[ficlet] FF7: PostMortem Obligatory Notes
You & Me
FF7
Sephiroth/Cloud
Notes: Possible UST? In PostMortem AU, Sephiroth and Cloud finally interact, with horrible, grisly results. Contains arrogance, vocab words, and dry tone.
Words: 1252
As his memory is flawless, Sephiroth can honestly say he never laughed before going medically insane. He remembers…not quite smiling, in private, at the folly or ineptitude of others, but nothing so overt as laughing.
If laughter is truly good for the soul, then madness is easily one of the most health-conscious choices he has ever made, and possibly the only reason he hadn’t committed suicide at the ripe age of thirty.
That said, he’s having a hard time to keep from laughing out loud right now, and settles for quiet chuckles and the occasional snort.
Cloud just barely dodges a strike at his head, almost spears himself on the piker behind him, before getting shot-almost, almost, but contact was made and Cloud is bleeding-in his left thigh. He keeps trying to call out to Sephiroth; very unprofessional, a serious breech of etiquette, seeking a new opponent before one has finished off the first. Typical backwater peasant manners, manners the years have not managed to erase.
“Think of all the time you could have saved,” Sephiroth murmurs, knowing Cloud can hear, even while fighting off the semi-enhanced mob. “The effort, the sweat. The people who didn’t have to die for your ego.”
“Call them off! Seph-damn--!”
“Think of all the blood,” Sephiroth has no intention of moving from his crumbling perch, shadowed by ruined office buildings and unnoticed by everyone but Cloud. “Every wasted drop.”
He can’t entirely fault Cloud for assuming his involvement; each of the cloned fighters attacking the blond wear a semblance of his face, with pale hair and green eyes. Imperfect and individual clones, with substandard skills and relentless stamina. They aren’t particularly bright, and Sephiroth has easily seen four openings to murder the blond. Cloud should be dead by now; if these were Sephiroth’s clones, he would destroy them personally, and start again from scratch.
If they manage to kill Cloud-which they may, judging from the sheer number of near-misses and bleeding wounds-then obviously Sephiroth has been giving his archenemy far too much credit, and Cloud’s death was long over-due.
A few seconds slow, giving the whirling, hacking morass a soft, surreal atmosphere as a blade slices into Cloud’s face.
The cut would’ve halved a normal fighter’s skull, would’ve taken off the left hemisphere of a SOLDIER’s face. Because it’s Cloud, the eternal failure, capable only of achieving the impossible, the blade grazes his cheek. Some hair is lost.
The battleground glows briefly. Blood fountains and sprays in slow, slow motion, and body parts cartwheel.
Despite himself, Sephiroth is hard-pressed to keep the smirk off his face.
When he was…younger, though not actually young, he experimented briefly with limiting his skills, in handicapping himself, partly for the challenge, and partly in an attempt to conform.
To this day he does not know why Cloud holds himself back, why Cloud’s so very terrified of his own strength. It may be a human dilemma, and if so, then of no importance.
When the attack is over--the slower, easier modification of the Omnislash--blood coats the left side of Cloud’s face and feet as he eases into his opening stance, waiting for Sephiroth to engage.
“Well?”
The eternal failure. Sephiroth refuses to let his disappointment show.
“Was your ego worth it? Your hurt pride?
“What’re you talking about?”
Sephiroth’s eyes narrow as he steps off from the broken ledge and lands on the cracked pavement with hardly a sound. Cloud tenses, predictably, as Sephiroth strolls slowly around the carnage, refusing to dirty his boots and avoiding arbitrary fingers and limbs. “Do you regret it? Opposing me?”
“Never,” Cloud spits with confidence and easy anger, sword held at the ready. It takes far too long, but once roused, Cloud is a very efficient killing machine, ruthless and precise, a genuine pleasure to watch. “When are you gonna stop being a coward and sending your lackey’s to fight me?”
Sephiroth deftly toes a clone on its stomach, pushes its shirt up with the sole of his boot. “Twelve. Eight,” he nods at the body at Cloud’s right, the black tattoo gracing the remaining portion of the clone’s torso. “And I saw seventeen, somewhere. I didn’t catch the numbers on the others, but it will give you something to do while waiting for a conclusion to arrive.”
“Are they yours?”
“They can’t speak,” Sephiroth continues conversationally. Ignoring Cloud has never been particularly hard. “Can’t think, can’t work together. Engineered to no longer feel pain.”
“Are they yours?”
Sephiroth turns away, blatantly giving his enemy his back, not that Cloud would know what do with the sudden advantage. Besides, one of the clone’s face is…fascinating. Sephiroth crouches down; he hadn’t been sure, but he knows that mouth, those lips, so ridiculous looking on a man.
“Efficient weapons, but highly limited,” Sephiroth concludes his professional evaluation, almost to himself, pretending the moment doesn’t feel like a Shinra board meeting. “Not nearly flexible enough to become a challenge.”
“Are they yours?!”
Sephiroth doesn’t respond, doesn’t turn around; neither noise or ignorance appeals to him. Besides, Cloud would only become more belligerent and pushy if encouraged.
Even at the height of Sephiroth’s popularity, SOLDIER’s were always considered a bit monstrous. Now that the program-along with Shinra and Midgar-are long extinct, it’s only reasonable that people be terrified of them. Even so, he isn’t quite sure why the rulers of this current era are so fixed on killing Cloud, or if they intend to pursue Sephiroth as well.
He begins to stand; he can only tolerate Cloud for so long, and he has what he came for.
“They’ve got your face,” Cloud mentions off-hand, right behind his spine and far too close.
He’s never liked people close.
Substandard fighting had made Cloud complacent, forgetful of the fact that while he is slightly faster than Sephiroth, Sephiroth is still faster than anything else. Also, Cloud has always been easily surprised.
“Ah!”
The hilt of Cloud’s sword-held low, too low, how did this child ever beat him?-goes into Cloud’s stomach, while Sephiroth uses Cloud’s other arm to tug him to the pavement and underneath Sephiroth. He does not quite wrench Cloud’s arm out of socket, but he will if Cloud makes a fuss.
“That is not my jaw, that is not my mouth,” Sephiroth murmurs, while forcing Cloud’s own chin and jaw more intimately into the concrete. “Their hair is white, not silver, eyes green from overdosing and it is not my DNA in their cells. It is not me they attempt to replicate.”
Cloud struggles beneath him, spine jerking under Sephiroth’s boot and his considerable weight. Cloud’s throat pushes against his fingers, and if Cloud is not careful Sephiroth his going to break his neck; it takes more effort not to.
“You wasted time fighting for traitors,” Sephiroth repeats, barely audible over Cloud’s wheezing, “and now I am going to let them maim you. I am going to let them kill you, exactly how they killed Zack. Until you learn.”
Cloud’s forehead met sharply with the pavement, once, twice, blood dripping from his lips, and then Sephiroth was gone, as quietly as he’d arrived.
He could not always be indulging fools.
***
Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust; hatred alone is immortal.
--William Hazlitt
***
A/N: I don't even know where the Word Count tool is is Word 2007...apologies for any misspellings, typos while I figure out my programs. Got new stuff, hate it much.
FF7
Sephiroth/Cloud
Notes: Possible UST? In PostMortem AU, Sephiroth and Cloud finally interact, with horrible, grisly results. Contains arrogance, vocab words, and dry tone.
Words: 1252
As his memory is flawless, Sephiroth can honestly say he never laughed before going medically insane. He remembers…not quite smiling, in private, at the folly or ineptitude of others, but nothing so overt as laughing.
If laughter is truly good for the soul, then madness is easily one of the most health-conscious choices he has ever made, and possibly the only reason he hadn’t committed suicide at the ripe age of thirty.
That said, he’s having a hard time to keep from laughing out loud right now, and settles for quiet chuckles and the occasional snort.
Cloud just barely dodges a strike at his head, almost spears himself on the piker behind him, before getting shot-almost, almost, but contact was made and Cloud is bleeding-in his left thigh. He keeps trying to call out to Sephiroth; very unprofessional, a serious breech of etiquette, seeking a new opponent before one has finished off the first. Typical backwater peasant manners, manners the years have not managed to erase.
“Think of all the time you could have saved,” Sephiroth murmurs, knowing Cloud can hear, even while fighting off the semi-enhanced mob. “The effort, the sweat. The people who didn’t have to die for your ego.”
“Call them off! Seph-damn--!”
“Think of all the blood,” Sephiroth has no intention of moving from his crumbling perch, shadowed by ruined office buildings and unnoticed by everyone but Cloud. “Every wasted drop.”
He can’t entirely fault Cloud for assuming his involvement; each of the cloned fighters attacking the blond wear a semblance of his face, with pale hair and green eyes. Imperfect and individual clones, with substandard skills and relentless stamina. They aren’t particularly bright, and Sephiroth has easily seen four openings to murder the blond. Cloud should be dead by now; if these were Sephiroth’s clones, he would destroy them personally, and start again from scratch.
If they manage to kill Cloud-which they may, judging from the sheer number of near-misses and bleeding wounds-then obviously Sephiroth has been giving his archenemy far too much credit, and Cloud’s death was long over-due.
A few seconds slow, giving the whirling, hacking morass a soft, surreal atmosphere as a blade slices into Cloud’s face.
The cut would’ve halved a normal fighter’s skull, would’ve taken off the left hemisphere of a SOLDIER’s face. Because it’s Cloud, the eternal failure, capable only of achieving the impossible, the blade grazes his cheek. Some hair is lost.
The battleground glows briefly. Blood fountains and sprays in slow, slow motion, and body parts cartwheel.
Despite himself, Sephiroth is hard-pressed to keep the smirk off his face.
When he was…younger, though not actually young, he experimented briefly with limiting his skills, in handicapping himself, partly for the challenge, and partly in an attempt to conform.
To this day he does not know why Cloud holds himself back, why Cloud’s so very terrified of his own strength. It may be a human dilemma, and if so, then of no importance.
When the attack is over--the slower, easier modification of the Omnislash--blood coats the left side of Cloud’s face and feet as he eases into his opening stance, waiting for Sephiroth to engage.
“Well?”
The eternal failure. Sephiroth refuses to let his disappointment show.
“Was your ego worth it? Your hurt pride?
“What’re you talking about?”
Sephiroth’s eyes narrow as he steps off from the broken ledge and lands on the cracked pavement with hardly a sound. Cloud tenses, predictably, as Sephiroth strolls slowly around the carnage, refusing to dirty his boots and avoiding arbitrary fingers and limbs. “Do you regret it? Opposing me?”
“Never,” Cloud spits with confidence and easy anger, sword held at the ready. It takes far too long, but once roused, Cloud is a very efficient killing machine, ruthless and precise, a genuine pleasure to watch. “When are you gonna stop being a coward and sending your lackey’s to fight me?”
Sephiroth deftly toes a clone on its stomach, pushes its shirt up with the sole of his boot. “Twelve. Eight,” he nods at the body at Cloud’s right, the black tattoo gracing the remaining portion of the clone’s torso. “And I saw seventeen, somewhere. I didn’t catch the numbers on the others, but it will give you something to do while waiting for a conclusion to arrive.”
“Are they yours?”
“They can’t speak,” Sephiroth continues conversationally. Ignoring Cloud has never been particularly hard. “Can’t think, can’t work together. Engineered to no longer feel pain.”
“Are they yours?”
Sephiroth turns away, blatantly giving his enemy his back, not that Cloud would know what do with the sudden advantage. Besides, one of the clone’s face is…fascinating. Sephiroth crouches down; he hadn’t been sure, but he knows that mouth, those lips, so ridiculous looking on a man.
“Efficient weapons, but highly limited,” Sephiroth concludes his professional evaluation, almost to himself, pretending the moment doesn’t feel like a Shinra board meeting. “Not nearly flexible enough to become a challenge.”
“Are they yours?!”
Sephiroth doesn’t respond, doesn’t turn around; neither noise or ignorance appeals to him. Besides, Cloud would only become more belligerent and pushy if encouraged.
Even at the height of Sephiroth’s popularity, SOLDIER’s were always considered a bit monstrous. Now that the program-along with Shinra and Midgar-are long extinct, it’s only reasonable that people be terrified of them. Even so, he isn’t quite sure why the rulers of this current era are so fixed on killing Cloud, or if they intend to pursue Sephiroth as well.
He begins to stand; he can only tolerate Cloud for so long, and he has what he came for.
“They’ve got your face,” Cloud mentions off-hand, right behind his spine and far too close.
He’s never liked people close.
Substandard fighting had made Cloud complacent, forgetful of the fact that while he is slightly faster than Sephiroth, Sephiroth is still faster than anything else. Also, Cloud has always been easily surprised.
“Ah!”
The hilt of Cloud’s sword-held low, too low, how did this child ever beat him?-goes into Cloud’s stomach, while Sephiroth uses Cloud’s other arm to tug him to the pavement and underneath Sephiroth. He does not quite wrench Cloud’s arm out of socket, but he will if Cloud makes a fuss.
“That is not my jaw, that is not my mouth,” Sephiroth murmurs, while forcing Cloud’s own chin and jaw more intimately into the concrete. “Their hair is white, not silver, eyes green from overdosing and it is not my DNA in their cells. It is not me they attempt to replicate.”
Cloud struggles beneath him, spine jerking under Sephiroth’s boot and his considerable weight. Cloud’s throat pushes against his fingers, and if Cloud is not careful Sephiroth his going to break his neck; it takes more effort not to.
“You wasted time fighting for traitors,” Sephiroth repeats, barely audible over Cloud’s wheezing, “and now I am going to let them maim you. I am going to let them kill you, exactly how they killed Zack. Until you learn.”
Cloud’s forehead met sharply with the pavement, once, twice, blood dripping from his lips, and then Sephiroth was gone, as quietly as he’d arrived.
He could not always be indulging fools.
***
Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust; hatred alone is immortal.
--William Hazlitt
***
A/N: I don't even know where the Word Count tool is is Word 2007...apologies for any misspellings, typos while I figure out my programs. Got new stuff, hate it much.