A few flights down. Shinra isn’t taking well to my efforts.
[Which is likely the largest understatement uttered in a decade, given the storm of chaos that follows almost as soon as he says it — the angry staccato of gunfire, too-loud in a metal stairwell, bootsteps slamming hard against the stairs, voices trying to shout commands over the noise, as though they might stand even a fraction of a chance against a man bred to be a killing machine.
If the warm splatter of blood sometimes grazes Luka’s cheekbone, Sephiroth can only apologize for it later.
Later, they’ve traversed beneath Shinra’s main floor, straight into the parking garage, the SOLDIER has pulled so far from the disarray that the sound of resistance has abandoned them leaving only the blaring of automated warnings barking over the PA systems. His steps are strangely hollow in the cavernous stretch of grey concrete, lined to the brim with motorcycles and military vehicles, polished and ready for deployment.
Sephiroth chooses one made a convoy; a large, metallic, well-armed thing, that can move and maneuver faster than it looks. A moment later and Luka is slung into the passenger side, and Sephiroth hauls himself into the driver’s seat — a rare sight, but years’ worth of training has drilled all manner of operations into his head. Burning rubber on the way out isn’t much his style, but escaping Shinra on-foot while carrying a mako-poisoned Luka is guaranteed failure.
Minutes later and they’re tearing across Midgar’s speedways, nighttime street lamps shining fiercely down on their stalwart vehicle, and Sephiroth glances sidelong at Luka. Masamune glints in the back, lain flat against the covered bed of the truck.]
no subject
[Which is likely the largest understatement uttered in a decade, given the storm of chaos that follows almost as soon as he says it — the angry staccato of gunfire, too-loud in a metal stairwell, bootsteps slamming hard against the stairs, voices trying to shout commands over the noise, as though they might stand even a fraction of a chance against a man bred to be a killing machine.
If the warm splatter of blood sometimes grazes Luka’s cheekbone, Sephiroth can only apologize for it later.
Later, they’ve traversed beneath Shinra’s main floor, straight into the parking garage, the SOLDIER has pulled so far from the disarray that the sound of resistance has abandoned them leaving only the blaring of automated warnings barking over the PA systems. His steps are strangely hollow in the cavernous stretch of grey concrete, lined to the brim with motorcycles and military vehicles, polished and ready for deployment.
Sephiroth chooses one made a convoy; a large, metallic, well-armed thing, that can move and maneuver faster than it looks. A moment later and Luka is slung into the passenger side, and Sephiroth hauls himself into the driver’s seat — a rare sight, but years’ worth of training has drilled all manner of operations into his head. Burning rubber on the way out isn’t much his style, but escaping Shinra on-foot while carrying a mako-poisoned Luka is guaranteed failure.
Minutes later and they’re tearing across Midgar’s speedways, nighttime street lamps shining fiercely down on their stalwart vehicle, and Sephiroth glances sidelong at Luka. Masamune glints in the back, lain flat against the covered bed of the truck.]
We can’t stay in Midgar.