[ficlet] FF7: Postmortem Notes
Chaldea
FF7
970 Words
Notes: Contains Seph/Cloud/Zack, non-pairing/sexual, though possible unrequited if you squint. Set long after Midgar-era is over, exploiting the idea that Sephiroth can't actually die.
Standard Disclaimer Applies: No $$ made to speak of.
***
So here we are again.
The smog and sulfur clouds burn the unprotected flesh and naked eyes as Gaia turns again to eternal summer, a constant collage of dust and rust and fire.
Fire has always been his element, as all elements submit to his will in time, but Sephiroth finds himself hating the arid, toxic landscape even more than he hates its few petty inhabitants. The humans only want to kill him, or revere him-which is worse-but at least they can’t dye his hair orange and blond with dust and sand, or rip the water from his eyes and skin.
The noon day sun scalds the barren mountains and deserts with enough strength melt lead. The wildlife-and possibly current dominant species-are low-slung many-legged insects and reptiles, which don’t crawl out until darkness has fallen and night freezes the little moisture in the air into a spider-like frost.
If this world supports forests, or even weeds, Sephiroth has yet to see them. The air isn’t oxygenated enough to support his lungs, his body mass, and too often he’s coughed up more blood than he can spare, burning with starvation and fever as the mako in his blood compensates for this new suffering.
Breathing on this new planet is like waiting out a siege, and he is running out of supplies, cunning, and stamina.
For the first time in a very, very long time, Sephiroth considers returning to civilized society, if only for a few moments.
“It’s not all bad,” the man tells him while chewing idly on a piece of dried centipede meat. “We do have slushees. There’s this guy down there who does amazing stuff with an ice bowl and some fruit-feels like you got slapped in the face by a freezer. Only fruity, and not too much slap.”
Sephiroth pulls his coat tighter around himself while silently cursing the sandstorm that has him marooned with this moron. There is sand rubbing into his skin in awkward and inaccessible locations, such as his knees and armpits, and he will do nothing about it in the company he finds himself now.
“Being underground for too damn long gets on both our nerves though, so I can’t really see us settling down there. Which isn’t exactly a bad thing, because then we’d probably never run into you, not even by the shaved ice stand.”
Sephiroth says nothing.
“The whole underground garden thing’s pretty awesome too, a bit like Reno’s basement hydroponic cannabis thing we tried to get going, until the electricity went and that fire started. Can’t remember if you actually got mad about that one now or not. Huh.”
Sephiroth repeats himself.
“The people aren’t bad though, at least in Chaldea-it’s amazing how helpful people can get when the planet’s trying to kill them.”
Sephiroth closes his eyes and exhales, coming dangerously close to wishing Angeal were alive.
The other man’s canvas trembles inches from his head as they lay crouched in a rocky crevice while waiting for the early morning storm to pass. In a few more hours this location will become deadly as the day heats, and Sephiroth will need to find more enduring shelter.
“I mean, you’d expect it to be the opposite, right? I would, and I’ve seen it happen, but I guess sometimes it’s nice. To see people pull together, I mean, not to be on the brink of extinction.”
When Sephiroth dies-fully, completely dies-his race will be extinct, if for no other reason than he is the only one Hojo created that lasted more than a few days.
“Yanno, I’m actually a little proud of you right now.”
Even with his eyes closed, he knows the other man is beaming at him; that half-hopeful, pitiful weak grin he would always receive for trying-and invariably botching horrendously-something new.
Sephiroth doesn’t answer.
“Been well over ten minutes now, and you haven’t tried to kill us once.”
No. He wouldn’t. Not as the other is now.
Cloud’s face smiles and waggles his eyebrows at him as Sephiroth opens his eyes. As to where Cloud’s mind is currently residing, Sephiroth would not care to guess. He holds the stare until the other man-as always, as forever-looks away first. The last of the centipede-jerky is consumed with more smacking of lips and noise than could ever be necessary.
There’s nothing to say. Sephiroth would not speak when Zack lived, and there is no reason to change now for a ghost’s memory.
Too many things left unsaid, so pointless and worthless and meaningless now. So very dangerous.
“Keep this up and you might actually start talking to other people. Before you start fighting, even.”
He has no regrets, when it comes to ghosts. Regret serves no purpose, and there is simply no space for it in his life, even if it did.
“I’ve missed you, you know.”
The wind hisses and growls from every direction above them. Sephiroth keeps his eyes trained on the boy’s-Cloud’s--shoulder.
It doesn’t matter. Not in the long scheme of things.
“I’d better get going though-not real healthy for Spiky if I stay too long. See you around, man.”
Sephiroth holds himself still as he listens to Cloud’s breathing deepen, slow, even as his own heart races and chilly, sticky sweat breaks out on his skin.
“An’ no killin’ him while he’s asleep, Seph,” Cloud mumbles, soft and low, the Gongagan accent barely audible, and Sephiroth is again alone with a creature almost as inhuman and motley and piecemeal as he is.
He’s too old to change.
***
When you are through changing, you are through.
--Bruce Barton
FF7
970 Words
Notes: Contains Seph/Cloud/Zack, non-pairing/sexual, though possible unrequited if you squint. Set long after Midgar-era is over, exploiting the idea that Sephiroth can't actually die.
Standard Disclaimer Applies: No $$ made to speak of.
***
So here we are again.
The smog and sulfur clouds burn the unprotected flesh and naked eyes as Gaia turns again to eternal summer, a constant collage of dust and rust and fire.
Fire has always been his element, as all elements submit to his will in time, but Sephiroth finds himself hating the arid, toxic landscape even more than he hates its few petty inhabitants. The humans only want to kill him, or revere him-which is worse-but at least they can’t dye his hair orange and blond with dust and sand, or rip the water from his eyes and skin.
The noon day sun scalds the barren mountains and deserts with enough strength melt lead. The wildlife-and possibly current dominant species-are low-slung many-legged insects and reptiles, which don’t crawl out until darkness has fallen and night freezes the little moisture in the air into a spider-like frost.
If this world supports forests, or even weeds, Sephiroth has yet to see them. The air isn’t oxygenated enough to support his lungs, his body mass, and too often he’s coughed up more blood than he can spare, burning with starvation and fever as the mako in his blood compensates for this new suffering.
Breathing on this new planet is like waiting out a siege, and he is running out of supplies, cunning, and stamina.
For the first time in a very, very long time, Sephiroth considers returning to civilized society, if only for a few moments.
“It’s not all bad,” the man tells him while chewing idly on a piece of dried centipede meat. “We do have slushees. There’s this guy down there who does amazing stuff with an ice bowl and some fruit-feels like you got slapped in the face by a freezer. Only fruity, and not too much slap.”
Sephiroth pulls his coat tighter around himself while silently cursing the sandstorm that has him marooned with this moron. There is sand rubbing into his skin in awkward and inaccessible locations, such as his knees and armpits, and he will do nothing about it in the company he finds himself now.
“Being underground for too damn long gets on both our nerves though, so I can’t really see us settling down there. Which isn’t exactly a bad thing, because then we’d probably never run into you, not even by the shaved ice stand.”
Sephiroth says nothing.
“The whole underground garden thing’s pretty awesome too, a bit like Reno’s basement hydroponic cannabis thing we tried to get going, until the electricity went and that fire started. Can’t remember if you actually got mad about that one now or not. Huh.”
Sephiroth repeats himself.
“The people aren’t bad though, at least in Chaldea-it’s amazing how helpful people can get when the planet’s trying to kill them.”
Sephiroth closes his eyes and exhales, coming dangerously close to wishing Angeal were alive.
The other man’s canvas trembles inches from his head as they lay crouched in a rocky crevice while waiting for the early morning storm to pass. In a few more hours this location will become deadly as the day heats, and Sephiroth will need to find more enduring shelter.
“I mean, you’d expect it to be the opposite, right? I would, and I’ve seen it happen, but I guess sometimes it’s nice. To see people pull together, I mean, not to be on the brink of extinction.”
When Sephiroth dies-fully, completely dies-his race will be extinct, if for no other reason than he is the only one Hojo created that lasted more than a few days.
“Yanno, I’m actually a little proud of you right now.”
Even with his eyes closed, he knows the other man is beaming at him; that half-hopeful, pitiful weak grin he would always receive for trying-and invariably botching horrendously-something new.
Sephiroth doesn’t answer.
“Been well over ten minutes now, and you haven’t tried to kill us once.”
No. He wouldn’t. Not as the other is now.
Cloud’s face smiles and waggles his eyebrows at him as Sephiroth opens his eyes. As to where Cloud’s mind is currently residing, Sephiroth would not care to guess. He holds the stare until the other man-as always, as forever-looks away first. The last of the centipede-jerky is consumed with more smacking of lips and noise than could ever be necessary.
There’s nothing to say. Sephiroth would not speak when Zack lived, and there is no reason to change now for a ghost’s memory.
Too many things left unsaid, so pointless and worthless and meaningless now. So very dangerous.
“Keep this up and you might actually start talking to other people. Before you start fighting, even.”
He has no regrets, when it comes to ghosts. Regret serves no purpose, and there is simply no space for it in his life, even if it did.
“I’ve missed you, you know.”
The wind hisses and growls from every direction above them. Sephiroth keeps his eyes trained on the boy’s-Cloud’s--shoulder.
It doesn’t matter. Not in the long scheme of things.
“I’d better get going though-not real healthy for Spiky if I stay too long. See you around, man.”
Sephiroth holds himself still as he listens to Cloud’s breathing deepen, slow, even as his own heart races and chilly, sticky sweat breaks out on his skin.
“An’ no killin’ him while he’s asleep, Seph,” Cloud mumbles, soft and low, the Gongagan accent barely audible, and Sephiroth is again alone with a creature almost as inhuman and motley and piecemeal as he is.
He’s too old to change.
***
When you are through changing, you are through.
--Bruce Barton