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year 5, quarter 3
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It wasn’t someone he recognized. The man looked more or less normal, dressed in civilian’s clothing with suspenders over a red sweater so bright that it would effectively negate camouflage. His hair was blonde, shoulder-length, and messy. Sephiroth kept the man in his peripheral vision without offering any sign that he’d noticed him. Sephiroth was used to the attention. He might not have even noticed if the circumstances were more in his favor.
They weren't.
Sephiroth was unarmed. He was vulnerable. Now was not the time to let down his guard.
The man stood and approached him. Sephiroth watched him without turning his head. Even as the man took a seat at the same table, Sephiroth did nothing to acknowledge his existence.
The man poured himself a cup of coffee. He pointed at Sephiroth’s head. ”What. Is. Your. Secret?”
Sephiroth finally glanced at him, very slightly inclining his head so their eyes could meet. He raised an eyebrow. His hair? Of all the things to get him noticed…
”Maintenance,” Sephiroth answered. In truth, his hair was getting more easily tangled as of late. He wasn’t upkeep that maintenance as well as he would have liked, and the unending barrage of combat did nothing to discourage it from disaster. Still, his hair was surprisingly resilient to damage. Maybe it had absorbed a lifetime of once-daily conditioner. Maybe it was the mako.
Sephiroth’s lips twitched. Obviously this was the most notable benefit of his biological augmentation.
Sephiroth took a long sip of his coffee. ”There are decent products to the north. The tonics in this city are better than nothing.” The bitter taste of black coffee was abrasive. It was what he needed. ”Are you thinking of picking up a hobby?”
[attr=class,bulk] The morning was a gray one -- not exactly dismal, but overcast in a way that could have promised anything from winds to rain to an afternoon under a baking sun. City wrens trilled as they hopped about their tree branches, still driven by the dawn. Sephiroth watched one stop to fluff out its dull feathers with its beak, preening. He brought a cup of coffee to his lips.
The morning was quiet. It was uneventful. He hoped that it would stay that way.
It had been over a week since he’d been confronted by the mad swordsman. He still didn’t have a name or motive. He only had the results -- a vicious battle, the ruins of a town square, and the wounds that proved his own carelessness. He had dealt the finishing blow. He had dispatched the swordsman easily, and yet…
There had been a rabid look in the man’s eyes. He’d become something feral -- something twisted. And the sight of the once-soldier skewered on the length of his blade…
Sephiroth lowered his cup and looked to the sky. There was a reason he’d come here. Alone, trapped in that bedroom, he'd had nothing but the thoughts to consume him.
He was dressed plainly enough. His usual coat and black leather plates had needed repair. Instead, he wore a simple sweater, loosely form-fitting, over slacks. He’d tied back his hair. He hadn’t brought his sword, and without it, he could have passed as a civilian -- or as close as he could given the unnerving glow of mako in his eyes. For protection, he wore only a silver armlet over his right wrist inset with materia.
His masamune would draw attention, he’d told himself. He was still wounded, and a fight would only prolong the healing process. Still, he felt his blade’s absence like a loss of limb. His blade was an extension of himself. Without it, he was only…
The coffee smelled bitter. It was enough to direct his focus.
Angeal would have preferred he spent the next month resting. Genesis’ chiding would never end if he should reopen his wounds for something so trivial. Yet in that moment, there was only the morning, the quiet, and the people drifting past. Sephiroth sat in his iron-wrought chair, legs half-crossed as he let the coffee’s warmth seep into his fingers beneath a steel gray sky.
Lol just writing complete delirium. This is useful to everyone.
I knew mine was a special existence
Sephiroth wasn’t particularly aware of his surroundings. Most of the voices drifted in then out with the same uneasy cadence. He tried to grasp them, turning them over slowly in his hands. He couldn’t quite keep it steady, and yet, one thing was perfectly clear.
Genesis was not happy.
”I’m sorry.” It was hardly more than a mutter, and Sephiroth knew even in this state that it was unlike him. He knew that it drifted out of its own accord, not unlike their voices and the rest of his thoughts. He could stop it no better than he could the wax and wane of the tides. ”I made a mistake.”
He felt as though that wasn’t the best word, but no better came to him. He felt a renewed round of pain as something was removed from him where his injuries were worst. He’d forgotten why. All he knew was that pain then left him in a kind of sharp hiss.
Then it was gone. No, not gone, dulled from the fire it had once been. He could still feel it throbbing.
Sleep. He needed sleep.
It took him like the tide. First in then out to sea. He knew this feeling, this ebbing semi-consciousness. Drugs were usually involved.
The hum of machinery. An undercurrent glow of mako. Needle pricks and whirring vials.
Sephiroth stirred fitfully. He wished he could slip farther away.
Far beyond him, words were spoken. Spells were cast. It might as well have been on a distant island, a mere pinprick on the horizon. He could not reach their shores.
Lol just writing complete delirium. This is useful to everyone.
I knew mine was a special existence
Sephiroth was not overly aware of his surroundings. This was in itself unusual, and as he dipped in and out of a kind of delirious semi-consciousness, this caused him no small amount of unease. He was always vigilant, perceptive, independent. Now his life was in another’s hands, no matter how well trusted, and he hardly knew at any given moment where he even was.
Even through this, however, he recognized that Angeal had kicked open the door to his apartment.
Sephiroth made a noise of protest. He slurred something about Genesis and their deposit. It didn’t matter, another voice told him clearly, but that voice wasn’t currently in control. It was his logical voice. His generally dominant voice, and at the moment, it was helpless against the torturous fog.
There was the sound of shattering glass. Footsteps. Sephiroth blearily raised his head to see a familiar form standing before them. He sighed his relief. ”Genesis.”
He looked struck, perhaps more in shock than even Sephiroth. His face had lost some of its color. His striking blue eyes were unwavering. Sephiroth faded again, and then Genesis was in front of him, clutching Angeal tightly by the front of his sweater.
Oh.
Genesis was in a fury. Hurt. Offended. He had eyes only for Angeal.
Sephiroth felt his eyes drop and then he was on his back. His coat was missing as were the belts and plate beneath. He was in a bed, his mind unhelpfully provided. Had they left him here so they could talk? It must have been a shock for Genesis.
”I’m not done with you. Also you could have knocked. Now you’ve lost us our security deposit, you dolt.”
Wheels rolled against a wooden floor. Genesis hovered over him. Sephiroth looked at him, confused. He made a noise to match, half-questioning, half-concerned. Two pairs of eyes were on him. Worried eyes.
Oh.
”Genesis,” he muttered. ”Don’t fight.”
Like that had ever stopped him before. Still, that side of him was gone. Sleeping with only a half-hearted protest floating towards the surface. Sephiroth felt his head fall to the side as he slurred, ”Angeal saved me.”
That was what bothered him the most. Not the pain. He’d managed to disconnect from it or maybe that was the shock, leading him in and out of consciousness in a sense of instinctive self-preservation. It wasn’t the blood loss though that, he knew, was not unrelated. His thoughts were dull and slow. That was not how it was meant to be.
At times he would notice the wide, cautious eyes they drew. He was vaguely aware of offers to help once they’d stumbled out of the field of debris and he was no longer choking on the pervasive smell of brick dust. Angeal kept moving forward at the behest of instructions that Sephiroth remembered giving as though in a dream.
Directions.
Genesis.
Where they were staying.
He’d muttered an address and a side of town. It was a rented place, more expensive than an inn but also more private. Sephiroth had a key. It was in his coat pocket. He'd told Angeal this, or he thought he’d told him, but that too might have been a dream.
Was he awake now? He didn’t know.
”Close,” he muttered. His voice was a rasp slurred by delirium. He felt a sudden sense of unease as though he’d forgotten something. ”My sword…?”
But he’d asked that already, hadn’t he? A few times. He remembered it clenched in his hand as he’d stirred in the rubble, reeling from the impact and shrapnel which had pierced him through the back. Then he’d faded into this half-dream. He wasn’t certain if he felt its weight at his side.
He was in bad shape. He didn’t need training in battlefield medicine to know that though he had it, and that knowledge didn’t put him at ease. He was suffering from shock and blood loss. Internal injuries. Those were two conditions not easily healed with cure materia. Which he didn’t have. Or did he?
Genesis did. Which was why they needed him. It wouldn’t fix his condition, but it would help.
His condition was deteriorating. He needed Genesis. Their friend had always been the best with materia while Angeal had specialized in the mastery of his sword. Sephiroth had mastered both. He’d always needed to be perfect.
The perfect monster.
He shuddered.
”Here.” His vision came and went like the tide, but he thought the street was right. It was a five story apartment building with rooms rented by the week. ”Third floor.”
The thought occurred that Genesis might not be there. It was possible that he might be gone for days or more. It was too late to second guess his fevered suggestions now. At least it was somewhere he could sleep.
Sephiroth did not look at Angeal. Instead, he elected to watch the nearby rubble of the city’s main plaza. The collateral damage was above acceptable levels though it could have been worse. Seven main buildings were splintered from the force of their fight, but only three had collapsed. The plaza itself had been smashed and broken in several places, sending stone debris scattering across the uneven ground.The historic statues still stood, watching over the wreckage with a disapproving eye.
He assessed minimal casualties. The conflict had given ample time to evacuate. Assuming no unforeseen variables, he estimated less than half a dozen probable deaths.
A hand found his shoulder. Sephiroth glanced towards the familiar weight. Angeal’s eyes found his. Something passed between them.
”I’m sorry it took so long for me to find you, Sephiroth.” Angeal gave him a small smile. Sephiroth was not attuned to subtle shifts in expression, but he knew Angeal’s well enough, and he saw a kind of sadness lurking beneath the surface. Had he felt guilt for what he’d done? Did he know even a fraction of the pain he’d caused, sharp and aching, at his unexplained absence?
Sephiroth hummed. He needed no further answer than that.
Sephiroth was about to suggest that they find Genesis when they were interrupted by a feral snarl. Sephiroth glanced towards it, eyes cooled in an instant. It came from the rubble which should have by all accounts incapacitated their assailant. It had not, or at least, it hadn’t for long. Sephiroth saw slabs of concrete shifting. Wood scraped against each other before being roughly thrown aside. Angeal muttered his tense disbelief. Sephiroth said nothing.
What crawled towards them was a wounded animal, desperate and feral. He’d seen its kind when he’d been sent to dispatch some determined beast nested in a territory inopportune for Shinra’s business interests. He recalled in particular a mother dragon, determined to protect her brood until her dying breath.
There had been nothing left to do but put her down.
The creature which had once been a man thrust himself upright through will alone. At first, he used his sword to support himself, dragging it along with a tortured effort. Sephiroth did not feel sadness or pity. Instead, he merely observed as the bleeding thing mustered the last of its reserves and pitched itself into a charging offensive that was far, far too slow to challenge him.
It was over in an instant. There was a flash of steel, a single flourish, and the man was skewered on his sword.
He wondered, vaguely, what Angeal must have thought. The man was injured -- perhaps on his dying breath. They could have easily evaded him, and yet, that was not Sephiroth’s way.
Their assailant had chosen his own death. Sephiroth had not been trained in mercy.
Sephiroth watched him coldly and without passion. He watched the dull realization, the grasping of the wound, the fall of his sword. It was predictable. Instinctual, perhaps. Blood welled in that torn and hollow space beneath his heart, sliding in thick rivulets down the masamune’s blade.
Still, the man did not fall.
Instead, he grasped the blade for purchase, using it to force his way forward. For a moment, Sephiroth could only stare at him, too shocked to end what had become nothing less than cruelty. Again, his thoughts went to that dragon, still clawing her way towards him as her eyes faded, but this man had nothing to protect. It was blind rage which drove him, and Sephiroth briefly wondered if his mind had been tainted by mako.
Aggressive, determined, unhinged. A monster.
The man raised his head, bruised, dirty, gasping. His eyes were bloodshot. They burned with that same wild hatred. They were unwavering. Sharp. Defiant.
(feet planted against metal grating, the glow of mako, the reactor)
Sephiroth’s eyes widened. The man’s grip was tight on the masamune, steadfast, smeared with blood.
(how was this happening?)
His hand raised, unsteady, defeated.
(green, burning, mako, the reactor)
”S’that...all you got?”
”Sephiroth!”
It consumed him.
He was thrown off balance and he felt gravity fall away as the force of it blasted him backwards and he was lost to its light. He was aware of pain and searing heat. There was the shattering sound of destruction. His vision flashed and faded and swam to the surface again. He reached out for something that he sensed just beyond his fingertip-
(Mother?)
-and his body collided with something solid, stealing his breath away. He didn’t know how long he was in darkness. Minutes? Hours? He became slowly aware that he was on his back, stone and wood digging uncomfortably into him. He felt pain. He tried to move, and it overwhelmed him.
Get up. Sephiroth grit his teeth together and forced his eyes open. The sky above him was gray with dust. His ears pulsed with a slow rhythm. He shifted again, winced, and then raised an arm.
His sword was still tightly in his hand. He dropped it then touched at the source of the pain. His fingers found something there, hard and jagged and protruding from his lower abdomen.
Oh.
Assessment. The thought drifted by, sluggish and instinctual. He was incapacitated. He’d taken the force of a spell fired at point blank range. He had lost consciousness on impact. Further consciousness was unstable and likely limited. He’d been pierced by some sort of debris, pinned through the back. Curative magic, impractical.
He breathed slowly. Steadily. Time was critical.
He braced himself, jaw clenched, mind set. He knew what he had to do. Once he was free, the debris would no longer obstruct his blood flow. In any other situation, it would have been suicide. However, he had a revive materia set into his armlet. If used correctly, it would stabilize him. Once the wound was clear. If he wasn’t in a state of shock.
Suicide, his mind provided helpfully, but he quickly thrust it away. Angeal had been caught in the blast. Perhaps he could provide aid. Perhaps he was in worse condition than Sephiroth himself.
He could do this.
The angle was difficult. The pain, overwhelming. He used the last of his SOLDIER strength to force himself through the debris’ jagged wooden edges. It was quick, he thought, though his head was spinning and his vision spotted. And then he’d rolled onto his side, free and gasping and clutching at his wound.
Blood welled hot and loose between his gloved fingers. Time was critical. He could do this.
The magic came to him, weak but familiar. He felt the warmth of materia. Crystallized mako. It overtook him and the pain numbed. His wound closed. Mostly. He didn’t know if it was enough, and there was too much blood to tell if it had slowed. He thought it had. It must have. He collapsed again, breathing heavily, head swimming.
His cheek was pressed into a jagged rock. He couldn’t find it in himself to move.
”Sephiroth…”
Hands found themselves under his knees. His head was lifted, and he opened his eyes, bleary and uncertain. ”Angeal…?”
It was him, his friend, swimming before him. Sephiroth laughed weakly. It hurt. ”You’re alright.” He was suffering blood loss. Miscellaneous impact traumas. The effects of an unknown magic. But Angeal was here. He was safe.
”I’m sorry.” Sephiroth felt his strength fall away, and for the first time, he let it. He was not alone.
Sephiroth had been shaken. He was shaken even now -- his cold calculations muddied by an almost imperceivable edge. It was enough for him, however, and he knew better than to allow his emotions to affect him. They had affected him, and while he tried to overcome them through instinct and logic, he found that he couldn’t. Not entirely.
He had seen those man’s eyes and hesitated. He had seen a flash of something behind them, something that danced maddeningly just beyond his vision. He had been forced to the defensive, barely deflecting the frenzied attacks that felt so familiar. He knew this man in everything but name and circumstance, and his throat tightened at the association. Why? These were questions that he had no choice but to suffocate, but they would not die easily. Why you? Why now? Who are you?
And then there was Angeal.
Angeal stood at attention, eyeing the mad SOLDIER carefully. If he was shaken, he didn’t show it. Sephiroth wondered briefly if he felt anything for their reunion or if he was simply content to move forward, all of their past forgotten.
You left me. That was another thought that wouldn’t die.
Their target was rabid. Whatever had been left of his conscious mind was gone now, lost to the hatred that had completely overwhelmed him. Sephiroth had seen that look before, not in the fog of his memory but on the battlefield from those who had been cornered or who had too much to fight for. It was a look of desperation. Of suicide. It spoke to the death of his survival instincts, and while that would make him easier to overwhelm, it also made him harder to predict.
The man cast a protective spell around himself, disengaged his sword, and shifted them into a duel-wielded blade in both hands. A sacrifice of defense for aggressive speed. A mistake. Then he attacked.
Sephiroth and Angeal flew into wordless action, and it was enough. Sephiroth moved on instinct, and finally, finally his thoughts were quelled. The two of them moved as one, Angeal acting on the defensive while Sephiroth flitted lightly around their target, darting in as necessary in a practiced flurry. They had trained for this. They had trained for years, in fact, far beyond the call of their profession. In that moment, they could have been back in the Shinra battle simulator, spending time together in the only way that Sephiroth knew how.
Angeal knew him -- both in battle and in spirit. He was perhaps the only person who ever had.
Their target had a certain command of the battlefield, spurred on by desperation and something far more passionate. In any other circumstance, Sephiroth may have commended him and then scolded him for his lack of control. Despite his power, he was clumsy. His strength had been honed by necessity rather than through training, and while there was a certain utility in that, it had no thought and no tactics. It was nothing like the perfectly honed teamwork of the First Class pair.
The swordsman, despite his force of will, had never stood a chance.
It was over in an instant. The mad SOLDIER swung wildly. Sephiroth blocked the attack, leaving an opening for Angeal’s powerful strike. Sephiroth felt the force of that blow. He heard the crack of bone and then their target was sent hurtling through the air like a hollow doll. Angeal had, notably, used the dull edge of his sword. Sephiroth didn’t quite understand why. Wood and concrete crumbled on impact with human flesh and bone. The swordsman’s Barrier spell had made him resilient, but surely it would lead to only a far slower and more brutal death.
Sephiroth far preferred a decisive finish. Still, he wouldn’t argue his friend’s methods. Alone, the vengeance driven swordsman had managed the upperhand. Angeal had shifted the battle in his favor.
”Alright.” Angeal was breathing heavily. He secured his sword to its familiar place on his back. ”Let’s move. Before we attract any more unwanted attention.”
Sephiroth hummed in answer. He’d come to this place to attract attention -- Angeal’s attention -- and while it seemed he had succeeded on that front, it had been a reckless decision. He understood that now as well as the cost of his own hubris. It was best to find a more secure location.
Yet he felt the weight of that moment on his shoulders. Angeal, beside him. Angeal, alive.
”We searched for you.” Sephiroth hesitated, unsure of his own words. ”Genesis and I.”
It's almost like Sephiroth wouldn't have cracked if he'd just had his friends
I knew mine was a special existence
Sephiroth did not have the advantage.
The shift had taken place in an instant. He’d had that one lapse of judgment, that split second hesitation, and that was all it had taken to force Sephiroth onto the defensive. Their swords clashed in rapidfire flashes of hard steel. They were almost too fast to follow -- the swordsman’s heavy swings and Sephiroth’s minute shifts in posture, never farther than needed. He wasted no time on flourishes, his eyes a laser focus for even the slightest opening. He found none. It was almost as though they had fought before
(they had)
and the man knew his style
(he did)
and as the building quickly became a ruin of shattered glass and shards of broken concrete, it was only his instinctual professionalism that kept that strange familiarity from rising through the fog. He knew this feeling. He knew this fight. He knew this sword, and as he dodged backwards, blasting through walls and windows and crumbling debris with singular swipes of his blade, those murderous blue eyes seemed to pierce him straight to the hidden core beneath.
He hated them. He was fascinated by them. But why…?
(mother)
It shot through his head in a bullet of static and light. Betrayal. Pain. Euphoria. There was laughter. Metal set in a hard green glow. Those eyes, piercing, and a single word hanging on the edge of a precipice.
JENOV-
”Enough!”
Sephiroth stumbled back as a third figure thrust itself in front of him. There was a metallic clang and a shockwave of force, and suddenly there was a man standing like a bulwark between them. The first thing he saw was white. A great swathe of white feathers that drifted on the wind. Sephiroth’s eyes traveled to his back to his SOLDIER’s pauldrons and then to a familiar layer of black, windswept hair.
Angeal.
Sephiroth straightened, burying the rush of relief in the natural ease of standing beside him. This feeling -- the feeling of a friend at his side -- was almost stronger than the muffled pain of loss and reunion. He smirked, brandishing his sword to the side. ”You came.”
It wasn't much. An acknowledgement. There would be time for conversation later.
”We should leave.”
Sephiroth glanced at the raging swordsman, his composure returning to his usual cold calculations. They could overpower him. Together, they could put their years of trained cooperation into action, blind-siding the assailant with a combination of skill and raw power. It would be better to dispatch him now. They could terminate the threat before he returned at a more inopportune moment. And yet…
That would mean facing those raging eyes. Sephiroth's heart raced at the truth they promised -- of that terrible, overwhelming truth that threatened to overtake him.
Sephiroth went still. It was an unnatural motion, frozen almost in stasis with hardly a breath to sway him. ’Wide, thick sword? About the length of my body? Both with strange blue, murky sort of eyes.’
Mako eyes were not murky. They were bright with the force of mako itself yet he didn’t let this detail dissuade him. This man knew Angeal by name. Sephiroth closed his eyes and listened.
Aljana. The desert city? It was very like Angeal to seek greener pastures -- not metaphorically either. Sephiroth couldn’t see him happy in the barren heat of a desert wasteland.
”Was he well?” His first question was a surprise even to himself. He should have asked for details. His self-imposed mission demanded intel, and yet all of that fell away at the feet of that one more important question.
Angeal is dead. Genesis had insisted, and Sephiroth had known it almost instinctively. His honor had driven him to suicide. ShinRa had driven him to despair.
’I can let him know you’re looking for him if I see him.’
Sephiroth laughed. It was a quiet, humorless laugh as he pressed his palm into his temple. It all felt so casual. This swordsman had no idea who he was.
”Sephiroth,” he said. Sephiroth paused and then smirked. ”Tell him that Genesis is ready to burn the city down.” Without Angeal to reign him in. Sephiroth had never known how to make him listen.
They really had nothing in common, Genesis and Sephiroth. They needed Angeal as a balance. Sephiroth needed Angeal as a friend.
Sephiroth started walking again. This man knew nothing else of note if he hadn’t seen him since Aljana. If he was to pass along on a message, there was nothing else he needed to know. Names. Genesis’ state of mine. Angeal would come on his own.
”I’ll be waiting for him here. In the main plaza. Tell him that.”
Sephiroth’s blows landed as expected, cracking and tearing the street into clouds of stone debris. Sephiroth squinted through it, waiting for the perfect opening. The Soldier did not lower his guard. Despite his lacking training, he knew well enough to raise his sword defensively, grounding his stance against any incoming attacks. The sword itself was broad enough to serve as a kind of shield. That sword…
The Buster Sword.
Sephiroth’s eyes widened for a moment, but only a moment. Despite its resemblance, it wasn’t the blade he knew so well. It had the same shape -- so familiar that it set him on edge. The boxy guard, the thin handle, the sheer weight and width of it. It felt wrong, seeing it in the hands of someone so unworthy, and yet...
Something familiar flashed behind that sword. It was like a shadow -- a dream. For that single instant, he saw another behind that sword, gritting his teeth against the sheer force raining down around him. He saw a Soldier uniform, black hair, a scar along one cheek.
He hesitated.
That moment was enough. The Soldier took it, darting into the air and swinging his sword around in a spiral motion. Sephiroth hardly had time to raise his own sword in a block before it struck him with the force of a cyclone.
He grit his teeth as he felt himself knocked out of the air, thrust backwards as the winds uprooted concrete and stone. There was a disadvantage to aerial combat, he realized. He was weightless which meant…
He felt the full force of a building rushing to meet him. He smashed through it, sending up splinters and bits of drywall. He kept his sword crossed defensively, prepared for another attack even as his ears rang.
Who was this man? And why did he find it so hard to remember?
