humanity into the Syzygy permanently. It is not known if the endeavor worked as no other race has access to the human Syzygy. In the year 2200, a team of Elanese explorers landed on Earth and found every single human being apparently asleep on their beds. Any attempt to wake them up failed and the planet was placed under permanent quarantine to avoid damaging the humans. 

Further enquiries determined that humans living outside of Earth were not affected by whatever experiment was conducted by Earthling scientists. The Galactic Council forbade any human to return to Earth as they feared that they would be affected as well. Several humans living under the Council’s jurisdiction were interrogated as to their dreams in an attempt to determined the fate of all Earthling humans but no information of use could be gathered.

ORIGIN early 22nd cent. Earthian; etymology unknown/unrecorded.

end of entry

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A

The roof is leaking. The puddle on the floor reaches up to his arm. The tile beneath him is cold, and his shirt is soaked; he can barely feel his fingers or feet, but the beat of his bloodstream pounds on his ears intermittently enough to keep him from falling asleep or into unconsciousness. 

His eyes leak, too. A few tears every couple of minutes or so, salty liquid pooling on the shell of his ears, trickling in and making him shudder. There's no sobbing or runny nose, though, just a hitched breath now and then to remind him that he still breathes. His lips are dry, however, probably from breathing through them instead of using his nose, or maybe because of all the begging and pleading he's been doing. 

He's bleeding, as well. Knife wounds to his arms, legs, torso and back ooze viscous, dark blood which spills onto the floor and is absorbed by his clothes, making him feel heavy and anchored to the now red-stained blue tile underneath him. They're all deep enough for blood to escape his body in a continuous flow, but shallow enough to keep him alive long enough.

Long enough for what? To get medical attention? Highly unlikely, taking into account the fact that no one knows he's here and his cellphone was taken away. Even if he had a phone, he wouldn't be able to provide directions as to his whereabouts – he doesn't remember how he got here in the first place.

Not enough time to be saved. Long enough to think about his crimes, his sins? No, the pain doesn't allow him to focus on much else other than wanting to either die or be saved. Perhaps that's it – perhaps he's meant to live long enough to experience as much pain as possible. It's a morbid thought, particularly if he tries to match it to the person that left him in this state, but stranger things have happened, and humans have a tendency to break out of their mould when pushed to the end of their rope, of their sanity. 

Torture, then. He's being tortured. He can take that, can deal with it. Because of whom it's coming from, because he knows he's had this coming for years now. He pushed, shoved, pried, lied, cajoled, and manipulated, tugged at strings better off left alone, always waiting for a spontaneous reaction as opposed to a carefully thought-out answer, always wanting the raw, passionate riposte and not the calculated, politically correct comeback. 

He had to wait years for it, but he finally got it. That it came in the form of an ambush he did not expect; that his body would be kicked and punched he would have never been able to foresee, but he wasn't exactly surprised at the cold-blooded precision with which the knife wounds were delivered. That it was a knife, however, was an inside-joke of sorts, and even through the throbbing pain he could appreciate the intimacy behind the chosen weapon. 

Despite the blood loss and the precariousness of his situation, his mind wanders and there's a stirring in his loins that manages to draw a hoarse moan from his aching throat. The effort, involuntary as it is, renews his body's pained cries, and he feels lightheaded for the first time since he was carelessly tossed to the ground. 

He concentrates on the sounds around him to keep himself awake – what for, he doesn't know, but it seems important to make an effort. He can still hear the leaking roof, and now the pool of water has reached his back and head; he can't turn to look at it, but from the corner of his eye he can see that the water is now a dirty shade of pinkish red, very likely due to his blood mixing in with the other liquid. That either means that there's enough water to reach one of his wounds, or his blood has pooled and extended all the way to where the water is. At any rate, it is bad news for him... if he wants to live through this, that is.

It surprises him to realize he doesn't know if he wants to survive or not. There's clear advantages to both, which confuses him – shouldn't he be scared of death? Shouldn't he be finding a way to get up and out of this dank, cold place? Just laying still and praying and begging to hypothetical deities or fate or the universe would get him nowhere fast. Still, he doesn't feel like moving. What does that say about himself?

Footsteps echo all around and he can't figure out where they come from until a pair of legs stops right in front of his field of vision. There's blood on the black shoes and black dress-pants up to the knees; he's not sure about anywhere else since he can't see past that area. There's also mud, and something white that could be dried salty water or something else entirely. He knows who this is, and feels the need to say something. He tries, but stops mid-word as his chapped lips bleed when he parts them to speak. New tears roll down his eyes, and a sob shakes his whole frame, bringing along more pain as the world around him takes a frilly turn. 

His torturer drops to one knee and places the back of their hand to his forehead; his skin is cold and theirs is warm, bringing out goosebumps all over his body. The contact is almost gentle, but he refuses to believe the action is anything but methodical – Torture Methods 101: Do not let your victim die before you're ready to put them six feet under. 

Two fingers press against his neck now, obviously checking his pulse; he knows it's very weak, but not weak enough to worry his captor. A frustrated sigh escapes their lips, and he feels a small surge of pride at managing to make them mad or at least upset. 

Before he can explore the implications of said feeling, ice cold water splashes on his whole body almost at once; he realizes a hose is being used just before his lungs contract and leave him without oxygen for several beats. He somehow manages to curl into a loose foetal position, instinct taking over in spite of the pain. His assailant continues to hose him down, taking advantage of his position to reach his back properly before placing a foot on his chest and rolling him so he's on his back again. More water hits his face before the hose is tossed away and he's left shivering and panting, although thankful because his lips and throat are no longer dry. 

The foot on his chest retreats only to be replaced by the attacker's body straddling his own. There's no arousal this time, only breathless anticipation as their body leans forward, covering his in warmth he'd thought lost until this precise moment. The scent of his blood mixed with their shampoo and body lotion is new yet familiar and welcome. Cold hands cup his unmarred face – just now he wonders why the knife had spared it along with his groin, but then soft, warm lips are pressing against his cold, chapped ones, and his eyes close wearily; his body arches up to meet the other's, and when he tries to wrap his legs around them, his strength fails and he ends up splayed out almost wantonly. His left arm, the least damaged, manages to reach the other's face but is swatted away and he makes no effort to move again. 

The kiss is sloppy at first, almost mockingly so, until it slows down and deepens, turning into some sort of goodbye or parting. He's crying again once his mouth is released, and he refuses to open his eyes, but two quick slaps across his face force him to look into their eyes. He can't read the expression on their face, and for the first time he's truly frightened. He sees them reach for the knife and the sight of his blood on the blade triggers the panic switch on his brain, the fight-or-flight response reduced to a command to flee that cannot be carried out as his body refuses to respond. 

There has been no exchange of words between them since he stepped into the building some odd hours ago and was clubbed on the stomach – not a single word during the brutal beating, not even while his body was methodically and efficiently slashed and stabbed with the same knife that now glinted in the half-light in front of his face. He thought he was afraid before, but nothing could prepare him for the sheer terror the voice he heard conjured.

It is nothing like what he was used to, and it seems impossible that the voice stored in his memory and the one he hears now belong to the same person – his mind goes as far as to hypothesize this is someone else, a twin or a double of sorts, but many things speak against such a theory. The only explanation he can come to that rings more or less plausible is that hate and rage have twisted a light and soft voice and turned it into a deep, hoarse murmur that resonates on his chest like a distorted bass. 

“Remember you once told me... I could only love you or kill you...?” He nods, afraid of what might happen if he tries to speak or fails to respond. “And I told you I couldn't do either... that you couldn't force me?” Another nod, followed by a shiver that earns him another slap. “Then you told me to make up my mind and let you know, remember that?” Sobbing, he nods, tears blurring his vision as his breathing gets faster and shallower. “Well... this is me... letting you know.”

He has no time to react, no time to plead or beg anymore; in one swift motion, an arm flies upward and then down, and the knife plunges into his chest, reaching his heart and wrenching a gurgling gasp from his mouth, which is breaming with blood, spit and bile. A twist of the wrist, and his heart is mauled, blood pouring rapidly and copiously from the open wound, as if it could not wait to exit his body, which spasms now and then as skin becomes ashen and his eyes, still wide open, dull and roll back; his mouth, chin and neck are covered in crimson, as well as his chest and torso. 

His breathing stops altogether, and soon the blood flow also ceases. The only sounds now come from the leaking roof and the water from the hose.

B

I stand up, pulling the knife out of your lifeless body along the way. A new stream of blood gushes out, but it's only a vacuum effect of sorts. I stay at your side for a moment, committing the scene to memory before I go and get the hose to clean your body off, watching entranced at the eddies that form as water and blood mix and rush towards the nearby drain. I then clean the knife and my bloodstained hands and legs before deciding to hose myself completely, lest I miss something. The clothes will burn, anyway, and the knife will go to the attic, along with everything else I can't readily get rid of. 

After making sure everything is clean and I cannot be traced back to this god awful place, I go back to have one last look at you. I'm tempted to provide you one last kindness and close your eyes and mouth, but three things stop me. The first and least important is a technicality: I cannot do either because you haven't been dead long enough for rigour to set in. The second one is also a technicality, one I picked up in some movie or other – fingerprints can be picked up from eyes, too, and I will not risk that.

It is the third that really stills me, however. I'm nauseated, and touching you again might make me lose control over my stomach and its contents. I've never felt such repulsion before, and it frightens me, so I simply grab my things and walk away without ever glancing behind.

A couple of hours pass before I return home. I know my partner's around, so I sneak into the basement first to take my clothes off and toss them into the ancient heater the house came with; everything goes in, shoes included. I watch them burn while drying myself and then I put on the spare change of clothes I brought along. I go into the house and head to the kitchen to get a glass of water – I think about maybe grabbing something stronger, but my stomach is still waging battle against itself, so I settle for ice cold water. Then up the stairs and into the attic, where I bury the backpack with the knife and other things under a pile of junk that will either burn later on or go to charity, I'm not sure which yet. Afterwards, I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth twice until all I taste is acrid mint – no you, no fear. 

Looking at myself in the mirror, I realize I look as though I'm about to be sick, which is how I look when I'm stressed out almost beyond my breaking point. I take a couple of deep breaths, reciting my favourite mantra while flexing my back and shoulder muscles until I feel something inside click back into place. I splash warm water on my face and pat it dry before glancing at the mirror again – there we go! Tiredness but no sickness, and my stomach is back to normal. 

Feeling confident that I'm composed enough to face the world again, I go into the library, where my partner is. They smile up at me, and while I notice a flash of suspicion in their eyes, they say nothing. Instead, open arms beckon me hither, and I walk to them, sitting on their lap and allowing myself to be cradled by lovingly warm arms, my own wrapped around their waist as my head rests on their shoulders.

“Everything all right?” I nod in response, suddenly exhausted. “Sleep,” is all I hear before closing my eyes and slipping into a comfortable slumber.

C

The scent of blood cannot be simply hosed down. Murder doesn't flee one's eyes immediately. 

Nightmares, however, are easily eradicated. 

As I watch you sleep in my arms, I know yours have disappeared for good, so whatever method you employed, I shall not question you. As long as you are happy, the world may very well burn and I will not move a finger save to ensure your happiness is ever lasting.

"Second star to the left and straight on to the morning." That's what that drunkard Peter Pan told me after selling me pixie dust and showing me how to use it. I should've known better than to trust a washed out fairy boy, but I very much wanted (and needed) to get away from the people that called themselves my family and friends, from the place I once called home. So, I trusted the shaking little man, gave him my life's savings and my thanks, and quickly made my way back into the cold, soul-less streets of London.

I wanted to leave that same night, but it would've been unwise. Even though Pan said I could only take with me a small duffel bag, and insisted that I didn't actually need anything, there were things I did want to bring along, like this journal, some ink and quills, as well as two pictures and a small plush toy. The rest could be left behind and, Pan assured me, easily found in Neverland.

So I arrived home and sneaked through the backdoor, hoping to avoid my relatives and succeeding easily; once in my room, I stashed the pixie dust in a small wooden chest and gathered the things I planned to take with me, then arranged them in a small silk backpack someone gave me as a birthday present. All the while I kept stealing wary glances towards the door and windows, afraid someone would come to stop me - or worse, that Pan, now sober, would come to claim the pixie dust to return to Neverland himself. 

I managed to calm myself down by keeping two things in mind: one, that my friends and relatives had no idea I was no longer bedridden. And two: Pan could not return to Neverland, not after leading adults there and giving way to the destruction of the Indian tribe (which also makes it impossible for him to sober up). He had since been banished from Neverland, and had taken to drinking and wasting away in opium (when he could afford it), telling anyone willing to lend an ear about his past adventures and present misfortunes. The pixie dust he'd smuggled out with Tinkerbell's help… which cost her her life, or so I hear, at hands of the mermaids. 

Either way, I would not be caught, I thought, and it held true for the next two weeks. The things I had to endure during that period seemed, back then, horrifying… but nothing could compare or prepare me for the nightmare I fell into after following Pan's directions.

I'm all alone Inside this song I wrote for you That you won't hear Because I want To be with you But you don't know The beat I play Is just for us And you're out there Dancing away from this So I'm all alone Inside this song Watching you smile For someone else To the beating Of my heart

September 15th, 2017