[Cloud digs his proverbial heels in with such predictability that Sephiroth cannot dredge up surprise or any lingering offense. Cellular degradation for the price of mako infusion. Very much like him to latch onto a logical, scientific explanation, one that would have the white lab coats at Shinra nodding in faint, detached agreement.
But as always, he looks past what doesn’t make sense — or perhaps that broken, fragmented mind of his cannot force the pieces back together without crying afoul of whatever it chooses to deny. After all, cellular degradation doesn’t account for a man named Zack Fair, and all the memories sewn into the name that Cloud, for whatever reason, cannot bring himself to acknowledge. Cellular degradation accounts for pain, and the slow breakdown of the body as it loses a war against the mako alight in its veins, shearing off years of one’s lifespan.
But this denial—it’s so strong, unrelated to the reasoning thrown his way, as well as the headaches paired with them. Though this reaction isn't quite the same, and Sephiroth watches Cloud warily as something seems to dangle itself before him, only to be snatched away.
Frowning, fingers tighten into leathers of his crossed arms.]
It isn’t a price I’ve paid.
[For contrast. Though perhaps Sephiroth is not the degree in which many are compared, he is, at least, a true SOLDIER in which Cloud should question his own mettle and memories against. He has no commentary in regards to this planet being terrible, though — they can agree on that.]
[of course it's not—of course it wouldn't be. everything about sephiroth was made to fit perfection; it's what cloud thought when he was a boy, watching in awe on the TV as the news would report on the feats of the man during the war, as shinra promoted joining the military efforts while displaying the super soldier as the hero they could all be.]
Because you're too perfect. [ground out with the same amount of contempt and annoyance, recovering from his stagger back against the wall.] And you would never stray from your missions, nor would you raise a hand against innocents—
[his hands are curled way too tightly into fists, his boots heavy as moves to stand in front of sephiroth, too strewn up with anxious energy.]
Why won't you acknowledge it? You killed so many, and for what?!
[this is now the moment cloud has decided to confront sephiroth and demand answers, the irony of having sephiroth accept a 'truth' completely lost on him.]
[It wasn’t how he meant it, but leave it to Cloud to take his words and twist them into blades to fling back. Sephiroth’s features harden, schooled into something cold and born out of frustration — he had thought, for a brief moment, that they had avoided the loop of the same accusations, the same void of distrust. Talk of truces had suggested as much, but it seems as though Cloud’s memory was short indeed; or his want of peaceable tolerance only applies when it’s convenient for him.
Frustrating, as usual. Piled atop his stubbornness when it comes to the medical facilities here, as well as a situation too new to dredge up old grievances, Sephiroth can feel his patience draining away. Poked holes by every little prodding shard of Cloud’s anger.]
I didn’t. I haven’t.
[Hypocritical. He can’t even see it.]
Are you going to start this again, now? Constantly asking for something I can’t answer— [If he could, he would. Does he think he doesn’t want to know just as badly?] —while ignoring a truth I’m trying to make you acknowledge?
Or are you scared of what you’ll learn? [He shifts to face Cloud fully now. The stars are of little concern, the reach of space framing his form from behind the thick, curving windows.] Is that why you’re choosing to ignore medical help here? It’s a senseless, idiotic decision.
[would it hurt sephiroth to just acknowledge that cloud's anger—hatred—fear—stems from somewhere real? as far as the blond is concerned, all this pushing conversation away from what he considers to be the only valid reality (regardless of timeline shifts) only reinforces cloud's mistaken belief that sephiroth is playing the long game; of making cloud lower his guard, to fulfill this yearning of wanting cloud to lend him a hand and defy fate together.]
[could sephiroth go to such lengths?]
[(of course he could.)]
You killed my mother.
[is there anything more pitiful than having his voice crack at that statement? at having to repeat it for sephiroth to hear—to acknowledge?]
You burnt — my hometown.
[his shoulders are squared, and it's really the vague recalling of their truce that keeps cloud's hands at his sides, away from the hilt of the buster sword.]
Don't call me idiotic when we both know you're the one trying to mess with my head!
[Accusations again, ones that withhold nothing -- ones that knife through him as revelations that once accosted him in South Sister, unearthed anew in this place, slipping like fire out of Cloud's mouth. This isn't the time or the place; his patience is already run as taut as a wire about to snap; and he feels it, that rarity, that flare of agitation prowling like a predator between his ribs.
What will this achieve now? Or ever? What does Cloud want from him, because nothing will ever be enough. He is wrong if he owns up to something he has never done, he is even more egregious if he lays claim to innocence. Cloud wants too much, something Sephiroth cannot give without an understanding of the future that evades him, and it's tiresome.
He's only willing to humor so much, and that line is almost crossed. Lowly, eyes like ice-]
Now is not the time. Walk away. This is your only warning.
[walk away, a command that would otherwise be followed, the steel of the general's voice and the cold in his eyes would so demand it. but, instead, it abruptly makes cloud take a step forward—defiant.]
When—?
[it suddenly feels hard to breathe; his chest constricted, filled not with air but with the usual burning of hatred that soaks in like blackened smoke. his footsteps heavier than usual, his express dark with intensity, his brows downturned.]
[A few days from now, or even tomorrow, Sephiroth’s mind will slide back to this moment and wished he had done differently. Kept himself reined in for only a second or two longer, enough time to ease in a harsh breath and choose to be the one to walk away. But Cloud has already pressed too many buttons, too many times — here and in South Sister. Always the same conversation, always Sephiroth with his baleful attempts at staunching that accusation and anger while trying to tamp down his own frustrations. Again and again.
Now, in the moment, that tenuous line of patience has frayed and snapped. He is tired of uttering the same thing, met only with the same result, and in the heat of belligerent rationale, it makes sense to take a different approach. To make his point quite clear, the result of a warning gone unheeded.
There’s no real warning, only the squeeze of thick leather as a gloved hand curls into a fist and swings straight at Cloud’s jawline, a knuckle careening across the cheekbone and into the cartridge of a nose. The movement is both mechanical and fluid — an insult in its own right, that it seems almost like a thoughtless, easy action from Sephiroth. Cold, even in passion.]
[were there to be any reminder of the strength that sephiroth possesses, it should be this moment alone. just because the man has remained still in inaction did not mean that he was incapable of causing damage if enough buttons were pushed. cloud stumbles back, hearing more so than feeling the crack of his nose, and it's thus unsurprising when blood flows down his nostrils—]
[a flare of hitched breath, followed by opening his mouth to be able to breathe out the gasp of surprise that he's unable to expel through his nose, and his skin paints red; on his lips, down to his chin. droplets stark against the floor, smeared blood as cloud tries to catch it on his gloved hand, as if in disbelief.]
[it takes those few, quick seconds for cloud's reigning anger to dissipate, like a brewing storm that disappears immediately with a particularly strong gust of wind.]
[a part of him wants to retaliate, and it shows in the anger that drifts into his blue eyes, staring back up to meet sephiroth's own pair of gleaming jade, but something else comes forth, too—recognition, understanding.]
Fuck you.
[is what he spares past his lips, muffled only by the hand that covers his bruised nose (his bruised pride), and it is with that and nothing else that cloud walks away; stiff and reluctant, pride hurt, but at least with a clearer head, even if blood had to be drawn for him to reach that point.]
[Sephiroth is familiar with gazes that care only for assessment—such are the follies and adaptations that come with growing up in a lab, in the military, in the cavernous belly of a megacorporation—and he spots it clearly etched into the face of this stranger, who makes no attempt to otherwise hide it. In that passing moment, there is an exchange of close considerations, then, but the SOLDIER can only come up short. Given no context, there is no information to glean, beyond that faint ghost of relief as the other casts his gaze towards that darkened universe.
For all of his distant air and middling attempts at conversation, though, it isn’t hard to unearth his curiosity. Strangers who come bearing strange statements manage it more easily than most.]
You almost look relieved.
[No offense, mere observation.]
I’ve had many strangers say they know me in this place. Should I add you to the collection?
[ It isn't as though he was trying to hide it, and Sasuke doesn't feel he's giving anything away that could be used against him. Besides, the only person he knows personally here isn't relevant to the present concern. He looks at the man again, as though giving him another consideration to place him in memory, then shakes his head. His stature is far too imposing up close to mistake for anyone else. Beyond that, now that he isn't distracted by his own worry, there's a presence to this man that isn't chakra but alerts something in him all the same. ]
No. But I know what you mean. Others know me, too.
[And he is, quite unfortunately, correct. The name is a strange one and wholly unrecognizable to him.]
No.
[Simple enough, but if only there were fewer implications to already untangle in their short exchange. Sephiroth’s had many people say that they know him—whether it’s because he hails from some far flung future, or is a figure in a story tossed around in a world’s tale, or from some unknown place altogether—and one might think he’s used to it.
And as any mind who might linger on existential uncertainty can assume: no, he isn’t.]
Close. It was the name of a city in another pocket dimension like this one. I met you there.
As crazy as that sounds, I can prove it. You have a really stupidly long sword and wear a leather getup that’s something straight out of a BDSM club. (And I’d know, I’ve been to one now.) AND you knew these two guys in your organization or whatever. One was really tall and broad with a stupidly WIDE sword. And the other had like auburn hair and wore a red coat and looked like he did modeling parttime.
[Despite circumstances being ridiculous—and this is not even his first instance of inter-dimensional kidnapping or what-have-you, Stiles’ text completely upends his train of thought. It’s far too exact to be a simple lucky guess, citing old friends that he had never mentioned to anyone here or in South Sister.
A handful of moments pass before he sends a reply. (Comments regarding BDSM are thoroughly ignored.)]
How do you know that? Even if another version of myself from a “pocket dimension” existed, why would I have told you about those two men?
[There is something odd about this man, he thinks.
It is an oversimplification of a deeper impression he cannot quite label, because there is a striking paradox to this dark-haired stranger that confuses him. His frame, turned away and removed from the group, reads as the same sort of distance Sephiroth likes to wedge between himself and others; and yet he had followed him with subtle regularity, makes no attempt to deny it, and glances at him with a dull spark of what he can only describe as—
As what? Recognition? Perhaps, but that does not feel right, either; as though the truth is layered beneath whatever this man has chosen to keep to himself. Sephiroth, cuttingly curious at the worst of times, wants to pry it loose and plant it between them, so that he may know.
He looks at Itachi with eyes that are familiar in their feline appearance, but everything else—as Itachi might know him—is gone. No feathers, no wings. No clawed fingertips that had raked against his skin once before, on that planet some other version of himself existed upon. It is as though he has been reset — Sephiroth, SOLDIER 1st Class, as human as a man like him can really be, free of transformation, barring the glimmer of a sapphire crawling up the curve of his neck.]
It bothers me that I don’t know why. Do I interest you that much? Or do I frighten you, so that you cannot make your intentions clear?
[In the cold moment of confrontation, he takes stock of all of these differences. He hadn't known a Sephiroth without the features of a monster: those long, shiny feathers; the point of fierce talons; the span of silver wings that had enclosed him within their possessive circle. And the memory, too, has faded as if weathered away by the sun's heat. Their conversations, while a tentative exploration of similar traits and behaviors at first, had broached topics so few ever knew about him.
Itachi recognizes his advantage. He knows this man's future, if it's still obscured to Sephiroth as it was for a time in Aefenglom. He owns information. What now should he do with it? He had left that world before they had a chance to untangle the messy threads of their repeated, hungry exchanges, and in the wake of everything he's uncertain of his next step.
Truth, or deflection? Sephiroth will scent it out one way or another.]
No. It isn't fear. [Black eyes look the man over, understanding better why he would think that.] You interest me, but not for the reasons you might assume.
[Behind them, the GemSci soldiers have begun filing individuals onto the shuttle. Itachi remains standing where he is.]
I knew you well, once. You have no memory of it. In my position, how would you approach this interaction?
[To be fair… she has a right to feel that way. Sephiroth is intimidating on the best of days, and without knowing that either of them hail from the same experiences—that foggy island town—then who is to know what to expect?
But if there are faces familiar to him, and those who remember South Sister, then he cannot ignore the opportunity. The repsonse is short, quick:]
I’ll be there. Don’t make me wait.
[And maybe a little unfriendly, tinged with military command, though it isn’t his intent to be prickly.
Having no reason to delay, he doesn’t. There’s no further communique before Sephiroth arrives in the plaza, easy enough to spot by his swaying silver hair, the dark silhouette of his leathers, and of course, the glinting curve of Masamune aligned to his spine.]
[Eventually, he finds the challenge is not much of a challenge at all — Sephiroth is keen enough to know where to look, to find those nestled away in the less fortunate parts of the city, and it was painfully easy to locate children who were eager to take the cotton candy from his hands. A boy and two little girls, uncertain how to process the SOLDIER’s admittedly unusual appearance, torn between wariness and curiosity, lingering several paces behind him. Yet curiosity had won, as it is wont to do, and soon he was confection-free.
If only it were so easy, though. Sephiroth had found it increasingly difficult to leave, which is where the challenge truly began to lie. After all, he was a strange-looking newcomer, a gembonded, they were told — and was that his real hair color, and why did his eyes look that way? They liked his clothes, though, and he was really tall! Oh, could they touch his hair? Just for a little bit.
“A little bit later”, with Sephiroth gracious enough to humor them (or inexperienced in dealing with children and the best way to shoo them away without terrifying them utterly and completely), he walks away from the initial meeting a few hours later, with two loose braids woven into his hair — a messy one strung the front of the right side of his bangs, and an equally haphazard attempt swinging loose down his hair, started only halfway down his back.
An inconvenience at best, one he intends to remedy once he returns to his assigned housing, but fate plays a strange hand today: during his wanderings through the crowd, passing a darkened alleyway, he finds Yuri for the third time. The circumstances are quite different than the last few encounters, this time veiled with a threat. A mugging on the precipice of initiation; the glinting threat of a knife.]
…
[He could continue, but while Sephiroth is not petty, he is not quite heartless and altogether cruel. He slips into the shadows of the alleyway, fading into the darkness with ease were it not for the pinpricks of his eyes, lit with green as he approaches the men from behind. The trepidation that usually comes paired with caution does not seem to apply — Sephiroth might melt into the dark, all black leather and easy strides, but he doesn’t care for stealth or subtlety. In fact, he merely reaches out as though he were interrupting an idle conversation, and grasps tight that knife-gripping wrist until he can feel the man’s bones pressing against the muscles of his gloved palm.]
( At first, Yuri isn't sure of what he's seeing. There's movement in his periphery that quickly stills to shadow again, unremarkable but for the twin points of green now looking out onto the scene between the buildings. It's a funny old world, huh? This morning Yuri wouldn't have been able to describe those eyes as anything other than unusual, but now? He knows who they belong to. He's curious as to what he'll do.
His preference for shoulder-to-floor black reveals itself to be incredibly practical as, whisper-quiet, the man from earlier steps out of the shadows and curls a gloved hand around the mugger's wrist. For a moment he seems poised to struggle — but something about the grip changes enough to prompt a frightened pallor into his face. )
... He's right, you know.
( Yuri adds, addressing the man holding him against the wall. )
And between you and me? This guy looks a lot scarier than the two of you put together, and then some.
( Which seems to be more than enough for the unfortunate opportunists. Their first mistake had been in thinking they could see this through to the end anyway, but now that Yuri has ... assistance? It's clear they need to cut their losses and run — which is precisely what they do. With the number of occupants in the alley halved, Yuri steps away from the wall and takes a moment to dust off his shirt: )
Well, that was fun. It's not often I get to be the damsel in distress.
( Satisfied with his appearance, he finally turns towards the other man and offers a wry smile. )
[It's usually all the effort Sephiroth ever needs to exert to shoo away unwanted attention, not even needing to utilize the shine of an overlong blade to act as a threat -- his countenance is more than enough for it. He allows one to slip from his grasp, turning his head to watch them disappear out of the shadows of the alleyway and into the adjoining street. Soon, they're lost in the drone and flow of the crowd passing by.
Only then does the SOLDIER slide his gaze, still an incandescent glow in the gloom, back to Yuri. Whatever or whoever is orchestrating the events of this day, it seems to be determined to have their paths cross again and again.
Third time is the charm. Though there was hardly anything charming about this run-in.]
You don't owe me anything. There's satisfaction enough in chasing individuals like that away.
[Without thinking, a gloved hand moves up to brush aside a badly-twined braid strung into one of his bangs aside. It simply falls back into place.]
( Yuri nods, lilac eyes briefly catching on the lopsided braid woven into the fall of his bangs. It's pretty obvious he didn't put it there himself — he seems like the type who would take more care with his work — which leads him to wonder what exactly he's been up to since they last ran into one another. Could it be that he took his advice and sought out some children after all? )
Hm.
( That smile softens ever so slightly, and Yuri takes a step forwards before gesturing towards Sephiroth's hair. )
If you won't let me repay you properly, at least let me sort out your hair.
( He raises an eyebrow. )
The braid kind of ruins the menacing look. I'd practice it a little more before you wear it again.
( Clearly teasing, Yuri lifts his hands just enough to indicate that he'd like to start carefully picking the thing apart. That said, he isn't the kind of person who'll invade someone's personal space like that without giving them the opportunity to refuse, and so he waits for a nod of assent before he actually touches those silver strands. )
[He’s silent as Yuri nears, and all signs may point to Sephiroth about to deny the offer, cold and dismissive. But that silence lasts but a moment before he tilts his chin downwards, leaving his features at a slight angle, just enough to allow the braid to dangle with more room and freedom for the other man to wind his fingers through.
He could do it himself — he can. But if Yuri wishes to show his thanks by way of making it more convenient for Sephiroth now, then he’s not so discourteous to sever their conversation a third time.]
I didn’t do this.
[That’s almost obvious, surely, that a man like him wearing a braid like this is an impossibility. It is too messy; and he is too prideful, and too militant, to wear anything so carelessly — braid or no.]
( His lips quirk with amusement as he begins to gently unweave the lop-sided braid. It doesn't take him long, his movements practiced and quick from years of entertaining street kids, and when the strands are finally free he gives them one last finger-comb. )
Does that mean you took my advice?
( Yuri opts against mentioning the fact that the man's hair seems to be holding on to a gentle wave, and instead moves around him to look for more of the little girl's handiwork. Having already been granted permission once, he doesn't bother checking in when he finds the second braid, but rather he begins the process again after carefully separating it from the rest of his hair. )
I wasn't holding out much hope that you would.
( Conversational, as he unravels the gleaming loops. )
[The first braid undone, Sephiroth can see the waves imparted unto the silver strands — they hang in field of view as Yuri moves around him, and the SOLDIER remains still as fingers dive and separate locks of his hair. The permission is unspoken, but still very much applicable.
He is used to waiting; having things done to him until told he can move again, though usually in the context of somewhere more sterile, more empirical, than the darkened clearance of an alleyway. Even so, the old habit serves him well, and he responds without so much as shifting his weight.]
Why wouldn’t I have taken your advice?
[A bad encounter does not a bad idea make.]
Or did you think I would toss the sweets away just to spite you?
( With the second braid unbound, Yuri once again cards his fingers through the slip of silver until the waves are incorporated with the rest of his hair. )
Honestly? You seemed a little ... petty. ( Hey, at least he's affording Sephiroth some straight-talking honesty. ) And I didn't know how far that would stretch.
( Yuri moves back around to Sephiroth's front, his expression pleasant enough to suggest that he doesn't mean any offence by his assessment. He's simply stating fact; no doubt this man has formed his own opinions about Yuri, too, and he's going to go ahead and assume "petty" doesn't even scratch the surface. )
Anyway, thanks for proving me wrong — and for coming to my rescue.
( An easy smile curves his lips. Yuri takes a step back and folds his arms over his chest: )
What's your name? I can't just keep calling you "handsome" — someone might get the wrong idea.
[Petty. It's a correct assessment, an unflattering trait dredged up by a simple flare of agitation. But his pride remains unscatched, mostly because there's no heat to the accusation; and he prefers straightforwardness in all things, as opposed to dancing around the point.
The weight of braid no longer pulls at his scalp, and Yuri glides into his view again. Sephiroth reflects his body language with crossed arms of his own.]
Never to the detriment of others who have nothing to do with it.
[Yuri may take that as he will, but it's as good as an assent. Maybe he was being a little surly.]
The wrong idea that you think I'm handsome? [Wry, dry as bone, but another concession:] My name is Sephiroth. And there's no need for thanks. You barely looked fazed.
[Which implies some mode of capability, he assumes.]
[Vincent is correct where matters of pride are concerned. But it seems to be no great facade or game he’s playing, because Sephiroth truly does not recognize this man, and the way his gaze seems to be searching for answers reveals as much.
He turns the implications over in his mind, testing the feel of them.]
That’s no great feat.
[He’s Sephiroth, the war hero, the face of Shinra’s propaganda during the war. Many know his name, but Vincent speaks from some point of familiarity — so maybe he’s just being vaguely difficult on purpose. It wouldn’t be unlike Sephiroth to do so.]
Are you going to claim to be from my future, as well?
[Ah, perhaps this is nothing new; but the concept still settles unwell in him, even if he had stumbled across the notion in the world he was in last.]
[Vincent's gaze flickers down, breaking eye contact, as he considers what Sephiroth says and finds he has no counter-argument. The man, he'd found out, was unsurprisingly a war hero, Shinra's poster boy.
He looks up again to meet Sephiroth's gaze as his question, surprised by it.]
'As well'? Are you implying someone else is making that claim? [At this point, Sephiroth wasn't the only familiar face he'd come across but none knew who he was. There's a spark of hope now that someone might be here who is not only from his world, not only someone he knows, but someone who knows him as well. A novel concept.
He's also unsure how to answer Sephiroth's question. Part of him feels like saying that he's from his past is almost more accurate in a strange way.]
[Sephiroth, on the other hand, isn’t one for bartering. The SOLDIER prefers to keep his interactions, the needless back and forth, to an absolute minimum — perhaps less beneficial to one’s figurative wallet, but the gembonded are given such a discount on account of merely existing that it hardly matters.
He’s here to find ingredients—perhaps a rice cooker wouldn’t go astray—and weaves through the crowd with the distinct practice of a man used to avoiding them. But a very familIar voice halts his gait; cat’s eyes quickly dart in its direction, and lands on the muscular form of the only man it could belong to.]
Angeal?
[The name is out of his mouth before he can reel it back in, like a stone falling from his lips. Something in his chest tightens, and Sephiroth’s usually placid look becomes shadowed with uncertainty.]
[If their circumstances were anything close to what passed for normal between the pair of them, he'd be happy to argue every single one of those points, thank you very much. Back and forth is never needless, and the only thing better than a discount is a further discount. Waste is waste- would be a point he'd be keen to put across. In regard to something as mundane as discount appliances, or anything else far more important.
...But the opportunity for that's long gone. It's not the surroundings that have made things different. Nor the situation. It's... laughable, actually, that for how strange it is, this environment has nothing to do with the fact that things had changed. That Sephiroth himself isn't the only one experiencing tightness of the chest, much less an uncertain look on his face which can't be hidden, no matter how he tries.]
Sephiroth.
[He turns then, leaving the merchant to go about his sums. He takes the measure of him keenly enough, and whereas most would see an intimidating man, he sees...
[You look like hell. What a very Angeal thing to say, when he’s not the dead man in this conversation.
Sephiroth looks struck for a moment, as though the words have their physical ramifications and a silence runs long between them as he searches for words. His friend—a friend, truly standing before him as though he were real again—should know that he struggles with this from time to time, but it is only indication that the effort is sincere.]
A lot has happened since I’ve seen you last.
[As though that should explain anything. But since they last spoke, Sephiroth has been so detached from this man — even beyond Gaia, where he’s been stolen from not one world, but two in-between.]
...How is this possible?
[Does Angeal know? About his own fate? Or is this merely another instance of time being cruel to him, again and again, misaligning what should be and what is?]
[He's not above guilt. Despite indeed, the comment about Sephiroth looking like he'd seen a ghost sounding like something he would say in jest, allusion to an imaginary hell and all, a concern lines his features, as well as... well, a fair amount of the aforementioned. Guilt, of course. For at least some of the reason why this man looked so haggard, or at least the beginning of the reasons why... is him.
The words he couldn't say back then. The measures he'd gone to. And though... honestly, he couldn't give less than a damn about what'd happened after him, with Shinra, with Hollander... even with Genesis, (as much as that wounded him to admit) Sephiroth himself feels like a wound.
A gaping one, bleeding out in emotion that he thought had all but been eroded. A regret? Absolutely. If only for the way it was done. This man deserved better.
He outstretches an arm.]
I'm real. I'm alive here. Breathing, pulse, more or less all together. ...But not there. I don't know how. Or why.
[For all that Sephiroth keeps his emotions behind steel bars, he is—for all intents and technical purposes—still human. There’s only so much that he can process like a machine, take the facts and revelations as they are, without showing any manner of caring across his face. And in this moment, that stoicism cracks, and his frown is clear for all around to see — directed, of course, to Angeal.]
So much has happened. [He repeats, and this time he’s reaching with a gloved hand to grip around the man’s forearm. He’s real. Solid. This seems to be its own confirmation, and he inhales, sharply.] Too much to relay.
[But he drops his hand, retracting it.]
But I’m— glad to see you. For what it's worth, you were missed.
[He notes the frown. And he knows- truly knows- the extent of emotion it took for it to happen.
It's not like Sephiroth can't feel. He worked that out a long time ago- it's just... his outward showing of them, he always figured, was smaller than anyone else's. The most devastating thing, something that'd bring on tears, physical pain, in someone else is reduced to microexpression with him. Inside, it's just as painful as it would be for anyone else. Outside, it's different. The reason? ...He hasn't worked that out. But reason doesn't really matter. Sephiroth just is.
So. As his forearm is squeezed, he's still. He allows the other to take the measure of him, allows him time to tell himself he's not some ghost, and after he's spoken...]
Pretty sure I don't deserve to see you again. But... I'm glad, too.
[He turns. ...And yes, he's the only person in the world that'd give Sephiroth, of all people, the Great Hero, a boxed rice cooker. For his part, he takes the rest.]
Be even happier to see you if you don't mind taking this back with me. Arms're kind of full.
[Angeal understands what his stifled showings of emotions really mean; that there’s sometimes a storm brewing beneath the surface, one that he keeps controlled just as he chooses to control most of what surrounds him. And though that understanding can be frustrating—often times, he’s been called out more than he likes by the man—right now? There’s a strange comfort in knowing someone here, on this alien planet, understands a measure of him, when everyone else looks upon him with fear for what the future might bring.
The topic of his friend’s undeserving is one that needs to be addressed, but Angeal expertly circumvents the subject for now by pushing a rice cooker into his arms. Instinctively, Sephiroth finds himself carrying it — which makes for a laughable sight, no doubt.]
Only you would connect your happiness to my ability to carry your mundane purchases.
[But there’s something to be said about how he’s willing to do it, nonetheless.]
Are you finished shopping? [Are they going to have to walk and talk to catch-up? Did Sephiroth catch his old friend in the middle of a shopping expedition, or near the end? The beginning?]
[A quirk of his lips accompanies that. He's hardly the sort that's boorish enough to actually belly laugh, but for his own sins, his emotions are best expressed in a faint quirk of his lip and a glint in his eye. And honestly? It's as good as.]
A little mundanity now prevents expense later. Have you seen how much it costs to actually eat out here? Even with the discount, it's daylight robbery.
[They're about done here. The cashier is looking suitably robbed, Sephiroth is looking suitably encumbered, and really? He'd wanted to get a few more things, actually. But it can wait.]
More or less. Come back to where I'm staying. There's a meal in it for you.
[And. He can't help himself but voice an observation.]
[He replies almost too-quickly, a sort of deflection for the sake of his pride. Is Angeal going to tell him that he looks as though he’s lost weight? That implies a discontentedness—long-term and far-reaching—that Sephiroth would rather not admit to.]
Well enough, a diet no different than what you would find on Gaia.
[For a SOLDIER who considers his body more a weapon than a temple. Bland, nutritional foods. Nothing with extra or excessive flair.]
But fine. Lead the way. ...I want to see where you’ve settled.
[Most of him wants to catch him in that. He wants to ask if hell's frozen over, if he's cooking for himself while he's here, but other than a faint sound of acknowledgement, he lets it lie. If Sephiroth has grown thin, he can take a pretty good guess why.
...And that's not anything he wants to go into, either.
He simply focuses on leading the way, and before long, they arrive at an apartment building. It's hardly the most glamourous of places. The outside is dingy, strewn with rubbish and it's not exactly in the nicest area of town, but as they make their way into the complex and to the correct apartment, it's better on the inside at least. It's pretty large, expansive, with large windows, wooden floors, and it lets in quite a lot of light.
...And yeah, it's spartan. Other than a barely used sofa, the living room is more or less vacant of, well, anything. No tables, no furniture, and certainly no TV. (Though knowing Angeal, perhaps the latter wouldn't be a surprise.)]
[No more spartan than his own living space, which is saying something, given Sephiroth has been here for a month longer than Angeal’s arrival. But that, too, should be nothing surprising. Sephiroth had always lived like a military utilitarian, seeing no need for opulence or excess — his friend would know that.
But as he moves to set aside the other SOLDIER’s purchase on the nearest flat surface, the question can be seen stiffening his shoulders. A moment in which his hands freeze while placing down the rice cooker, until time moves on again, seconds crawling by like nothing happened.]
No. [With a tone devoid of any emotion, purposefully so, one might wonder what’s the point in the presence of this man.] He isn’t here. I think for now, that’s for the best.
[Honestly, Sephiroth. If on the rare occasion he can't see through you, you kind of make it easy sometimes by becoming even more unyielding.
But he should have guessed. Even... as disconnected to Shinra he had been since he defected, he could still take an (educated) guess as to what happened post-Modeoheim. He knew the company well enough, after all- and in his mind, the company would believe Genesis was dead.
Him, personally? ...Yeah. But death, non-death, irrelevant. Even if he wasn't, it wouldn't be long before he was, but even then- it'd be slow. Painful. (Pain. That bothers him to think about. It's marked by a brief scowl, a momentary darkening of his eyes, but he doesn't comment on it.)]
...What... I am...
[A monster.]
...Is different here. What Hollander wanted from me, [The conduit. The reason Shinra enabled his existence, and what made him less.] I can't do. Tried. Probably shouldnt've, but I wanted to know. Something's changed. I wondered, if he was around, somewhere, if the same would apply to him.
[And would it mean either of them had any right to exist? ...Jury's still out on that one.]
[The pause hangs heavy before Sephiroth situates the rice cooker properly on the table, turning around to face Angeal. Though it is an ultimately futile effort, the silver-haired SOLDIER keeps his expression schooled as he looks at his friend, as though it is the easiest way (the only way) he knows how to approach where this conversation has begun to tread.
He hates the feeling of ball bearings in his throat. Inefficient and unasked for. He pushes through as always.]
Angeal... this place is one of changes. [He means that literally, though perhaps figurative would be just as well.] Many here have lost their abilities from home. And everyone has gained something new.
[In magic. In monstrous forms that appear like clockwork, month to month. Still, Sephiroth's gaze sharpens.]
And yet that doesn't make what was done any less- [A pause. What's the right word?] -affecting. You don't need to explain anything to me. The company's lies are like a web; I think I may have been caught in them, as well.
[And Sephiroth's right- talking about these things isn't going to lead to any possible way of viewing something somewhat differently, to any plausible revelation. To anything, really. And the philosophical question of a monster being a monster if it's defanged has an answer that he knows well, already.
Of course it is. Even if everyone else was one here, it doesn't change anything.
So he's eager to switch focus. His eyes follow Sephiroth as he moves, sharpening, faintly, to watch the microexpressions unfold over his face, telling of thier own story when Sephiroth's words were not, and a hand moves to rub his face at what he says.]
You don't have to explain it to me, either. But if you want to, I'm listening. Could even-
[Ah. It crossed his mind to say something sardonic, like if a liar knew a liar, surely someone lied to would be in a good position to confirm or deny Sephiroth's suspicions.
But no. The statement's far too serious for joviality. He cares too much. He finds the corners of his lips pulling downward.]
If it feels wrong, it is. You've had far too good a head on your shoulders for too long for paranoia.
[A good head on his shoulders. It feels as though Angeal is the only person that would say something so flattering of Sephiroth these days; no one else places that kind of trust in his hands, not anyone from their Planet, at least.
His shoulders rise from a deep inhale, let out silently, before a reply comes.]
You would say that.
[Despite the plain delivery, there is something a little fonder in that statement.]
There are many others here from our Planet. Like the two of us, many of them come from disparate timelines. They are all from my future.
[Perhaps Angeal knows where this is going. Things did not go well for two of his friends, who were 1st Classes like himself; why should he be immune from the tragedy of the fate, spun by Shinra itself?]
They don’t have kind things to say about me. [To say the least.]
[He can take a stab at it, sure, he could place Sephiroth in his and Genesis' (sinking) boats as a hypothetical, but imagining it isn't anything that sticks with him as probable. And why should it? Both he and Genesis, to him, were created under Hollander's project. Hollander is a man he knows as both a hack and an idiot. Sephiroth under Hojo... was different. Right?
Hojo might have been a creepy bastard, but... Surely the same idiocy couldn't have taken place under two different scientists. Soyeah. The monster thing doesn't stick.
So his mind turns to some of the other ways working for Shinra happened to suck.]
...Whatever they had you do, it's the job. It's not you. The fact you're bothered about it shows that.
[Angeal's reassurance is such a familiar thing. Easy to slip into, easy to sharpen his focus onto what matters. The problem lies in these unusual circumstances; were his focus has been too long on questions about himself, not some mission flung into their laps via the Shinra higher-ups, something that a SOLDIER can well and truly lose himself in.
This place's problem is that it gives Sephiroth too much time to think. And that is dangerous for a man like him, whose doubts have already needled deeper into his mind than anyone--even himself--can give him credit for.]
I don't know anymore, Angeal.
[Sephiroth seems to command his countenance to fall in-line, harden and shake off the remnant of these thoughts for now. His arms cross.]
Many of these questions can't be confronted until I return home. That is the simple reality.
[Indeed, thinking is a dangerous thing. Better to be busy, to play the part of the guy that simply followed orders, be it orders that involved being lapdog or enforcer. That was how they'd always got by, wasn't it? To leave the thinking, the awful truth of everything to higher pay grades, people paid solely for their talent at leaving their morals at the door. Paid sociopaths, essentially.
To be unthinking, unfeeling, was the SOLDIER way. Because the alternative was oblivion.
Hell, it was the way throughout the Company. From the most senior members of the board to the lowest interns, fronts were vital. But for them in particular, he, Sephiroth, and Genesis- all they could do was direct the parts of them that couldn't keep up the pretense any longer at each other- under so many bizarre excuses that made up their friendship. Training, drills, improvement for Sephiroth- Jealousy, the desire to overcome and to surpass for Genesis, and for him?
...A number of things. But it wasn't just that. To him, it was touching base. To re-establish, even in the most minute sense, that he could still care for others. To make sure that the two people he cared for most didn't drown in the thoughts that came between missions.
Things were that simple once. But his own thoughts had overwhelmed him.
But.]
Well, I do. Most people think you're a real piece of work underneath the hero thing the marketing department pulled on you.
[A real piece of work. It's... vaguely funny. Because he's nothing close. He's... awkward, sure. Growing up the way he did saw to that. A little arrogant, of course- and again, cause and effect of being the person he is, having the gifts he has. Closed with most, consummately professional in word and in deed- even when said deed is forcing his blade through the Company's enemies.
Yet he knows more. Sephiroth's a quiet person. Sensitive, even. He dwells, he thinks, even when he knows he shouldn't. But he has a sense of humour. And even a side which tends to allow for some extremely ...interesting acts in recreation time such as a certain question of whether or not he could use the masamune as a javelin. ]
Thirds to seconds're mostly afraid of you, Firsts... [A faint laugh.] Either think they're going to be the next you, or they resent you because they're at the peak of everything they can be, but they're nowhere close.
[His eyes meet his, then.]
But that's never bothered you.
[It only bothered him with Genesis. Because he opened himself to him, more than likely. But.]
So this? It's something else. And if you can only answer it when you get back, then I guess all I can do is take the edge off. So, we're training. Don't have a blade, so it'll have to be hand-to-hand. Hope you're as rusty as me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
supersoldier) wrote2021-01-21 03:30 pm
@coraza
[Cloud digs his proverbial heels in with such predictability that Sephiroth cannot dredge up surprise or any lingering offense. Cellular degradation for the price of mako infusion. Very much like him to latch onto a logical, scientific explanation, one that would have the white lab coats at Shinra nodding in faint, detached agreement.
But as always, he looks past what doesn’t make sense — or perhaps that broken, fragmented mind of his cannot force the pieces back together without crying afoul of whatever it chooses to deny. After all, cellular degradation doesn’t account for a man named Zack Fair, and all the memories sewn into the name that Cloud, for whatever reason, cannot bring himself to acknowledge. Cellular degradation accounts for pain, and the slow breakdown of the body as it loses a war against the mako alight in its veins, shearing off years of one’s lifespan.
But this denial—it’s so strong, unrelated to the reasoning thrown his way, as well as the headaches paired with them. Though this reaction isn't quite the same, and Sephiroth watches Cloud warily as something seems to dangle itself before him, only to be snatched away.
Frowning, fingers tighten into leathers of his crossed arms.]
It isn’t a price I’ve paid.
[For contrast. Though perhaps Sephiroth is not the degree in which many are compared, he is, at least, a true SOLDIER in which Cloud should question his own mettle and memories against. He has no commentary in regards to this planet being terrible, though — they can agree on that.]
no subject
Because you're too perfect. [ground out with the same amount of contempt and annoyance, recovering from his stagger back against the wall.] And you would never stray from your missions, nor would you raise a hand against innocents—
[his hands are curled way too tightly into fists, his boots heavy as moves to stand in front of sephiroth, too strewn up with anxious energy.]
Why won't you acknowledge it? You killed so many, and for what?!
[this is now the moment cloud has decided to confront sephiroth and demand answers, the irony of having sephiroth accept a 'truth' completely lost on him.]
no subject
Frustrating, as usual. Piled atop his stubbornness when it comes to the medical facilities here, as well as a situation too new to dredge up old grievances, Sephiroth can feel his patience draining away. Poked holes by every little prodding shard of Cloud’s anger.]
I didn’t. I haven’t.
[Hypocritical. He can’t even see it.]
Are you going to start this again, now? Constantly asking for something I can’t answer— [If he could, he would. Does he think he doesn’t want to know just as badly?] —while ignoring a truth I’m trying to make you acknowledge?
Or are you scared of what you’ll learn? [He shifts to face Cloud fully now. The stars are of little concern, the reach of space framing his form from behind the thick, curving windows.] Is that why you’re choosing to ignore medical help here? It’s a senseless, idiotic decision.
no subject
[could sephiroth go to such lengths?]
[(of course he could.)]
You killed my mother.
[is there anything more pitiful than having his voice crack at that statement? at having to repeat it for sephiroth to hear—to acknowledge?]
You burnt — my hometown.
[his shoulders are squared, and it's really the vague recalling of their truce that keeps cloud's hands at his sides, away from the hilt of the buster sword.]
Don't call me idiotic when we both know you're the one trying to mess with my head!
no subject
What will this achieve now? Or ever? What does Cloud want from him, because nothing will ever be enough. He is wrong if he owns up to something he has never done, he is even more egregious if he lays claim to innocence. Cloud wants too much, something Sephiroth cannot give without an understanding of the future that evades him, and it's tiresome.
He's only willing to humor so much, and that line is almost crossed. Lowly, eyes like ice-]
Now is not the time. Walk away. This is your only warning.
no subject
When—?
[it suddenly feels hard to breathe; his chest constricted, filled not with air but with the usual burning of hatred that soaks in like blackened smoke. his footsteps heavier than usual, his express dark with intensity, his brows downturned.]
Or what? You'll burn me too?
[so much for warnings..]
Wheeze
Now, in the moment, that tenuous line of patience has frayed and snapped. He is tired of uttering the same thing, met only with the same result, and in the heat of belligerent rationale, it makes sense to take a different approach. To make his point quite clear, the result of a warning gone unheeded.
There’s no real warning, only the squeeze of thick leather as a gloved hand curls into a fist and swings straight at Cloud’s jawline, a knuckle careening across the cheekbone and into the cartridge of a nose. The movement is both mechanical and fluid — an insult in its own right, that it seems almost like a thoughtless, easy action from Sephiroth. Cold, even in passion.]
we did it
[a flare of hitched breath, followed by opening his mouth to be able to breathe out the gasp of surprise that he's unable to expel through his nose, and his skin paints red; on his lips, down to his chin. droplets stark against the floor, smeared blood as cloud tries to catch it on his gloved hand, as if in disbelief.]
[it takes those few, quick seconds for cloud's reigning anger to dissipate, like a brewing storm that disappears immediately with a particularly strong gust of wind.]
[a part of him wants to retaliate, and it shows in the anger that drifts into his blue eyes, staring back up to meet sephiroth's own pair of gleaming jade, but something else comes forth, too—recognition, understanding.]
Fuck you.
[is what he spares past his lips, muffled only by the hand that covers his bruised nose (his bruised pride), and it is with that and nothing else that cloud walks away; stiff and reluctant, pride hurt, but at least with a clearer head, even if blood had to be drawn for him to reach that point.]
@penitents
[Sephiroth is familiar with gazes that care only for assessment—such are the follies and adaptations that come with growing up in a lab, in the military, in the cavernous belly of a megacorporation—and he spots it clearly etched into the face of this stranger, who makes no attempt to otherwise hide it. In that passing moment, there is an exchange of close considerations, then, but the SOLDIER can only come up short. Given no context, there is no information to glean, beyond that faint ghost of relief as the other casts his gaze towards that darkened universe.
For all of his distant air and middling attempts at conversation, though, it isn’t hard to unearth his curiosity. Strangers who come bearing strange statements manage it more easily than most.]
You almost look relieved.
[No offense, mere observation.]
I’ve had many strangers say they know me in this place. Should I add you to the collection?
late but hope this is still ok ♡
No. But I know what you mean. Others know me, too.
[ At least one does. ]
Or some version of me, anyway.
@mensrea
[And he is, quite unfortunately, correct. The name is a strange one and wholly unrecognizable to him.]
No.
[Simple enough, but if only there were fewer implications to already untangle in their short exchange. Sephiroth’s had many people say that they know him—whether it’s because he hails from some far flung future, or is a figure in a story tossed around in a world’s tale, or from some unknown place altogether—and one might think he’s used to it.
And as any mind who might linger on existential uncertainty can assume: no, he isn’t.]
I assume that’s the name of a planet?
no subject
As crazy as that sounds, I can prove it. You have a really stupidly long sword and wear a leather getup that’s something straight out of a BDSM club. (And I’d know, I’ve been to one now.) AND you knew these two guys in your organization or whatever. One was really tall and broad with a stupidly WIDE sword. And the other had like auburn hair and wore a red coat and looked like he did modeling parttime.
Also, you’re from Gaia.
no subject
A handful of moments pass before he sends a reply. (Comments regarding BDSM are thoroughly ignored.)]
How do you know that? Even if another version of myself from a “pocket dimension” existed, why would I have told you about those two men?
no subject
[ A full minute passes before he follows it up. ]
lol just kidding, long story short I saw a memory of yours involving them. Don’t worry, it wasn’t anything too invasive.
@anbu
[There is something odd about this man, he thinks.
It is an oversimplification of a deeper impression he cannot quite label, because there is a striking paradox to this dark-haired stranger that confuses him. His frame, turned away and removed from the group, reads as the same sort of distance Sephiroth likes to wedge between himself and others; and yet he had followed him with subtle regularity, makes no attempt to deny it, and glances at him with a dull spark of what he can only describe as—
As what? Recognition? Perhaps, but that does not feel right, either; as though the truth is layered beneath whatever this man has chosen to keep to himself. Sephiroth, cuttingly curious at the worst of times, wants to pry it loose and plant it between them, so that he may know.
He looks at Itachi with eyes that are familiar in their feline appearance, but everything else—as Itachi might know him—is gone. No feathers, no wings. No clawed fingertips that had raked against his skin once before, on that planet some other version of himself existed upon. It is as though he has been reset — Sephiroth, SOLDIER 1st Class, as human as a man like him can really be, free of transformation, barring the glimmer of a sapphire crawling up the curve of his neck.]
It bothers me that I don’t know why. Do I interest you that much? Or do I frighten you, so that you cannot make your intentions clear?
[Slinking about in shadow, after all.]
no subject
Itachi recognizes his advantage. He knows this man's future, if it's still obscured to Sephiroth as it was for a time in Aefenglom. He owns information. What now should he do with it? He had left that world before they had a chance to untangle the messy threads of their repeated, hungry exchanges, and in the wake of everything he's uncertain of his next step.
Truth, or deflection? Sephiroth will scent it out one way or another.]
No. It isn't fear. [Black eyes look the man over, understanding better why he would think that.] You interest me, but not for the reasons you might assume.
[Behind them, the GemSci soldiers have begun filing individuals onto the shuttle. Itachi remains standing where he is.]
I knew you well, once. You have no memory of it. In my position, how would you approach this interaction?
@flowertalks
[To be fair… she has a right to feel that way. Sephiroth is intimidating on the best of days, and without knowing that either of them hail from the same experiences—that foggy island town—then who is to know what to expect?
But if there are faces familiar to him, and those who remember South Sister, then he cannot ignore the opportunity. The repsonse is short, quick:]
I’ll be there. Don’t make me wait.
[And maybe a little unfriendly, tinged with military command, though it isn’t his intent to be prickly.
Having no reason to delay, he doesn’t. There’s no further communique before Sephiroth arrives in the plaza, easy enough to spot by his swaying silver hair, the dark silhouette of his leathers, and of course, the glinting curve of Masamune aligned to his spine.]
@foulplayed
[Eventually, he finds the challenge is not much of a challenge at all — Sephiroth is keen enough to know where to look, to find those nestled away in the less fortunate parts of the city, and it was painfully easy to locate children who were eager to take the cotton candy from his hands. A boy and two little girls, uncertain how to process the SOLDIER’s admittedly unusual appearance, torn between wariness and curiosity, lingering several paces behind him. Yet curiosity had won, as it is wont to do, and soon he was confection-free.
If only it were so easy, though. Sephiroth had found it increasingly difficult to leave, which is where the challenge truly began to lie. After all, he was a strange-looking newcomer, a gembonded, they were told — and was that his real hair color, and why did his eyes look that way? They liked his clothes, though, and he was really tall! Oh, could they touch his hair? Just for a little bit.
“A little bit later”, with Sephiroth gracious enough to humor them (or inexperienced in dealing with children and the best way to shoo them away without terrifying them utterly and completely), he walks away from the initial meeting a few hours later, with two loose braids woven into his hair — a messy one strung the front of the right side of his bangs, and an equally haphazard attempt swinging loose down his hair, started only halfway down his back.
An inconvenience at best, one he intends to remedy once he returns to his assigned housing, but fate plays a strange hand today: during his wanderings through the crowd, passing a darkened alleyway, he finds Yuri for the third time. The circumstances are quite different than the last few encounters, this time veiled with a threat. A mugging on the precipice of initiation; the glinting threat of a knife.]
…
[He could continue, but while Sephiroth is not petty, he is not quite heartless and altogether cruel. He slips into the shadows of the alleyway, fading into the darkness with ease were it not for the pinpricks of his eyes, lit with green as he approaches the men from behind. The trepidation that usually comes paired with caution does not seem to apply — Sephiroth might melt into the dark, all black leather and easy strides, but he doesn’t care for stealth or subtlety. In fact, he merely reaches out as though he were interrupting an idle conversation, and grasps tight that knife-gripping wrist until he can feel the man’s bones pressing against the muscles of his gloved palm.]
He doesn’t have anything for you. Move on.
no subject
( At first, Yuri isn't sure of what he's seeing. There's movement in his periphery that quickly stills to shadow again, unremarkable but for the twin points of green now looking out onto the scene between the buildings. It's a funny old world, huh? This morning Yuri wouldn't have been able to describe those eyes as anything other than unusual, but now? He knows who they belong to. He's curious as to what he'll do.
His preference for shoulder-to-floor black reveals itself to be incredibly practical as, whisper-quiet, the man from earlier steps out of the shadows and curls a gloved hand around the mugger's wrist. For a moment he seems poised to struggle — but something about the grip changes enough to prompt a frightened pallor into his face. )
... He's right, you know.
( Yuri adds, addressing the man holding him against the wall. )
And between you and me? This guy looks a lot scarier than the two of you put together, and then some.
( Which seems to be more than enough for the unfortunate opportunists. Their first mistake had been in thinking they could see this through to the end anyway, but now that Yuri has ... assistance? It's clear they need to cut their losses and run — which is precisely what they do. With the number of occupants in the alley halved, Yuri steps away from the wall and takes a moment to dust off his shirt: )
Well, that was fun. It's not often I get to be the damsel in distress.
( Satisfied with his appearance, he finally turns towards the other man and offers a wry smile. )
Seems like I owe you a favour now, huh?
no subject
Only then does the SOLDIER slide his gaze, still an incandescent glow in the gloom, back to Yuri. Whatever or whoever is orchestrating the events of this day, it seems to be determined to have their paths cross again and again.
Third time is the charm. Though there was hardly anything charming about this run-in.]
You don't owe me anything. There's satisfaction enough in chasing individuals like that away.
[Without thinking, a gloved hand moves up to brush aside a badly-twined braid strung into one of his bangs aside. It simply falls back into place.]
You're uninjured?
no subject
( Yuri nods, lilac eyes briefly catching on the lopsided braid woven into the fall of his bangs. It's pretty obvious he didn't put it there himself — he seems like the type who would take more care with his work — which leads him to wonder what exactly he's been up to since they last ran into one another. Could it be that he took his advice and sought out some children after all? )
Hm.
( That smile softens ever so slightly, and Yuri takes a step forwards before gesturing towards Sephiroth's hair. )
If you won't let me repay you properly, at least let me sort out your hair.
( He raises an eyebrow. )
The braid kind of ruins the menacing look. I'd practice it a little more before you wear it again.
( Clearly teasing, Yuri lifts his hands just enough to indicate that he'd like to start carefully picking the thing apart. That said, he isn't the kind of person who'll invade someone's personal space like that without giving them the opportunity to refuse, and so he waits for a nod of assent before he actually touches those silver strands. )
wow my last tag was so messy... covers ur eyes
He could do it himself — he can. But if Yuri wishes to show his thanks by way of making it more convenient for Sephiroth now, then he’s not so discourteous to sever their conversation a third time.]
I didn’t do this.
[That’s almost obvious, surely, that a man like him wearing a braid like this is an impossibility. It is too messy; and he is too prideful, and too militant, to wear anything so carelessly — braid or no.]
...A little girl did.
I saw no flaw
A little girl, huh?
( His lips quirk with amusement as he begins to gently unweave the lop-sided braid. It doesn't take him long, his movements practiced and quick from years of entertaining street kids, and when the strands are finally free he gives them one last finger-comb. )
Does that mean you took my advice?
( Yuri opts against mentioning the fact that the man's hair seems to be holding on to a gentle wave, and instead moves around him to look for more of the little girl's handiwork. Having already been granted permission once, he doesn't bother checking in when he finds the second braid, but rather he begins the process again after carefully separating it from the rest of his hair. )
I wasn't holding out much hope that you would.
( Conversational, as he unravels the gleaming loops. )
no subject
He is used to waiting; having things done to him until told he can move again, though usually in the context of somewhere more sterile, more empirical, than the darkened clearance of an alleyway. Even so, the old habit serves him well, and he responds without so much as shifting his weight.]
Why wouldn’t I have taken your advice?
[A bad encounter does not a bad idea make.]
Or did you think I would toss the sweets away just to spite you?
no subject
( With the second braid unbound, Yuri once again cards his fingers through the slip of silver until the waves are incorporated with the rest of his hair. )
Honestly? You seemed a little ... petty. ( Hey, at least he's affording Sephiroth some straight-talking honesty. ) And I didn't know how far that would stretch.
( Yuri moves back around to Sephiroth's front, his expression pleasant enough to suggest that he doesn't mean any offence by his assessment. He's simply stating fact; no doubt this man has formed his own opinions about Yuri, too, and he's going to go ahead and assume "petty" doesn't even scratch the surface. )
Anyway, thanks for proving me wrong — and for coming to my rescue.
( An easy smile curves his lips. Yuri takes a step back and folds his arms over his chest: )
What's your name? I can't just keep calling you "handsome" — someone might get the wrong idea.
no subject
The weight of braid no longer pulls at his scalp, and Yuri glides into his view again. Sephiroth reflects his body language with crossed arms of his own.]
Never to the detriment of others who have nothing to do with it.
[Yuri may take that as he will, but it's as good as an assent. Maybe he was being a little surly.]
The wrong idea that you think I'm handsome? [Wry, dry as bone, but another concession:] My name is Sephiroth. And there's no need for thanks. You barely looked fazed.
[Which implies some mode of capability, he assumes.]
@letmesleep
[Vincent is correct where matters of pride are concerned. But it seems to be no great facade or game he’s playing, because Sephiroth truly does not recognize this man, and the way his gaze seems to be searching for answers reveals as much.
He turns the implications over in his mind, testing the feel of them.]
That’s no great feat.
[He’s Sephiroth, the war hero, the face of Shinra’s propaganda during the war. Many know his name, but Vincent speaks from some point of familiarity — so maybe he’s just being vaguely difficult on purpose. It wouldn’t be unlike Sephiroth to do so.]
Are you going to claim to be from my future, as well?
[Ah, perhaps this is nothing new; but the concept still settles unwell in him, even if he had stumbled across the notion in the world he was in last.]
sorry! 1000 yrs later
He looks up again to meet Sephiroth's gaze as his question, surprised by it.]
'As well'? Are you implying someone else is making that claim? [At this point, Sephiroth wasn't the only familiar face he'd come across but none knew who he was. There's a spark of hope now that someone might be here who is not only from his world, not only someone he knows, but someone who knows him as well. A novel concept.
He's also unsure how to answer Sephiroth's question. Part of him feels like saying that he's from his past is almost more accurate in a strange way.]
For angeal
[Sephiroth, on the other hand, isn’t one for bartering. The SOLDIER prefers to keep his interactions, the needless back and forth, to an absolute minimum — perhaps less beneficial to one’s figurative wallet, but the gembonded are given such a discount on account of merely existing that it hardly matters.
He’s here to find ingredients—perhaps a rice cooker wouldn’t go astray—and weaves through the crowd with the distinct practice of a man used to avoiding them. But a very familIar voice halts his gait; cat’s eyes quickly dart in its direction, and lands on the muscular form of the only man it could belong to.]
Angeal?
[The name is out of his mouth before he can reel it back in, like a stone falling from his lips. Something in his chest tightens, and Sephiroth’s usually placid look becomes shadowed with uncertainty.]
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...But the opportunity for that's long gone.
It's not the surroundings that have made things different. Nor the situation. It's... laughable, actually, that for how strange it is, this environment has nothing to do with the fact that things had changed. That Sephiroth himself isn't the only one experiencing tightness of the chest, much less an uncertain look on his face which can't be hidden, no matter how he tries.]
Sephiroth.
[He turns then, leaving the merchant to go about his sums. He takes the measure of him keenly enough, and whereas most would see an intimidating man, he sees...
A friend. And, well.]
You look like hell.
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Sephiroth looks struck for a moment, as though the words have their physical ramifications and a silence runs long between them as he searches for words. His friend—a friend, truly standing before him as though he were real again—should know that he struggles with this from time to time, but it is only indication that the effort is sincere.]
A lot has happened since I’ve seen you last.
[As though that should explain anything. But since they last spoke, Sephiroth has been so detached from this man — even beyond Gaia, where he’s been stolen from not one world, but two in-between.]
...How is this possible?
[Does Angeal know? About his own fate? Or is this merely another instance of time being cruel to him, again and again, misaligning what should be and what is?]
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[He's not above guilt. Despite indeed, the comment about Sephiroth looking like he'd seen a ghost sounding like something he would say in jest, allusion to an imaginary hell and all, a concern lines his features, as well as... well, a fair amount of the aforementioned. Guilt, of course. For at least some of the reason why this man looked so haggard, or at least the beginning of the reasons why... is him.
The words he couldn't say back then. The measures he'd gone to. And though... honestly, he couldn't give less than a damn about what'd happened after him, with Shinra, with Hollander... even with Genesis, (as much as that wounded him to admit) Sephiroth himself feels like a wound.
A gaping one, bleeding out in emotion that he thought had all but been eroded.
A regret? Absolutely. If only for the way it was done. This man deserved better.
He outstretches an arm.]
I'm real. I'm alive here. Breathing, pulse, more or less all together.
...But not there. I don't know how. Or why.
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[For all that Sephiroth keeps his emotions behind steel bars, he is—for all intents and technical purposes—still human. There’s only so much that he can process like a machine, take the facts and revelations as they are, without showing any manner of caring across his face. And in this moment, that stoicism cracks, and his frown is clear for all around to see — directed, of course, to Angeal.]
So much has happened. [He repeats, and this time he’s reaching with a gloved hand to grip around the man’s forearm. He’s real. Solid. This seems to be its own confirmation, and he inhales, sharply.] Too much to relay.
[But he drops his hand, retracting it.]
But I’m— glad to see you. For what it's worth, you were missed.
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And he knows- truly knows- the extent of emotion it took for it to happen.
It's not like Sephiroth can't feel. He worked that out a long time ago- it's just... his outward showing of them, he always figured, was smaller than anyone else's. The most devastating thing, something that'd bring on tears, physical pain, in someone else is reduced to microexpression with him. Inside, it's just as painful as it would be for anyone else. Outside, it's different. The reason? ...He hasn't worked that out. But reason doesn't really matter. Sephiroth just is.
So.
As his forearm is squeezed, he's still. He allows the other to take the measure of him, allows him time to tell himself he's not some ghost, and after he's spoken...]
Pretty sure I don't deserve to see you again. But... I'm glad, too.
[He turns.
...And yes, he's the only person in the world that'd give Sephiroth, of all people, the Great Hero, a boxed rice cooker. For his part, he takes the rest.]
Be even happier to see you if you don't mind taking this back with me. Arms're kind of full.
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The topic of his friend’s undeserving is one that needs to be addressed, but Angeal expertly circumvents the subject for now by pushing a rice cooker into his arms. Instinctively, Sephiroth finds himself carrying it — which makes for a laughable sight, no doubt.]
Only you would connect your happiness to my ability to carry your mundane purchases.
[But there’s something to be said about how he’s willing to do it, nonetheless.]
Are you finished shopping? [Are they going to have to walk and talk to catch-up? Did Sephiroth catch his old friend in the middle of a shopping expedition, or near the end? The beginning?]
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[A quirk of his lips accompanies that. He's hardly the sort that's boorish enough to actually belly laugh, but for his own sins, his emotions are best expressed in a faint quirk of his lip and a glint in his eye. And honestly? It's as good as.]
A little mundanity now prevents expense later. Have you seen how much it costs to actually eat out here? Even with the discount, it's daylight robbery.
[They're about done here. The cashier is looking suitably robbed, Sephiroth is looking suitably encumbered, and really? He'd wanted to get a few more things, actually. But it can wait.]
More or less. Come back to where I'm staying. There's a meal in it for you.
[And. He can't help himself but voice an observation.]
You look like you need it.
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[He replies almost too-quickly, a sort of deflection for the sake of his pride. Is Angeal going to tell him that he looks as though he’s lost weight? That implies a discontentedness—long-term and far-reaching—that Sephiroth would rather not admit to.]
Well enough, a diet no different than what you would find on Gaia.
[For a SOLDIER who considers his body more a weapon than a temple. Bland, nutritional foods. Nothing with extra or excessive flair.]
But fine. Lead the way. ...I want to see where you’ve settled.
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[Most of him wants to catch him in that. He wants to ask if hell's frozen over, if he's cooking for himself while he's here, but other than a faint sound of acknowledgement, he lets it lie. If Sephiroth has grown thin, he can take a pretty good guess why.
...And that's not anything he wants to go into, either.
He simply focuses on leading the way, and before long, they arrive at an apartment building. It's hardly the most glamourous of places. The outside is dingy, strewn with rubbish and it's not exactly in the nicest area of town, but as they make their way into the complex and to the correct apartment, it's better on the inside at least. It's pretty large, expansive, with large windows, wooden floors, and it lets in quite a lot of light.
...And yeah, it's spartan.
Other than a barely used sofa, the living room is more or less vacant of, well, anything. No tables, no furniture, and certainly no TV. (Though knowing Angeal, perhaps the latter wouldn't be a surprise.)]
That's great. Set it down anywhere.
[And.]
So, you seen Genesis?
[He had to ask.]
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But as he moves to set aside the other SOLDIER’s purchase on the nearest flat surface, the question can be seen stiffening his shoulders. A moment in which his hands freeze while placing down the rice cooker, until time moves on again, seconds crawling by like nothing happened.]
No. [With a tone devoid of any emotion, purposefully so, one might wonder what’s the point in the presence of this man.] He isn’t here. I think for now, that’s for the best.
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[Honestly, Sephiroth. If on the rare occasion he can't see through you, you kind of make it easy sometimes by becoming even more unyielding.
But he should have guessed.
Even... as disconnected to Shinra he had been since he defected, he could still take an (educated) guess as to what happened post-Modeoheim. He knew the company well enough, after all- and in his mind, the company would believe Genesis was dead.
Him, personally? ...Yeah. But death, non-death, irrelevant. Even if he wasn't, it wouldn't be long before he was, but even then- it'd be slow. Painful. (Pain. That bothers him to think about. It's marked by a brief scowl, a momentary darkening of his eyes, but he doesn't comment on it.)]
...What... I am...
[A monster.]
...Is different here. What Hollander wanted from me, [The conduit. The reason Shinra enabled his existence, and what made him less.] I can't do. Tried. Probably shouldnt've, but I wanted to know. Something's changed. I wondered, if he was around, somewhere, if the same would apply to him.
[And would it mean either of them had any right to exist?
...Jury's still out on that one.]
I thought you should know.
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He hates the feeling of ball bearings in his throat. Inefficient and unasked for. He pushes through as always.]
Angeal... this place is one of changes. [He means that literally, though perhaps figurative would be just as well.] Many here have lost their abilities from home. And everyone has gained something new.
[In magic. In monstrous forms that appear like clockwork, month to month. Still, Sephiroth's gaze sharpens.]
And yet that doesn't make what was done any less- [A pause. What's the right word?] -affecting. You don't need to explain anything to me. The company's lies are like a web; I think I may have been caught in them, as well.
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[And Sephiroth's right- talking about these things isn't going to lead to any possible way of viewing something somewhat differently, to any plausible revelation. To anything, really. And the philosophical question of a monster being a monster if it's defanged has an answer that he knows well, already.
Of course it is.
Even if everyone else was one here, it doesn't change anything.
So he's eager to switch focus. His eyes follow Sephiroth as he moves, sharpening, faintly, to watch the microexpressions unfold over his face, telling of thier own story when Sephiroth's words were not, and a hand moves to rub his face at what he says.]
You don't have to explain it to me, either. But if you want to, I'm listening. Could even-
[Ah. It crossed his mind to say something sardonic, like if a liar knew a liar, surely someone lied to would be in a good position to confirm or deny Sephiroth's suspicions.
But no. The statement's far too serious for joviality. He cares too much.
He finds the corners of his lips pulling downward.]
If it feels wrong, it is. You've had far too good a head on your shoulders for too long for paranoia.
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His shoulders rise from a deep inhale, let out silently, before a reply comes.]
You would say that.
[Despite the plain delivery, there is something a little fonder in that statement.]
There are many others here from our Planet. Like the two of us, many of them come from disparate timelines. They are all from my future.
[Perhaps Angeal knows where this is going. Things did not go well for two of his friends, who were 1st Classes like himself; why should he be immune from the tragedy of the fate, spun by Shinra itself?]
They don’t have kind things to say about me. [To say the least.]
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[He can take a stab at it, sure, he could place Sephiroth in his and Genesis' (sinking) boats as a hypothetical, but imagining it isn't anything that sticks with him as probable. And why should it? Both he and Genesis, to him, were created under Hollander's project. Hollander is a man he knows as both a hack and an idiot. Sephiroth under Hojo... was different.
Right?
Hojo might have been a creepy bastard, but...
Surely the same idiocy couldn't have taken place under two different scientists.
Soyeah. The monster thing doesn't stick.
So his mind turns to some of the other ways working for Shinra happened to suck.]
...Whatever they had you do, it's the job. It's not you. The fact you're bothered about it shows that.
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This place's problem is that it gives Sephiroth too much time to think. And that is dangerous for a man like him, whose doubts have already needled deeper into his mind than anyone--even himself--can give him credit for.]
I don't know anymore, Angeal.
[Sephiroth seems to command his countenance to fall in-line, harden and shake off the remnant of these thoughts for now. His arms cross.]
Many of these questions can't be confronted until I return home. That is the simple reality.
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Better to be busy, to play the part of the guy that simply followed orders, be it orders that involved being lapdog or enforcer. That was how they'd always got by, wasn't it? To leave the thinking, the awful truth of everything to higher pay grades, people paid solely for their talent at leaving their morals at the door. Paid sociopaths, essentially.
To be unthinking, unfeeling, was the SOLDIER way. Because the alternative was oblivion.
Hell, it was the way throughout the Company. From the most senior members of the board to the lowest interns, fronts were vital. But for them in particular, he, Sephiroth, and Genesis- all they could do was direct the parts of them that couldn't keep up the pretense any longer at each other- under so many bizarre excuses that made up their friendship. Training, drills, improvement for Sephiroth- Jealousy, the desire to overcome and to surpass for Genesis, and for him?
...A number of things.
But it wasn't just that. To him, it was touching base. To re-establish, even in the most minute sense, that he could still care for others. To make sure that the two people he cared for most didn't drown in the thoughts that came between missions.
Things were that simple once.
But his own thoughts had overwhelmed him.
But.]
Well, I do. Most people think you're a real piece of work underneath the hero thing the marketing department pulled on you.
[A real piece of work. It's... vaguely funny. Because he's nothing close. He's... awkward, sure. Growing up the way he did saw to that. A little arrogant, of course- and again, cause and effect of being the person he is, having the gifts he has. Closed with most, consummately professional in word and in deed- even when said deed is forcing his blade through the Company's enemies.
Yet he knows more. Sephiroth's a quiet person. Sensitive, even. He dwells, he thinks, even when he knows he shouldn't. But he has a sense of humour. And even a side which tends to allow for some extremely ...interesting acts in recreation time such as a certain question of whether or not he could use the masamune as a javelin. ]
Thirds to seconds're mostly afraid of you, Firsts... [A faint laugh.] Either think they're going to be the next you, or they resent you because they're at the peak of everything they can be, but they're nowhere close.
[His eyes meet his, then.]
But that's never bothered you.
[It only bothered him with Genesis. Because he opened himself to him, more than likely. But.]
So this? It's something else. And if you can only answer it when you get back, then I guess all I can do is take the edge off. So, we're training. Don't have a blade, so it'll have to be hand-to-hand. Hope you're as rusty as me.