supersoldier | ( aefenglom inbox. )

Look, I'm gonna say it again.
You're not the person from then. You're only a couple days before it, sure. It felt like I should hate you. And honestly? At first I wanted to, actually. Only bonded with you because I wanted to know whatever the hell you were- what you were planning- because with him, there's always something else. Even with this.

But

[...
Then they talked. And actually learned about each other without stupid fanclubs or forced politeness to an underling skewing the both of them into caricatures of what they're supposed to be. And it's not like he can come close to articulating that without sounding.... yeah.
Sappy.
...So he doesn't.]

Bottom line, I can't blame you for it. Or for anything after. Same as hating you. Because you haven't done a damn thing. You're ashamed of yourself, right? Believe me, he wouldn't be. That shows you're a different person.

I hate him. I'll never stop- even after he's dead, or I'm dead. That's the way it is. But like I said, you're not him. So why the hell would I want to treat you like him?

[For the longest moment, there’s no reply.

He doesn’t know what to say, not really. He cannot hope to comprehend how Cloud can draw that line straight down the middle, as though he were two different people — like there’s a part of him, ugly and angry, that can be so easily portioned away, divided and separated. But there he is, saying it again, like it’s so easy, and maybe it’s Sephiroth making it impossible for himself to believe.

But there is something stalwart and stubborn about Cloud’s assertion, undulating through their Bond, that’s undeniable. He’s heard it before — and maybe he’ll need to hear it again and again — but each time jostles something a little looser in him, makes him give just a fraction more.

Tired resignation. A bone-deep melancholy. It blooms forward through their Bond until he simply, finally, deigns to reply.]

I would like to continue training with you.

[There’s no remark on anything that Cloud’s written, but the request to continue existing in each other’s space is surely its own kind of acquiescence.]

The pain is not as frustrating as how unwieldy these wings are. How they affect my balance in battle. I can already tell there’s a difference.

[It takes a weirdo to know a weirdo, and...

He gets it. The long wait between messages, and their bond... actually helps, a lot. But even without it, he knows Sephiroth just isn't the type to read something, forget it, and deal with it later. He's ruminating. And...

Yeah.]

Then we'll keep doing it. You good to go now?

[If anything, a brief scrap might help with some of this feeling. But that's unsaid.]

[Now?

Now would be a fair distraction, wouldn't it? There is little else that can pull his mind away from the storm of his own thoughts, but the promise of a fight -- friendly or otherwise -- can often manage it without fail. Cloud must know that, too.]

I'm always prepared.

Same spot as before?

Yep.

[And sent. With anyone else, he'd probably feel obligated to add a little more to it. But not Sephiroth. It's hardly lack of care that allows him to be so succinct with the message, though. Or anger, either. It's more an unstated understanding- that out of everyone he knew, Sephiroth saw messages as messages- tools to get something across, communication, not conversation.

...That, and he knew that even if the both of them are something like friends, here, in this position only, neither of them are conversational. That's just who they are.

Regardless. As Sephiroth arrives into the clearing where, indeed, he'd managed to get first blood some weeks ago, he should note Cloud leaning against a tree- arms crossed and head lowered, eyes half-closed. The slab of a sword propped up against the tree and the ground is not a familiar one. This thing is just as big as Angeal's buster sword, but it's something much, much heavier- a straight, steel slab with both ends sharpened. Its only adornment, a cast-iron lion's head.

...Well. That, as well as the fact Sephiroth isn't the only one with changes. Cloud's displaying one of his own- a long, ankle length tail. It's... very fluffy. And bristly. All at the same time.

And.

No horror at the wings. After all, why would he be horrified? He'd never seen anything of the sort on Sephiroth before. Why would he be afraid? ...There's only a quiet kind of regret.

The reason?]

Probably my fault, you getting those.

[They really went far into the wilde. Farther than he'd ever been. And now they're both... different. It stands to sense.]

Edited 2020-07-19 20:49 (UTC)

[He approaches without preamble, Masamune graped by the hilt in his left hand, as always. He pauses a few feet away from Cloud, and the sword draws his attention first. It's impossibly big, but not beyond the realm of what he's seen before. The tail is noticed second, and that provides more of an oddity for Sephiroth to allow his eyes to linger -- just for a moment.

Until Cloud's comment makes him lift them again, studying him quietly.]

No. I chose to seek you out. If I'm granted wings in exchange for the truth...

[He seems to trail off, pushing aside the claws of malaise that have been prevalent, dancing in his skull, for days on end.]

It's worth the burden. Though I could do without the irony. [But he seems not to want to linger on that subject, for what would be the point of finding distraction if they were to talk about bothersome topics already gnawing at him? Instead, he lifts his chin to indicate the unfamiliar weapon.]

That's new.

[How like Sephiroth, to make connections that weren't there. The wings weren't a condition of learning any kind of truth. But. He says nothing, instead taking the sword, by the hilt and meeting his approach with a slow walk.

He's a little slower with it, sure. But it's not through lack of strength. Hauling such a thing around, one-handed besides, would be unfathomable for anyone that hadn't been through mako.

But to answer:]

Figured you'd be slower. Thought I should, too.

[Right into it. As they reach an appropriate distance, he doesn't falter before rushing him with it.}

I don't want a handicap.

[This time.]

[No reply, but the way Sephiroth meets that attack with the edge of Masamune — no hesitation, no feinting misdirection — is a clear agreement: no handicap this time.

Their blades cross, as they have before, though Sephiroth’s silhouette is a strange-looking thing this time around, those two great masses of wings flaring at his back as though to steady himself, glossy black feathers shining in the light.]

Then show me how much you’ve improved.

[He pushes forward, then shifts his momentum to the side, boots digging into the earth in a sidestep that grants them space enough to lash out with his blade a second time.]

[If anything, his wings are a distraction. Head-on, Sephiroth is at the centre of his vision, and they're present at the corners of his eye. Flaring faintly, when the wind blows, moving just slightly- just enough to make him want to see, at least subliminally, what they are.

It's not the fact he'd somehow been blinded to them earlier. Of course not- they're as plain as day. It's more hyperawareness. Even if Sephiroth, in his right mind, has a good deal of his trust by now, crossing swords with him is still a dangerous endeavour. Hypersensitivity is only a natural reaction.

Still.]

Uh-huh.

[That statement from Sephiroth allows him to press past it- just enough, anyway, to pull at his sword. The thing- heavy as it is, cumbersome as it is, even with a good deal of momentum and gravity behind it, is well and truly stopped by what appears to be as flimsy a gesture as holding that sword to block. The swrds clang. Of course they do- the katana's blade even trembles- but any other katana would have shattered at the impact. The weapons are about as surgical as anything designed for killing can get- but Masamune, like Sephiroth, is a design unto itself. Even this thing- the Beastlord- more a sharpened chunk of solid-cast steel than anything else, grinds to a halt.

He doesn't pull his sword away. Instead, he pulls himself up- using the solid stop Sephiroth's block afforded him to hoist himself up and over, turning in a roll in the air and dragging the thing along with him, hopefully before Sephiroth can counter with a parry.

He's above him now. Just barely- and he moves himself in the air to bring said sword down. The technique? More like a blade beam than anything else, but of course, without the magic. Even if materia worked here, no materia could be slotted into this thing. There was no residual energy to be discharged.

It's for that reason, if he's quick, Sephiroth could dodge, even at such a close range. Should he do so, he'd find Cloud on him again- taking a leap forward even as he lands- determined to not allow him any distance.]

[To anyone else, it's quite the impressive sight, to not only stop the precision-force of Masamune, but for Cloud to take that halting momentum and turn it up and over mid-air, that massive blade slicing in a following arc. But Sephiroth is used to such shows of acrobatics -- what proper SOLDIER spar didn't encompass nigh-impossible feats of dexterity? -- and his wings flare back in time with the twisting of his torso, a foot sliding against the soil to pivot himself away from having his bones crushed by that sword.

It's clean dodge. The ground vibrates from the impact and he's missed it by inches, but when Sephiroth pulls back, Cloud only chases that distance. Learning, Sephiroth thinks, that Masamune is hardly ever a disadvantage, but there is one tactic that it disallows with ease -- a close-range battery of exchanged strikes, the steel far too long for that to be practical. He, of course, does not adhere to rules of practicality, and could probably twist it into his advantage by sheer force of will; but it's easier for him to simply spring up and over, much like Cloud had, twisting his body to drag Masamune in a half-circle as the steel bites at his opponent while he sails over.

The process takes but a second, yet it seems crowded with a flurry of black feathers fluttering in each man's periphery.

Sephiroth will land neatly just behind Cloud, twisting around again to meet him with a vertical swing of his blade.]

[He honestly didn't think it could be done without a specialised weapon. That's the difference between this one and anything mass-produced- this thing had some strange power. He barely knew about the history of the Beastlord- much less the intent that went into it's forging- nor the power stories happened to hold on the world of which it belonged, but he's used it enough by now to know that it's different from anything he's held before.

...Hell, the third or fourth time he'd tried to get ancient, encrusted blood off it (to no avail) he'd realized it was different. It's a strange thing. It's like it has a conciousness.

Still. Sephiroth's got his number. He's astute as ever- and he's correctly guessed that Cloud's technique had certainly developed a little bit. The distance- or lack of it- means there's far less opportunity now for Sephiroth to teach him a humiliating lesson than last, which is his aim with thinking ahead this time- but knowing Sephiroth, it would likely still come.

...He was just like that. It's all Cloud can do to take each defeat, and learn from them.

It's for that reason, the lesson learned from the last, he's already moving before the blade even touches the ground- wrenching the thing upward and using it as a shield to defend himself from the biting steel above his head.

Sparks fly. It's a glance, by Sephiroth's standards. But the unconcious force behind it makes a loud shriek of steel against steel- but he can't be distracted by it. Nor the feathers. Nor the fact a man over six feet tall just sailed through the air like it was nothing, let alone landed so elegantly, with not a sound.

...But he's behind him.
There's a loud clang as he wrenches the sword in the same direction, and extends his arm to hold it horizontally, stopping the Masamune dead once more. Perhaps...

Perhaps he could use the thing's mass as an advantage. He twists his arm, shoving the thing vertically and attempting to wrench the katana out of Sephiroth's grip- or at the very least, to force him to use both hands.

Worth a shot, right?]

Edited 2020-08-05 00:42 (UTC)

[It's the kind of blade that must have a story behind it. Later, perhaps, when there's time for discussion -- the air no longer ringing with the cry of steel striking steel -- he can ask after it, wonder at its origins. But for now, Sephiroth's focus on that weapon is not of wonderment, but rather of assessment and the quick-fire judgment of how to approach the force behind its overbearing weight. This is not a new problem to him; he's faced oversized swords on more than one occasion, just as he's had the same tactic employed of testing their strength against his.

It's a challenge he can usually meet with ease, shifting his weight to adjust for the upward momentum that must be aimed at disarming him. And to Sephiroth's credit, it would have been a thoughtless, easy thing to do; were it not for the flare of his wings behind his back, instinctually tensing in anticipation, so large that they're a variable on their own. One that he is not used to taking into account, one that would set his balance askew if not properly adjusted for.

And, for a half-moment, they do. Sephiroth had intended to take on a two-handed grip on Masamune to counter Cloud's strategy, but the ability to ground oneself against an assault requires a steady core -- the precise knowing of where to ground one's feet to both push back and keep balanced. He's off maybe by the subtlest, barely perceptible degree, but it's enough to allow the other man to breach his counter.

The impact isn't enough to disarm him, but it is enough to fling his swordarm wide as a result, leaving him for one very rare, very fleeting moment.

But one moment might be all that Cloud needs.]

[That's the awful thing about fighting Sephiroth, even in a friendly sparring session. Any variable, any mistake, any break from perfect form just simply isn't expected- or at least, not taken for what it was.

Instead of being taken as a mistake, it's taken as a deliberate movement, some form of deception that would lead into a feint, and a mistake of which would be his. Sephiroth hardly fought dirty, but exploiting someone wasn't anything of the sort.

So. The rare, fleeting moment isn't met with mercy. Nor is it met with a step back, or any opportunity to allow him to collect himself as he would offer anyone else in any sparring session otherwise.

As his swordarm is thrown wide- far wide- Cloud ducks underneath the thin, faintly vibrating, singing in a pitch barely audible, blade of the Masamune and brings the Beastlord upward, in an attempt to counter any feint that Sephiroth would so easily be able to twist his body into.

Except nothing comes.
He brings it down.

His sword lurches to a halt indeed, but it's not against steel. Or is it? The thing crunches into something metallic, sure. A shoulder pauldron? Had to be. He heard it crunch against the weight of the thing, heard it cave in as if it were nothing.

But...

It's against the living wall of a man just before him that it truly stops. he can hear the distinct sound of a blade cutting into muscle and sinew as the pauldron deflects it, but it's only really his body that forces it to stop.

Anyone else, and they'd likely be cleaved in two. Or not far from it, anyway. But this man? Even that much force, that much downward momentum is reduced to a surface wound. A nasty one, granted. Right into the chest- enough to slice open his overcoat, and to cause blood, but a far cry from Nibelheim.

...As is his reaction a far cry from back then.
Back then, he followed through. Now...

He stands, sword held stupidly in both hands, raised high again, above his head, as he stares at the wound. The blood blossoming, gushing, dripping, underneath the dull black of that torn coat. The skin that's opened, just as anyone else's skin would open- the torrents of blood filling the gaping slash, and pouring outward, dark and heavy and...

Something fills his mind. It's spontaneous, sudden.
The sword...

Once upon a time there were three brothers in a kingdom. The eldest of the three was the ruling king of the country. The king was very cruel and feared by everyone.

...
He drops the sword.
It's embedded in the ground behind him. And he moves forward.]

Shit-

[Is that all he can truly say?
His eyes are wide, wild, as his mind reels from both the blood, the fact he'd managed to injure him, and what just played in his mind.]

[His pauldron takes the hit first, blade piercing into the metal, well and truly leaving a dent. The overcoat is sliced clean through next, and soon he can feel the sharp sting of metal bite into skin and surface level muscle, can feel that very rare heat of pain rake across his chest, and the warm sensation of coppery-red flow from the wound.

It's unexpected. Startling. For anyone else it would be unbearable, but Sephiroth only finds himself rooted to the ground in the realization of what's happened; he had misstepped, miscalculated, because of the wings on his back throwing his balance off by the slightest degree, and paid for it. Injury is not utterly foreign to him -- when he was just a boy, new to the training and the handling of weapons, it had happened as part of the learning process -- but the years had ensured that such a thing was nigh impossible now.

A hand presses to his chest and blood ribbons between his fingers, proving him wrong, and it's more frustrating than alarming. To have faltered was of no fault of his own, not when he asked for these wings, but to have been so infallible and expected in his childhood years to be next to perfect, it’s like being upended, he can hear the tone of Hojo’s scolding in his head and he hates it-- he doesn't bite back the pain, or the disbelief, but only the agitation.]

These wings-

[He hisses low, dangerous, the rare instance of emotion peeking through the surface. But a deep disorientation suddenly filters through their Bond, and Sephiroth lifts his eyes to see a sword-less Cloud approaching.]

It's fine. Don't. [Spare his pride, won't you. Only Sephiroth would say that he's fine after a cut like that.]

[A few moments pass in staring and in wide-eyed disbelief.

When Sephiroth speaks, his mind is suddenly set alight- engulfed by so much more than that old story- some imagining that feels real.

What hits him in waves strong enough to knock that vaguely sentient sword's murmerings is Sephiroth's feeling. An image- Of a greying, stick thin man's callous disapproval. Of Sephiroth's own disorientation, his own disbelief, embarrassment- and most surprising of all, his own pain. Sephiroth could feel pain.

That...
That fact intermingles with Nibelheim in particular. The look in Sephiroth's eyes is almost identical to back then. The low, dangerous hiss of his voice.

It's no longer waves. It comes back in a torrent.
How dare you...

Fear grips him. The fear of back then, anyway. Perhaps Sephiroth can feel it too, the fear. The shock of seeing blood, of feeling his fingers, his knuckles, coated in it. It's the same fear as back then, but what's missing? Anger. The feeling of knowing the only option was to keep going. To-

He bites it back as much as he can.
This was different.

...

[He steps back, half-stumbling over the sword as he does.]

Doesn't look fine to me-

[...He's stopped bleeding? Already? He can see Sephiroth's hand. Gloved as ever, slippery with blood. But that torrent of it, it's-

It's stopped.]

....Uh.

[A few more seconds of silence follow. And he straightens himself.]

Sorry. That was cheap.

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