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year 5, quarter 3
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The man followed him. Sephiroth couldn’t say that he hadn’t expected it.
They walked past the playground with its metal swings and moogle slide. There was a wooden gate around it, surrounding the spongy padding made to look like rock. The children here hadn’t noticed him. They were too busy chasing each other hanging upside down from the monkey bars. Sephiroth continued on.
’An aspiring weaponsmith?’ His questions weren’t new. He hadn’t expected them outside of Midgar.
”The metal was synthesized. It was made by weapons development.” Not that he didn’t know the basics. He’d cared for his sword from the day it was assigned to him. It was a part of himself as much as his battle record or his finely honed swordsmanship. It was, perhaps, more defining for him than his eyes.
”It’s a specialized fusion of carbon, diamond, and platinum infused with mako. I don’t know how it was made.” By chemists in a lab somewhere. He imagined them in their white coats and protective goggles, eyeing their compounds and measuring them carefully. It was not a comfortable thought.
Sephiroth stopped. Behind him, one of the children shrieked. He wondered if it was in fear or joy.
”I’m looking for someone. Black hair. Mako eyes.” He didn’t elaborate. ”He has a sword that only a Soldier could wield. It’s distinctive for its size.”
The Buster Sword. There were few in the upper plates of Midgar who wouldn’t have known it -- not on the back of its rightful owner. The Shinra propaganda department had made sure of that.
This might just become the shortest thread ever written on the site
I knew mine was a special existence
Now that the child was crying, it seemed like everyone around had come to the conclusion that he must have done something to cause it. He knew how he looked. He knew that his unnatural eyes played on human instinct. He knew that he looked almost wraith-like with his black leather coat and colorless hair. That fear was an advantage on the battlefield. In civilian territory, it was a liability.
Sephiroth smirked, pushing back his bangs. Maybe the attention would draw out Angeal if word spread quickly enough. Maybe security would apprehend Sephiroth before he had the chance to search the premises fully. He spared the girl little mind as he turned to leave.
A man rushed forward. He had the armor of a swordsman. Sephiroth noted his long coat, the furred accents, the dragonscale gauntlets. Beneath it all, he wore a tie. It was an eclectic match that made him seem somehow removed from time. Sephiroth’s eyebrows raised.
And how, exactly, did this man know that no one was going to hurt her? Sephiroth had never understood children.
The man turned to him.
And asked about his sword.
”Hmph.” Sephiroth tilted his head, smirking. The man was forward. And excitable. It seemed he was more than an enthusiast. ”It’s custom. Shinra’s weapons department.”
Sephiroth had designed it himself some time ago. This had amused Hojo to no end. Sephiroth had learned to use it more out of spite than anything. His mastery had done nothing to lessen his amusement.
The crowds were still staring. With the introduction of the armored swordsman, this was all the more the case. The enthusiast may have neutralized the situation, but Sephiroth did not expect people’s suspicion to fade with it.
Lingering here would do nothing. With nothing else to say, Sephiroth turned and walked away.
Sephiroth stood, arms crossed, at the edge of a path lined with trees. Before him was an enclosure cramped with foliage, underbrush, vines, and tropical flowers separated from him by a plate of glass. Every now and then, the vines would sway as though in a nonexistent wind. There was a plate screwed into the glass which read, ’Ochu: Native to the Torensten Jungle Region.’ He watched as it waved its vine arms, its spiked paws waving with them.
The Provo Woodland Zoo was packed with monsters, every one of them in their place. Yet Sephiroth did not fail to notice the eyes on his own back.
”Mommy, that guy looks weird!”
”I don’t want to go that way!”
”Look at that sword!”
Sephiroth sighed, touching at his forehead before he turned and walked away. The path was half dirt, half concrete, masquerading as some kind of remote jungle road. There were speakers hidden by palm leaves that played an ambience of cawing birds on loop.
What was he doing here?
It had started as a thorough search of the city. There was no path he wouldn’t follow. There was no stone he wouldn’t overturn. Yet a scan of the marketplaces and mercenary holds had turned up little of interest. So he had frequented the less likely fields -- the race track, the farms, and now the local zoo.
Because Angeal was alive. Sephiroth could feel it.
He found himself on a wooden bridge crossing from the jungle biome to what looked like a central square. There were stalls all around selling sandwiches to tired looking families. There was a playground by the picnic tables where children were pushing each other down moogle slides. An island at the center of the pond was populated by land-bound basilisks sunning themselves on rocks.
Sephiroth had no interest in joining the crowds. Apparently he was suspicious, wandering the zoo by himself. He was no stranger to notoriety. He’d grown numb to looks of scorn and fear. He approached the rest stop without hesitation, scanning the crowds without any real hope or expectation.
And then he heard the scream.
It was a girl’s shriek followed by inconsolable wailing. Sephiroth stopped. In front of him was the child in question. She was maybe four or five, red in the face with her eyes twisted and tears streaming down her cheeks. She’d dropped a pastry at her feet, but hardly seemed to notice as she pointed at him, weeping.
”Monster!” She stumbled back. ”Mommy! Mommy!”
Other eyes were on him now. Then the whispers. Once again, Sephiroth touched his forehead, lips twitching.
The man went flying backwards with the force of Sephiroth’s blade though he recovered quickly, easily regaining his stance in the air and twisting himself into a stable landing. Sephiroth felt a twinge of respect for the man’s abilities, but that was irrelevant now. His assailant sought a fight with him -- one that would only end in blood. Sephiroth had not been taught hesitation.
”Shut up.” The Soldier had gone feral. Sephiroth could see it in his eyes -- that monstrous rage. There was nothing human left inside him. Was that an effect of the mako, the stress, or merely his own burning hatred?
It didn’t matter. In this field, Sephiroth had the advantage.
The man charged again, magic shimmering around him as he went. It boosted his speed, and Sephiroth prepared himself for it. Haste. His assailant struck so quickly that it could hardly be seen by the human eye. Sephiroth let his body move on its own accord, faster than his conscious mind could follow. He blocked in short, precise motions, dodging the blows with light steps that hardly brought him from his starting position. The man may have boosted his speed, but that made his form clumsier. It was crude, forceful, emotional.
The man may have had the strength of a Soldier, but he had none of the control. How long had he trained? Sephiroth would never have promoted him to Second Class.
Sephiroth struck back, and the man dodged sideways, avoiding his blow with a hairline’s space. He pressed his blade against Sephiroth’s, thrusting it off course. He bought himself an opening, but only the thinnest of openings. He took it by thrusting out his hand and casting magic again.
Sephiroth saw a familiar spark of red. Fire. In that slowed half-second, tactics turned sharp and rapid-fire -- subconscious, calculating. His sword would cave if he tried to block it. There was no dodging to the side. It was too late to counter, but he’d seen this before. From Genesis.
Genesis.
The flames erupted from his assailant’s gloved hand. Sephiroth felt the heat, heard the blast, and took to the air.
It was a close dodge -- narrowly avoided. The heat seared his boots. The light was disarming. Still, as he felt his own weight fall away, he let none of it slow his thoughts. Genesis’ weakness had always been his passion, his recklessness, his insistence on magic at a close range. Sephiroth knew this fight, and he knew casting left a split second’s loss of defenses. It was a gamble, and not one that an enraged mind could calculate.
Sephiroth kept his distance, thrusting himself higher with that strange weightlessness that now felt natural. He swung his sword rapidly with enough force to send shockwaves that struck the ground below him, cracking the street in crescent arcs. He did not expect them to disable a Soldier, but the blow would disarm him long enough for Sephiroth to follow through.
He didn’t know how he knew. He felt it, he supposed, as a kind of secondary instinct. It wasn’t Angeal, but someone else. He sensed a deep burning hatred that was nearly overwhelming and drawing closer.
Interesting.
He didn’t steel himself for the attack that he knew was coming. He heard it easily -- that scrape of metal across stone ground. That wild yell like a raging beast. He heard it and he felt it, and only once his attacker had leaped into the air with his sword raised did Sephiroth act. He did so with pinpoint precision, one step forward, stance angled, sword pulled in a flash of silver. He felt resistance on that sword as he looked up to meet his assailant’s eye. Blue eyes. Mako eyes.
The man’s eyes burned with bloodlust. His face was twisted into an animalistic snarl. For the briefest of moments, he was suspended by the force of Sephiroth’s sword, blocking his blade with a practiced ease. Then Sephiroth’s lips switched into a smirk. He thrust the man away with an unnatural strength, sending him flying some ten feet away.
There was something about that face. Something about those eyes. He felt a strange sense of unease. He’d forgotten something. And why couldn't he name this man who was clearly once a SOLDIER?
”Do I know you?” He gave nothing away. There was only his smirk. His cold expression. It was professional -- perhaps a little curious. He had no time for doubts in combat. That had been drilled into him practically since birth, and it was not an instinct quickly set aside. There were many with a reason to draw his blood. But this man…
What's that? Do I sense subconscious JENOVA reunion instincts?
I knew mine was a special existence
Angeal.
Sephiroth closed his eyes, contemplative. His friend was here. It had gone from an impossibility to a rumor to a fact. Since the Turk had first spoken the words, he’d known in some part of himself that it would. No matter what Genesis said, no matter what he felt in that strange, unknowable place of memory, Angeal was alive.
His friend was alive.
Sephiroth opened his eyes, watching the slate gray sky. Clouds passed on a bitter wind that foretold a storm -- the effects of the hurricane to the west perhaps? The square in which he found himself was crowded and bustling, and yet he felt as though he stood along on a hill, gazing out on the rocky plains below. Genesis had left him. They had parted ways to cover more ground. Though Genesis had not seemed entirely convinced, there was a spark of hope between them, and in Genesis’ case, maybe dread.
Sephiroth sighed and lowered his head. This was pointless. He needed his usual pinpoint precision now more than ever, and yet he couldn’t help the thoughts that rolled through within and under him. There were eyes on him, he knew. Whispers of the ominous man that was somehow wrong in some unspeakable and instinctual way. This man was dressed all in black with a thin sword and a long cloak which, for some reason, he’d heard described as a cape. He was unnaturally pale, nearly the color of a corpse, and his eyes were vivid, cat-like, and inhuman. Sephiroth had never minded the whispering, and now he welcomed it. Perhaps Angeal would hear the murmur like the faint echo of ocean waves. Perhaps Angeal would seek him out if given the chance.
This square, this City Center, offered him nothing more than notoriety. Find me, it seemed to say. I am here.
And so he stood, waiting, among the people and the great halls and the statues of leaders long dead. He stood waiting for something that tugged at the back of his mind, for something that felt natural and alien all at once. It was like a call that struck him at his very core and carried on the wind.
It was hard, answering that question. It lingered with him for longer than it should have, settling finally in the slight downturn of his lips and the twitch of his brow. Genesis would notice, he thought, but that was not his highest priority. No, it all rested on that question.
’Anything else of note in your absence?’
Yes. More than enough. He remembered the Turk, Cissnei, standing alone in the snow. He remembered how she had stopped him, refused to fight him, and then offered him shelter and a muted sense of sympathy. He’d needed neither, but he’d relented anyway if only for his own curiosity. He remembered that dusty bar -- all the boxes and bottles and old glasses that needed cleaning. She’d known something about him that lurked even now in the depths of his dreams. She’d looked almost pityingly upon him as she’d spoken. He had not liked that look.
Genesis knew. She’d insinuated as much, but he hadn’t needed her word to tell him that. He’d known from the beginning that Genesis was hiding something. His friend was one to wear every thought on his sleeve, and Sephiroth had not failed to see it. Genesis was hiding something. Sephiroth wanted answers. And yet, as he stood hesitantly in that dim room that smelled increasingly of sour wine, he found that his lips wouldn’t move to ask the question. No matter how a part of himself screamed.
What am I?
”No,” Sephiroth said finally. He shook his head and started towards his room. ”I need sleep.” He left it at that and hoped that Genesis would do nothing more than raise an eyebrow if that. Sephiroth would not sleep, he thought. He may have needed it, but his thoughts were turning again and he knew that he could do nothing to flip the switch into unconsciousness.
What am I? It was a question that haunted him, and yet one that he could not ask. Deep in some quiet part of himself, he was afraid of the answer.
”The buster sword?” For some reason, that was the most unreasonable part. ”Zack was the one to wield it last from what I saw.”
”Zack?” Sephiroth’s eyebrows furrowed. Why would Zack Fair have inherited that sword? Angeal’s honor? The one possession he had ever really cared for? That sword was the first thing he’d ever learned about Angeal. The third class Soldier had been broad, talented, and always carried a sword far too large for his then-teenage frame.
It was a hindrance. Nothing but a weight to drag him down. And yet, Angeal had always insisted that it couldn’t part from him. Sephiroth had thought that he might have made second at least six months earlier had he lightened himself of that weight. Angeal was nothing if not stubborn.
”You want to go to Provo.”
Sephiroth raised his eyes to Genesis. His friend had read him well enough. Despite their differences, they had experience in common -- experience and time. Genesis fell back onto the couch, quoting one of his favorite lines. ’Pride is lost. Wings stripped away.’
Sephiroth felt his own wing twitch. They had lost their pride some time ago as well as their honor. There was nothing left between them but memories. There was nothing left for Sephiroth but the friends he clung to more desperately than ever. There was no ShinRa to tear them apart. What would it be like to live without that ever-looming presence?
No schedules. No missions. No long months on his own, burying the thoughts that would lead him back to their side. Sephiroth’s eyebrows furrowed.
He hadn’t liked the empty expanse of time that swallowed him now. But if they were all three together...Maybe then…
It could be bearable.
Sephiroth glanced to Genesis. ’What if he doesn’t want to see me?’ Sephiroth frowned. It seemed like a strange thing to say, and something stranger to worry about. No matter how they’d been torn apart, he couldn’t imagine it.
”It’s Angeal,” he said simply. He thought that was enough.
Sephiroth walked towards the door, loosening the sheath of his sword as he went. He set the masamune carefully against the wall. Not in his room. It bothered him there. Still, it felt right somehow. Genesis was vulnerable, half clothed with his loose-fitting pants and lank hair. Sephiroth could lower his guard as well.
No matter how it made him twitch.
”We’ll take an airship in the morning.” His feathers ruffled as though in a kind of subconscious protest. Sephiroth huffed at them. ”We should conserve our energy,” he said. ”The tracks might be cold.”
He’d spent too much time in the air. For once, he wanted to feel human.
Sephiroth twisted his gloves at the wrist. He was tired suddenly in a way that he wasn’t often. His body had a way of denying sleep. How long had it been since he’d last rested?
”We’ll find him,” he said. It was their new mission -- a self-proclaimed one. No matter the stakes, Sephiroth had never failed.
Even Sephiroth knew that "Let's be friends with the Turks" wouldn't go over well
I knew mine was a special existence
Even Genesis couldn’t deny the evidence. His eyes caught on the paper. Sephiroth saw the shock, confusion, and then sudden urgency. Genesis shot forward, pouring over the note as though it was the last gasp of a dying man. Sephiroth watched wordlessly. They both knew the implications.
”It’s not possible.” Once again, anger rose in Genesis’ voice. ”I was there, Sephiroth! I went to this event!”
”What?” Sephiroth’s lips parted in surprise. Genesis had gone? That was less of a surprise than Angeal, but Sephiroth’s eyes furrowed at the thought. What all had he missed? And how could they have passed so close by each other?
”I don’t know.” Sephiroth was quiet. In truth, he had no idea why Angeal would attend something so outlandish. It wasn’t like him. They both knew it, but the facts were undeniable. Maybe neither of them had known him quite as well as they’d thought.
Genesis stood, stowing the note away as he paced across the apartment like a tiger around its cage. He muttered a furious line of poetry. Loveless, Act 3.
”What are we supposed to do with this?” Genesis turned sharply on his heel, brandishing the paper almost accusingly. Sephiroth’s eyes darted away. He’d been the one to break their peace.
”I don’t know,” he said again. It was honest. Too honest. The reasonable part of him -- the Angeal part -- prompted him to say more. ”There were witnesses,” Sephiroth added. ”He’s carrying the buster sword.”
It wasn’t right. Nothing Sephiroth said ever was. He turned away so he wouldn’t have to see the flare of anger in Genesis’ eye. Give solutions, not feelings.
”Reconnaissance,” Sephiroth muttered. ”We know his location and his time of arrival.”’I could ask the Turks.’ The thought came and passed behind tightened lips. Sephiroth had never known how to appease Genesis, but he knew enough to keep that idea to himself.
He reacted as Sephiroth could have expected to news of the Turks. Of course they had led him into a trap. Sephiroth couldn’t admit he was wrong. Sephiroth had expected the trap just as he’d expected Genesis’ scathing poetry. He’d known and yet he had acted anyway. He’d known that whatever trap they’d sprung that he would survive and return their attacks threefold.
And so he had. For all except Cissnei. His fist tightened on the letter in his pocket.
For a moment, Genesis was quiet. There was shock there. The same that Sephiroth had felt, he thought. And then Genesis spoke.
”You’re wrong.”
He heard Genesis marching towards him and then he grabbed Sephiroth forcefully by his leather harness, wrenching him forward. Sephiroth returned the look, frowning. There was a fire in Genesis’ eyes. More than that, there was pain.
”I don’t care what the Turks told you,” Genesis snarled. ”Angeal is dead And you want to know why? Because he wanted to die.” Sephiroth’s brow furrowed. A suicide? Angeal? It wasn’t possible. Not for the strong, sensible man that Sephiroth knew.
”That’s where his honor led him in the end.”
The fire died in Genesis’ eyes. He dropped his grip, stagger back as he rubbed his temples. He was tired. Perhaps he had been tired for longer than Sephiroth knew. Genesis fell into the couch, muttering poetry. Sephiroth straightened.
”I didn’t take them at their word,” he said. He strode towards him, pulling the slightly crumpled paper from his pocket. He offered it to Genesis. ”I investigated their lead. There were witnesses. And he left behind this.”
He hesitated. The lead was strong, he knew, but the situation was still too absurd to believe at face value. Angeal, on a date. On Valentine’s Day no less. He sighed. ”It’s his handwriting,” he said. ”It couldn’t be a forgery.”
