More ficlets I really thought I had posted but can't find...
Seriously, there is a terrible feeling of deja vu here.
FF7
They tell Cloud that it’s over, that it’s time for him to get over it -- Him, the past, everything -- and to focus on the future, but they don’t get it. Rufus hints about possible “career opportunities” -- always carefully worded and always through the Turks -- while Barrett all but states that a woman like Tifa ain’t gonna be waitin around forever for his dumb ass, uncaring that neither Cloud nor Tifa are looking to settle down. However old they feel, they’re both young yet. Tifa plainly tells him that Aeris would want him to move on and to not mourn her forever. None of them understand, and Cloud can’t find the words to explain.
With Sephiroth’s attempted rise to Godhood, almost everyone with any tie to the Planet had been killed, either murdered or destroyed by Jenova. It was ironic that in a time where the Planet was being respected in a way that it hadn’t in decades -- if not longer -- there was less people than ever before who could hear the Planet’s voice. Cloud -- the failure, the puppet, the reject -- was the one most closely connected to the Planet, making it nigh impossible to explain his situation to anyone else.
Get over it, everyone told him, but they didn’t hear the tender/mocking/laughing/loving voices, didn’t smell the field of flowers while driving through the desert.
They didn’t close their eyes, only to see Sephiroth’s smiling face.
Aeris worked hard to protect them -- to save them -- both, but Jenova’s reach was long and her ambition old. Old as the stars, Cloud would hear before waking in a mess of sweat and tears and come. He would fall asleep to the scent of flowers and awaken to the acidic, metallic scent of Mako-infused blood.
The scenery always changed. Sometimes it was in the President’s office, the Masamune still sticking out of the corpulent man’s spine. Sometimes it was in the Crater. More often it was in Nibelheim, the air cold around him, smoke lingering.
Sephiroth was always the same, though.
Tentacles danced under him, slow and sensuous and seductive, matching the curl of Sephiroth’s lips as he smiled. One or two always slithered toward Cloud, pausing mere inches from his boots. Cloud never knew whether he wanted to stomp on them or move closer, let them slide up his legs, pull him closer still.
And Sephiroth’s hand was outstretched, the most seductive thing of all.
Sephiroth’s offer is sincere. No matter how outrageous his promises in those dark, tucked away moments, Cloud never doubts his sincerity. Eternal love, eternal companionship, eternity.
All Cloud has to do is step forward, take Sephiroth’s hand, let Sephiroth envelop him and worship him, let the madness take over.
No. The others didn’t understand. And Cloud didn’t want them to.
He never wants them to know how much he wants to take Sephiroth’s hand.
FF7
When people thought of small towns, they thought of reactors. And hicks, of course. Couldn’t forget that. Those towns would be nothing without ShinRa, many claimed. Before ShinRa, most didn’t even have running water. Small towns were nothing!
So desperate to escape the bullying and harassment of his childhood, Cloud had been more than happy to agree. He had been one of the very few to actually leave Nibelheim. It was ironic, considering the Strifes were among the very few of the original settlers. Most of the town had only come after the creation of the reactor.
The Strifes were the epitome of small-town hicks, the rest of the town was more than happy to claim, ignoring that the Strifes were the more liberal people there. More often than not, the Strifes hunted for their own food. Ulfhilde Strife was known for speaking in tongues as opposed to the Common Speech, much like those heathen Wutains. They even worshiped Pagan gods, making sacrifices and wasting good mead.
That was what people should think of when thinking of small towns: the Pagan gods. Undisturbed by the rising tide of humanity, the Pagan gods thrived in the shadows, ageless eyes seeing all.
Most people didn’t think of that, though. Only heathens thought of that.
Unfortunately for Professor Hojo, Cloud Strife was more than ready to get in touch with his Pagan roots.
Cloud breathed a prayer to Hel as he slit the lab assistant’s throat, dedicating the death to Her. With every drop of blood spilled, he thought he could feel the thrum in his blood intensify.
It was funny. Before the mission to Nibelheim, before Zack had narrowly stopped a maddened Sephiroth from burning the town down, before Ulfhilde had stared at him, clear and strong like Cloud had never seen her, Cloud had never believed in Hel.
Of course, before the Turks had accidentally stumbled on a slumbering Vincent Valentine during the investigation of the mansion, Cloud had never imagined working with them, either.
Turk and SOLDIER worked together now, slinking toward the lab where Hojo was with Sephiroth, trying to “find out what went wrong.” Cloud thought it was more likely that he was trying to find out why Sephiroth didn’t succeed.
It didn’t matter. SOLDIER -- and Cloud -- were going to get Sephiroth back, and Turk was going to avenge Valentine.
With so much at stake, Cloud should feel terrified, but instead Cloud felt strong and fierce, a Nibel wolf among city mutts.
Somewhere in the lab, both Hojo and Sephiroth were oblivious to their fates, one of doom, the other salvation. Cloud was all right with that. Everything would be taken care of soon enough.
Before Cloud had left Nibelheim to go after Hojo and Sephiroth, Ulfhilde had pulled him close and whispered that Hel wanted blood for this attack.
Cloud’s eyes glowed SOLDIER-bright as he slit the throat of another assistant. The man died with barely a gurgle.
Cloud was more than happy to obliged.
This entry was originally posted at http://tir-synni.dreamwidth.org/31041.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
FF7
They tell Cloud that it’s over, that it’s time for him to get over it -- Him, the past, everything -- and to focus on the future, but they don’t get it. Rufus hints about possible “career opportunities” -- always carefully worded and always through the Turks -- while Barrett all but states that a woman like Tifa ain’t gonna be waitin around forever for his dumb ass, uncaring that neither Cloud nor Tifa are looking to settle down. However old they feel, they’re both young yet. Tifa plainly tells him that Aeris would want him to move on and to not mourn her forever. None of them understand, and Cloud can’t find the words to explain.
With Sephiroth’s attempted rise to Godhood, almost everyone with any tie to the Planet had been killed, either murdered or destroyed by Jenova. It was ironic that in a time where the Planet was being respected in a way that it hadn’t in decades -- if not longer -- there was less people than ever before who could hear the Planet’s voice. Cloud -- the failure, the puppet, the reject -- was the one most closely connected to the Planet, making it nigh impossible to explain his situation to anyone else.
Get over it, everyone told him, but they didn’t hear the tender/mocking/laughing/loving voices, didn’t smell the field of flowers while driving through the desert.
They didn’t close their eyes, only to see Sephiroth’s smiling face.
Aeris worked hard to protect them -- to save them -- both, but Jenova’s reach was long and her ambition old. Old as the stars, Cloud would hear before waking in a mess of sweat and tears and come. He would fall asleep to the scent of flowers and awaken to the acidic, metallic scent of Mako-infused blood.
The scenery always changed. Sometimes it was in the President’s office, the Masamune still sticking out of the corpulent man’s spine. Sometimes it was in the Crater. More often it was in Nibelheim, the air cold around him, smoke lingering.
Sephiroth was always the same, though.
Tentacles danced under him, slow and sensuous and seductive, matching the curl of Sephiroth’s lips as he smiled. One or two always slithered toward Cloud, pausing mere inches from his boots. Cloud never knew whether he wanted to stomp on them or move closer, let them slide up his legs, pull him closer still.
And Sephiroth’s hand was outstretched, the most seductive thing of all.
Sephiroth’s offer is sincere. No matter how outrageous his promises in those dark, tucked away moments, Cloud never doubts his sincerity. Eternal love, eternal companionship, eternity.
All Cloud has to do is step forward, take Sephiroth’s hand, let Sephiroth envelop him and worship him, let the madness take over.
No. The others didn’t understand. And Cloud didn’t want them to.
He never wants them to know how much he wants to take Sephiroth’s hand.
FF7
When people thought of small towns, they thought of reactors. And hicks, of course. Couldn’t forget that. Those towns would be nothing without ShinRa, many claimed. Before ShinRa, most didn’t even have running water. Small towns were nothing!
So desperate to escape the bullying and harassment of his childhood, Cloud had been more than happy to agree. He had been one of the very few to actually leave Nibelheim. It was ironic, considering the Strifes were among the very few of the original settlers. Most of the town had only come after the creation of the reactor.
The Strifes were the epitome of small-town hicks, the rest of the town was more than happy to claim, ignoring that the Strifes were the more liberal people there. More often than not, the Strifes hunted for their own food. Ulfhilde Strife was known for speaking in tongues as opposed to the Common Speech, much like those heathen Wutains. They even worshiped Pagan gods, making sacrifices and wasting good mead.
That was what people should think of when thinking of small towns: the Pagan gods. Undisturbed by the rising tide of humanity, the Pagan gods thrived in the shadows, ageless eyes seeing all.
Most people didn’t think of that, though. Only heathens thought of that.
Unfortunately for Professor Hojo, Cloud Strife was more than ready to get in touch with his Pagan roots.
Cloud breathed a prayer to Hel as he slit the lab assistant’s throat, dedicating the death to Her. With every drop of blood spilled, he thought he could feel the thrum in his blood intensify.
It was funny. Before the mission to Nibelheim, before Zack had narrowly stopped a maddened Sephiroth from burning the town down, before Ulfhilde had stared at him, clear and strong like Cloud had never seen her, Cloud had never believed in Hel.
Of course, before the Turks had accidentally stumbled on a slumbering Vincent Valentine during the investigation of the mansion, Cloud had never imagined working with them, either.
Turk and SOLDIER worked together now, slinking toward the lab where Hojo was with Sephiroth, trying to “find out what went wrong.” Cloud thought it was more likely that he was trying to find out why Sephiroth didn’t succeed.
It didn’t matter. SOLDIER -- and Cloud -- were going to get Sephiroth back, and Turk was going to avenge Valentine.
With so much at stake, Cloud should feel terrified, but instead Cloud felt strong and fierce, a Nibel wolf among city mutts.
Somewhere in the lab, both Hojo and Sephiroth were oblivious to their fates, one of doom, the other salvation. Cloud was all right with that. Everything would be taken care of soon enough.
Before Cloud had left Nibelheim to go after Hojo and Sephiroth, Ulfhilde had pulled him close and whispered that Hel wanted blood for this attack.
Cloud’s eyes glowed SOLDIER-bright as he slit the throat of another assistant. The man died with barely a gurgle.
Cloud was more than happy to obliged.
This entry was originally posted at http://tir-synni.dreamwidth.org/31041.html. Please comment there using OpenID.