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year 5, quarter 3
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Post by Cloud Strife on Jun 15, 2021 0:20:30 GMT -6
Cloud sat on a solitary bench in the shade of Yuna's building. He was a patchwork of bandages and half-healed abrasions, itching pink flesh spotting the pale skin between his more grievous injuries. His shirt was long gone, a bloodied tatter of cloth in the garbage. His pants weren't in much better shape, but he made due with them. He wore a thin sheet like a makeshift cloak around his head and shoulders and he sat upright with his back against the cool stone wall. All he needed was some air, he explained, and promised he wouldn't wander off. His injuries still ached and if he breathed too deeply his chest lit up with white-hot flares of agony, but he managed to walk at a shuffle without falling over. It was progress.
Besides, he'd rather deal with the pain than laying around any longer than he already had. He was going insane, waiting for some word from Tifa and Aerith. Like trying to scratch an itch on the inside of his skull.
The bench faced a quiet street. A few yards away, someone had laid out boxes of junk hauled out of a shed. Foot traffic was sparse. Cloud didn't know if the Provo authorities were out for his head after the fight in the square. They probably were. It was stupid to think otherwise. The stillness of his surroundings was mostly a comfort, then. No one around to look too closely at the living dead enjoying the fresh air.
A few minutes passed. Cloud dared to stand with all the caution of an arthritic senior. He shuffled over to the abandoned boxes of junk, boots scraping over uneven pavement. Something caught his eye. The lure of the familiar. He reached into one of the boxes and picked up a wooden baseball bat spotted haphazardly with nails. For the first time in days he mustered a smile, a minute thing tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He shuffled back over to the bench, turning the bat around in his hands, examining the workmanship. The lack thereof. It had a comfortable grip, a good balance. He eased himself back down to sitting, leaned against the wall, tapped the end of the bat against the pavement and then let it rest against the bench beside his leg.
It was the little things, sometimes, that took a man's mind off the hole in his chest.
Ignore the fact that him finding Cloud makes no sense
Things had been rough.
Well, that was an understatement. Sephiroth survived his brush with death by a margin too slim for Angeal’s liking. That, coupled with a very sudden and very awkward reunion with Genesis left Angeal riddled with many more emotional holes than the physical ones he’d stumbled in with from the fight in Provo. It came to light, after Sephiroth was conscious once more, that he didn’t even know who his attacker was -- something that latched deep into the pit of Angeal’s stomach and refused to leave. Icy, heavy, and nauseating.
He’d seen the pure rage that burned within the blonde Soldier’s eyes. That animalistic need to destroy someone, because of something they’d done. If it had been a Wutaian, perhaps Angeal would have been less bothered by the news. However, to the majority of the world, Sephiroth had been a hero. The blonde man didn’t really appear to be young enough to have had a slight performed against him by Sephiroth…
Then again, as Angeal was learning, time was a fickle thing in this world.
Sephiroth had no reason to lie about not knowing his attacker. Recalling the blonde’s state of injury at the end of their battle, practically a smear in the rubble, Angeal had doubts about his survival. Sephiroth had barely survived, and he’d been rushed to immediate treatment with powerful magic. Still, maybe there was some information out there, somewhere. Someone in town surely had to know the blonde man who’d tried to murder Sephiroth.
Ever the mother hen, though, it was difficult for Hewley to leave his friends. When he could sense that he was smothering them, though, he’d force himself out for a walk. He was still in the middle of mending his uniform, so a pair of cargo pants and a plain shirt underneath a hooded sweater had to suffice. The hood was useful, anyway, on the off-chance anyone recognized him in any of his outings. Without the Buster sword on his back or a pair of wings annoyingly showing themselves off, it was unlikely. He was much less inconspicuous than Sephiroth or Genesis, at least.
He took a day to survey the damage they’d caused. Seeing the confirmed number of casualties twisted his gut. Most of the damage had been done prior to his arrival, but any unnecessary loss of life was always difficult to process. Angeal lurked around, watched as the city officials worked on clearing the rubble. He could see the exact patch where everything had ended, and briefly wondered what had happened to his dear friend’s mad assassin.
Until he heard some murmurings.
”Can’t believe someone came and dragged that blonde guy outta the rubble.” “Heard he was still breathing. Somehow.” “Well, hope he stopped at some point, look at our damn city--” “--Don’t say such a thing! How awful!”
That spurred the former First Class Soldier into action. He rushed back to the apartment and grabbed his weapon, mind racing at the possibilities. The man who’d very nearly slaughtered his friend was still alive. Someone had saved him. Did he have allies, just as powerful, with the same goals in mind? Was he a loner that got picked up by a good samaritan? Angeal grit his teeth, rushing back out into the alleys of Provo. If he drew attention to himself -- so be it. He could flee if need be.
But his weapon would, at least, act as a beacon for the killer blonde if he was already back on his feet.
Assuming the man was lying low, Angeal took to searching the quieter, back alleys of the city. He’d spent a fair amount of time bumming around Provo during his first few months in the strange new world, and had become fairly accustomed to how it operated, which sections belonged to which type of people, and where off the beaten path was safe. He was no Turk, but it was easy enough to listen to the whispers of people.
People concerned about a mostly-dead man being brought into their neighborhood.
It took time. He’d started his walkabout in the morning, and now the sun was well overhead, climbing toward late afternoon. Angeal had ditched the hood, and frankly wanted to ditch the sweatshirt with it. He peeked over hedges and around corners, easy enough to do nonchalantly with his height, until he caught sight of a particularly interesting building. There appeared to be a courtyard in the back, dotted with a few benches, nice plants and foliage; serene. On one of the benches was a huddled figure, covered in a thin sheet, bandages peeking out from the areas it didn’t cover well enough.
The figure was turning a bat in his hands, observing it with a small, undisturbed smile. When the man leaned his head back, Angeal’s eyes spotted something too familiar -- wild, blonde hair.
The Soldier stayed rooted to the spot for a moment, watching from the quiet street. The blonde set the strange bat down (what the hell was sticking out of it?), and relaxed. The man was clearly in no state to fight, by the looks of him. But, would he allow Angeal to come into his space and pester him about what the hell he did in Provo’s city center? Unlikely. Though the black-haired Soldier’s only goal had been to save his dear friend from a near-certain death, he’d very nearly killed the blonde in the process of it.
Well. There was only one way to get answers, and they weren’t going to come to him standing still in the road like a fool.
Angeal put boots back to the pavement and closed the distance between himself and the courtyard. It was likely the blonde man hadn’t noticed him until he crossed the threshold, at the very least, and Hewley stopped with more than enough distance between them. He wasn’t there to fight a man held together by only tape and hope.
“I’ll be damned,” Angeal spoke quietly, pulling his hands from his pockets as he stood his ground at the entrance of the courtyard, “You really did survive.”
Your attempt to kill Sephiroth and throw your own life away with it.
The Soldier’s gaze flickered from the blonde to the bat-crammed-with-nails, and back. He raised his hands, palms facing the man, “I’m just here to talk.”
How long can you swallow the pain? Before it comes round again, And a shadow in the valley will lead you to them, So don't follow.
Post by Cloud Strife on Jul 4, 2021 0:23:06 GMT -6
Cloud stared at nothing, taking a brief and much needed respite from the exhaustion of thinking until he heard footsteps. Maybe Yuna, there to tell him to come inside in a way that sounded like asking. No, not her. Too heavy.
He lifted his head, mako eyes fixing on a figure in the doorway. Narrowing. His hands curled into fists, white-knuckled.
He stared past the man to the sword hilt jutting up from his back. Too damn clean. Rage flared in him like a muzzleflash in the rain. He stood. There was a whisper of a creak from the bench, all buck fifty of him enough to shift the weatherworn wooden joints. It was obvious in the way he moved that his body was a hundred steps behind his mind. There was a hitch in his rising, the sudden hot burst of pain in the trio of fractured ribs. He was halfway hunched over still as he scrambled from the bench, boots scraping clumsily against the paving stones, the nail-studded tip of the bat following.
He stood in a shadow of a fighting stance. One arm cradled his ribs and the other lifted the baseball bat out in front of him, swaying. The sheet slid off his shoulders and folded itself into a loose heap at his feet. Where there weren't bandages or burns there was mottled blue-purple bruising. A long, deep line of it across his ribcage. He measured the distance between them instinctively in a distance of steps he'd never be able to take fast enough. Not in this shape.
"What is this, a joke?" he asked bitterly. His voice still had a hoarse quality to it. "Sephiroth send you here to play mind games for him? Just here to talk. With that sword on your back. You grave-robbing piece of-- Go to hell."
Angeal knew the look the blonde gave him well. Glowing blue eyes burned right back at him with an unspoken fury, a deep and dangerous hatred. It wasn’t the look of cornered prey, but of a predator staring up at a stronger version of itself, knowing death could be near. Hewley released a held breath, keeping his palms facing the blonde in a clear show of good faith. Not that the smaller man was in any shape to be of any threat.
Yet, the young man forced himself up from the bench with what little energy he had to possess. Angeal immediately shook his head, silently asking the blonde to back down. He had to be held together with nothing but tape and stitches at this point, and yet the injured man still hunched to his feet with his strange weapon at his side.
The blonde would never make it more than two steps without collapsing, surely. Even with a weapon, Angeal felt no fear, but instead concern. He couldn’t very well interrogate the kid if he ripped himself in two first. How could he prove he’d come there with no ill-intent, though? The Soldier grimaced watching the blonde shakily lifting the nail-bat to point it directly at him, though they still stood a good, measured distance apart. The sheet that slid off of him revealed the horrific state of injuries he’d sustained from the fight -- including the very obvious one Angeal had dealt to him personally.
The blonde spat some strange words at him (grave robbing?), but Angeal kept his expression neutral as he gently gestured his palms downward, urging the man to lower his weapon, “No one asked me to come here. I’m only here to ask you some questions, and then I’m leaving.”
Hewley took a couple of cautious, slow steps forward, “Please, sit back down. We both know you’re in no state to be moving like that. You’re going to rip open your stitches.”
How long can you swallow the pain? Before it comes round again, And a shadow in the valley will lead you to them, So don't follow.
Post by Cloud Strife on Aug 2, 2021 23:08:55 GMT -6
Every word grated on his frayed nerves like coarse grit sandpaper. He shook his head in a vain attempt to ward them away. The back of his neck burned with rage. It ran up and down the length of his spine, down his arms, collecting in his knuckles. His muscles twitched and his ribs ached with every breath.
"Shut up," Cloud said through his teeth.
The man took two steps into the buffer zone between them but it was the please that snapped the thin thread of restraint holding Cloud back.
"Stop--" He thrust the bat accusingly towards the man's face. "Stop acting like you're the good guy. You show up to help a mass-murdering psycho and now you're saying please. Who the hell do you think you are!?"
His mouth was dry and it hurt his throat to yell. His ribs burned and the flesh beneath the patchwork of bandages stung with the sudden movement. He didn't care. He'd almost ended it - again - almost had Sephiroth dead to rights until this guy showed up. He'd run it back in his head so many times since waking up in Yuna's care, thinking back to the depths of the Crater, to the final blow he landed then, to the blow he would have landed in the square.
If not for him.
For a second Cloud stood there, the tip of the bat pointed at the man's face, wavering with the exhaustion and ache in his arm. The thought looped interminably in his head.
I could've ended it if it wasn't for him.
His lips pulled back in an animal snarl, and like a pressure valve releasing came the guttural yell of all his accumulated hate. He pushed himself forward, the hard soles of his boots scraping gracelessly against the stones while he swung the bat backhanded in a horizontal strike across the man's face. It was clumsy, and it was slow, and every still-healing wound on his body lit up at once with a bright flare of pain.
The blonde clearly didn’t want to hear a word he had to say.
Angeal watched as the young man’s expression somehow accumulated even more hate and fury. It seemed near impossible for such a thing to occur -- if it weren’t for the fury in his eyes, the blonde would have a naturally gentle face. His body, even under the heavy bandaging, said he was on the younger side, and yet his eyes said he was much, much older and experienced than he should have been in life. What had he seen or heard that would put such a fire in his gaze when it came to Sephiroth? Surely, if Sephiroth was a mass-murdering psycho, Angeal would have been aware of it.
You weren’t there for everything, a small, insignificant voice reminded him.
The man raised his mutilated bat weapon to be even with Angeal’s face, and the Soldier lowered his arms, watching the blonde over the ridges of the nails in the wood, “I’m not your enemy right now. Not unless you make me.”
Apparently, it was exactly what he was to the injured young man. The blonde’s face filled with righteous anger, his lips curled back into a snarl, and with a guttural, pained yell, he swung the bat with all his might. It was slow and clumsy, and Angeal could have chosen to side step the attack and let the young man stumble forward along with his momentum.
Instead, the Soldier quickly rose an arm and allowed the bat to make contact. The nails dug into his skin, scraping it away to drag blood through. Angeal didn’t flinch, didn’t wince. With the bat’s momentum stopped, he grabbed it with the same hand he’d blocked the attack with, and easily wrenched it out of the blonde’s hands. Angeal threw it far behind him, close to the exit of the garden, listening as it clacked loudly against the stone.
“You opened up your stitches,” Angeal pointed out to the pained blonde, nonchalant, before pressing a palm to the man’s chest and shoving him, forcing him back onto the bench only a few steps away, “Like I warned you you would.”
He watched as the bandages around the young man began to slowly seep and stain red. Angeal crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at the disobedient supposed once-soldier before him, “If I was here for any nefarious reason, I would have broken you in half the moment I arrived. So, I’ll tell you again -- I’m just here to talk.”
He let those words sink into the air a moment, before continuing as he towered over the broken and busted warrior, “I’d be happy to go inside and stitch you back up, as long as you give me the information I’m here for.”
A beat passed, and Angeal took a step toward the proverbial landmine, “Sephiroth did something to you. I’m here to find out what, when, and why.”
How long can you swallow the pain? Before it comes round again, And a shadow in the valley will lead you to them, So don't follow.
Post by Cloud Strife on Sept 25, 2021 22:59:24 GMT -6
The impact of the bat against the solid surface of the SOLDIER before him sent a shockwave up Cloud's arm, through his spent muscles. He wobbled on his feet when the bat was wrenched out of his hand. He tried to close his grip before the bat slipped out of his fingers but there was no strength left in it. Hollow clatter of the wood against the stones, the skittering and scraping of the metal nailheads. His eyes followed the bat, an unthinking reflex his combat senses were too tired to override, and he didn't see the palm come up to shove him in the chest until he was already stumbling backwards.
He landed on the bench with a dull creak of wood and an involuntary exhale as his back met the wall behind him. Pain radiated out from the center of his chest like a deep smoldering coal fire. He tried to wrestle his face into a scowl, to fight back the agonized grimace, because Cloud had picked this moment to cling to a stubborn sense of pride as though the man pushing him around hadn't already seen how badly he was injured.
He sat with the back of his head against the wall, glaring up at the man with a kind of resigned fury. He was twelve years old again with his knuckles scraped raw. He was fourteen again standing at attention with a bloody nose. He said nothing for a while, letting the other man's words drift in the silence.
Sephiroth did something. Maybe if he didn't have a hole in his chest oozing blood into a thick pad of bandages, Cloud might laugh at the obliviousness of the line of questioning. This asshole never knew the heat of the flames in Nibelheim, or the overpowering stench of iron in a hallway full of mutilated corpses, or the dread of the end of the world hanging in the sky.
This asshole was friends with Sephiroth, and Cloud didn't think anything he could say would make him understand.
He tried to work up some saliva in his mouth, but when he spat defiantly on the ground it was dry.
"Should I start with the part where he killed my mom, slaughtered the people of Nibelheim, and burned the town to the ground?" Cloud asked. The fury still burned in his eyes, but there was ice in his voice. "When he almost killed two of my friends and ran me through with a sword?" His hands balled into fists. "Or when he showed up five years later with a plan to end the world. When he left a trail of corpses for us to follow. When he murdered my friend and summoned Meteor to destroy the planet."
When he pulled the puppet strings, when he reached into my mind and broke it, when--
Cloud paused, swallowed a dry lump in his throat. He took a slow, deep breath in through his nose and exhaled shakily through his teeth. He didn't notice his fingernails digging into the meat of his palm.
"If you want all the details we'll be here a while. But 'why?'. I'll tell you why. Because he's a monster. He chose to be a monster. If you want to pretend like he's human, you should stop lying to yourself for the sake of the world. He isn't. He's just wearing human skin."
The blonde man was still as defiant as he could muster, despite the obvious pain of his injuries. Angeal knew he was hiding how much his body was aching and burning and throbbing, even through the fresh prickle of blood. There were few people in the world that could hold a hate that strongly, and the Soldier had really only seen it on a few faces. The warriors of Wutai, taken as prisoners of war. Spies, screaming at him as he wrestled them out of their hiding holes. Genesis, as he spoke bitterly about what Shinra did to them before they were even born.
And in his own eyes, staring at his reflection, realizing that every last cell in his body was as monstrous as the next.
The young man finally decided to speak, but what came out of his mouth was … almost unintelligible. Angeal made no effort to hide the confusion on his face, furrowing his brows together as the blonde spat more and more terrible things that hardly made sense. Nibelheim -- the Soldier had seen the name of the town on map years ago, when he was in the area on assignment. Why would Sephiroth have been there and killed everyone? How could he end the world with a meteor?
The only word that made sense, that stung just as much as it ever had, was monster. In a flash, he saw the black wing on Sephiroth’s back the day he found his friend. Of course, it only made sense that Sephiroth was some sort of experiment, the same as he and Genesis. Different, yet the same. Angeal bit the inside of his cheek as the defensive retort fought to leave his throat. How many years would need to pass, how many deaths did he personally need to experience, before he would come to terms with being a human experiment? A monster in human skin.
Angeal released his cheek from his teeth, tasting iron as he exhaled, “It sounds like we’ll be here for a while, then. Other than the bit about monsters, nothing you said made any sense to me.”
He couldn’t let the blonde just sit there and marinate in his new spilled blood, though. Sighing, Angeal pinched the bridge of his nose before reaching down and wrenching the young man up by his arm. He moved quickly, dragging the injured man along behind him as he approached the lodgings they were outside of. Clearly, someone had healed him to the best of their ability, and thus there were more bandages and other such items inside.
And no one else was around. If they were, they’d be keeping an eye on their injured, stubborn patient.
“My name is Angeal,” the Soldier explained as they crossed the threshold into the dwelling. On the nearby desk lay plenty of wrappings, bandaging and more, “You might as well have a name to put to your second-most hated face.”
He released the blonde, before removing the Buster Sword from his back. He propped it against the wall, before motioning toward the young man to go lie down.
“You keep talking, and I’ll fix you up,” Angeal explained, as he quieted the storm of questions and worry brewing in his chest, “For context, the last major event that happened before I di-- before I woke up here … The Wutai War ended a few months ago. Sephiroth was still nothing but a First Class Soldier, and as far as I’m aware, Nibelheim was still there.”
He picked up a roll of wrapping, turning it over in his hand. Everything that happened with Genesis and himself had been kept hush-hush, per Shinra’s beautiful record with keeping secrets. So that their public image wasn’t ruined. But, the entire world remembered when the war with Wutai ended. It was the best starting point he had.
"I need to know what happened after all of that. I need to understand."
How long can you swallow the pain? Before it comes round again, And a shadow in the valley will lead you to them, So don't follow.
Post by Cloud Strife on Oct 2, 2021 12:53:30 GMT -6
Cloud stared in bitter silence. The quiet murmur of the city around them seemed mocking in its placidity. His eyes narrowed. Of course it didn't make sense. There was no sense in Sephiroth's wholesale slaughter of Nibelheim, no reason in his apocalypse. There was no understanding insanity like that. There was only fighting it, the same way you would a wildfire. Cloud loosened his fists slowly, knuckles aching and stiff, nails leaving red half-moon imprints in his palms. If he could will anything to reality in that moment, it would have been for the man in front of him to disappear and let him bleed in peace.
The man grabbed him by the arm instead and Cloud instinctively thrashed in his grip like an animal in a trap.
"Hey-- let go! You asshole--"
He cursed and he fought but he had neither the weight nor the strength to offer any resistance. He wrenched his shoulder. Things popped and tore that should not have. His nerves were alight with fire and his heart pounded like a jackhammer behind his ribcage. One arm still cradled his midsection as the man - Angeal - dragged him back into the building. A cat curled up outside the door startled at their approach and sprinted away, claws skittering on stone.
By the time they were inside there was nothing left in Cloud to fight with. His head swam and his muscles trembled with every action. He stumbled to the bed on which he spent too many hours already and slumped down to sit on it. The mattress creaked as he hunched forward and cupped his forehead with one hand. In the interior light he looked worse. The shadows under his eyes deeper, his skin paler, the thin sheen of cold sweat shining under the bulb overhead.
Angeal... he thought, backtracking. Have I heard that name before...?
It nagged at him, but his mind provided no answer.
Cloud lifted his head as the dizziness subsided. He did not lie down. He watched Angeal and though that fury still burned behind his eyes the flame was waning with exhaustion. Nothing past the Wutai War. Great. Cloud thought back to the inn in Kalm, when he'd first recounted his warped recollection of events. Tifa's uneasy silence. The missing ending.
He took a deep breath. It had been much easier to return to Nibelheim when he didn't remember the truth.
"Nibelheim was two years after the war," Cloud began. "Shinra got reports that the reactor was malfunctioning. Producing monsters in the area. They sent us to clear out the monsters and inspect the reactor. There were four of us. Sephiroth was the squad leader."
At some point in his talking, Cloud's gaze had drifted away from Angeal and over to some indistinct point in space just in front of the wall. The well rose up from the center of the square. One of the strays howled forlornly and wandered past the inn, searching for scraps. A thin wisp of smoke drifted up out of the chimney of his childhood home. He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Sephiroth took care of the monsters pretty much by himself on the way in to town. First time I'd ever seen him fight in person... We hiked up to the reactor the next day. Turned out Shinra'd been using the reactor for experiments. There were pods full of things... people exposed to Mako until they transformed. But that wasn't the important part. It was the chamber at the back of the reactor."
It seemed most of the fight had finally left the injured blonde. Though Angeal didn’t hear him move to lay down (which would have left him in the most vulnerable position, so he couldn’t blame the kid for not following that order, really), he did hear the creek and shifting of the mattress as the young man made himself as comfortable as his bruised and bloodied body would allow. The Soldier only dared a glance back at the blonde as he began to sort through the mess of bandages and healing supplies on the desk. No materia, so he’d have to do this the old fashioned way.
The young man took a breath and began to speak. Angeal found himself playing a quick, mental catch up – surprised that he was actually getting the story he’d asked for. Considering how much of a physical fight the kid had put up, he thought there may be more fight left in him mentally as well.
Two years after the war … A year and some change after Angeal’s death, then. Hewley kept his back to the blonde as he continued his story, hands fumbling with different dressings, antiseptics and irritation creams, picking out what seemed best for the young man’s wound.
Nibelheim was a middle-of-nowhere mountain town; that much Angeal was aware of. Shinra had a habit of throwing reactors in the middle of nowhere, where people wouldn’t argue about the source of power and jobs that came with it, not knowing the dangers that came with Shinra. He had only scratched the surface of Shinra’s madness, surely.
Slaying monsters around the reactor … It sounded like a simple enough mission, something any of them would have done back then. However, Angeal’s hand froze from unraveling a roll of gauze as he heard mention of experiments. People turned into creatures. He set aside the dressings he’d selected and measured out, and slowly turned back to the blonde as he made mention of that name.
Jenova.
Project G. Project Gillian. Infusion of Jenova cells.
I am perfect. The perfect … monster.
Angeal fixed the injured young man with a hard stare of his own, his own glowing eyes conflicted as he collected the thousands of angry, painful thoughts and memories and shoved them back into the mental box where they belonged.
“Unfortunately, it does,” he replied after releasing a long, held breath, “I know Jenova was thought to be a Cetra and used in … human experimentation.”
He moved forward slowly, closing the few steps of distance between them. He paused for a moment in front of the blonde, making a gesture to his ruined dressings, before placing a hand on his shoulder to begin peeling them away. One layer of dressings peeled away easily. Thankfully, the wound that had been pulled open was only oozing anymore at this point. It wouldn’t require much pressure for long to get it to behave.
“Are you telling me they kept that thing in Nibelheim’s reactor?”
How long can you swallow the pain? Before it comes round again, And a shadow in the valley will lead you to them, So don't follow.
