finalflight | PSL; [NOLI MANERE]

PSL; [NOLI MANERE]

burn me out, leave me on the otherside.

[In another timeline, diverged down an invisible path, the battle was long over.

The dragon’s corpse, still shining emerald green in the haze of the sun, would be pressed unmoving into the ground, its maw still gaping open, tongue lazily hanging over jagged teeth. Two clean cuts, deep into its chest, would ooze hot and coppery ribbons of blood, a color matching the hue plastered across the edge of Masamune. Zack would still have his knees ground into the dirt, hand grasping at a side as he tried to pull himself up; lucky that he’d come away with nothing more than cracked ribs, something healing magic would have to tend to soon. And in the vehicle behind them, still idling, the blond-haired infantryman — Cloud, quiet and sullen and nervous — would be watching, harried, but wise enough to keep his distance. And they would soon carry onwards to their mission to Nibelheim, undeterred.

But in this instance, this strange set of circumstances, the fight does not go so smoothly.

He doesn’t understand why, or how. This creature should be nothing, his blade should cut straight through its hide instead of only managing glancing blows that barely scrape closely-packed scales. A monster should not be this strong, no matter how permeating the Mako leak was in the surrounding area. It’s beyond unnatural, something that has him gritting his teeth beneath a twisted frown as Sephiroth rushes forward, blade flashing.

Zack’s already unconscious, a deep wound bleeding from the shoulder courtesy of the dragon’s claws, body strewn several feet away, now useless in this fight. The creature rises up on its haunches, spreading giant wings as it snarls down at the only moving target, and catches Masamune in its teeth. Sephiroth pushes; it pushes back. He hears footsteps rushing forward from behind him, staggering, panicked breaths drawing closer, and he turns his head just in time to see the infantryman closing the space between them, readying the rifle that had been slung over his shoulder. Sephiroth knows he may as well be heading straight for death.]

Stay back— [Comes the command, in a voice so used to giving them that it hides the jarring reality of the situation — that this is not good, this is unheard of, and judging what may happen from here anyone’s guess. But it’s too late, because there’s pressure clamping down on his blade, and then with a feral twist of the neck, the dragon has snapped his weapon in half with a reverberating ring.

It’s only slight, but his eyes widen. The other half of the blade topples to the ground, his gloved-grip around the hilt falters for just a second, but it’s all the time the dragon needs to lurch up with fire filling its maw.

It’s the last thing he sees, flame and writhing heat all around him, and then the world goes black.

— — — — — —

He has his face pressed into soggy sand. Hair a tangled mess, clothes damp and sticking, as the waves thinly slide over his form. And then he’s jolting awake with a start, fingers pressed into the shore, hefting himself up and immediately tensing, expecting to see fire and teeth as he cranes his neck—

And is met only with a clear blue sky, a bright shining sun, and the scent of the sea. Masamune’s two halves lay half-buried in a mound of sand, one laying flat, the other sticking straight up a short distance away. The hiss of an exhale, trying to bring himself to his feet, disoriented and maybe a little wobbly, head bowed down. (Also unheard of.)

Both confusion and frustration dance in his insides. What’s happening?]

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[ He’d be less of a cactuar and more of a cat-tuar anyway. ]

Gonna need a mage to answer that one.

[ Stating the obvious by now, probably, but best to have all their bases covered. He really doesn’t want Sephiroth flinging more questions about magic, summoning, or the world between worlds at him. That stuff is way out of his league. ]

I bet. Let’s get these back to the kojin and get you on your way, yeah?

[blocks u]

Then pick up the pace.

[Pick up the pace, soldier, is the implication behind the tone unspoken. Sephiroth punctuates that with a quickening gait of long strides, as they clank along the path the way they came.

And later, once they reach their destination and have handed over their prizes, he has to question with arms crossed-]

...How long will it take?

[ Uh how dare you?

Luka seems to read Sephiroth's tone well enough. It's not as if he spent much time in the company of soldiers (or SOLDIERs as the case may be), but he knows a command when he hears one. ]

If you're expecting a salute, don't hold your breath.

[ But pick up the pace he does, and in no time at all they're back in the kojin's little village beneath the waves. With their prize handed back over to the blacksmith, it seems Sephiroth wastes no time getting to the heart of the matter. Masoto, still peering at the Anala hearts in their container, glances up. ]

I require three days, and no disturbances. Normally, it would take weeks, but you have already provided the steel, and this bounty will fuel my forge for moons to come.

[Sephiroth eyes the kojin, expression still as he considers where that leaves him. Three days is a short amount of time for the re-forging of broken steel, even if Shinra would have scrambled all its resources together to make certain that the SOLDIER had it back within the first twenty-four hours, but being without Masamune is like having lost a limb. That blade has been carried with him since the day he received it, years ago when it was still far too large to be wielded properly, and three days is still three days longer than he’s used to being without it.

He crosses his arms, replies with a-] I see.

[Because he knows, just as well, that there’s nothing to be done about it. The alternative would have been weeks, but they’ve circumvented that by conceding to a simple hunting task. Even so, a wave of restlessness rolls through him, just beneath his skin, and he exhales. He hates that feeling.]

I don’t have much of a choice but to accept that. [He turns cat-like eyes over to Luka nearby, trying to hold back his spark of impatience.] Three days. Where do we go from here?

[He needs to plan, as always. Needs to know what route to tack himself onto, and if Luka already has an idea, or if he’s going to be left wheeling in the wind.]

[ For his own part, Luka is quite curious as to the skill of this smith, if he can re-forge a monster of a katana in three days flat, but he know the kojin have been around for a very long time indeed, and they place great personal and spiritual significance into items of fine craftsmanship and beauty. To become a kojin craftsman must be the hardest test of them all. This old man must indeed be up to the task.

But he figures the Sephiroth would be impatient, and sees the question coming long before it’s lobbed his way. ]

Not like we can go far. Could probably cozy up with the locals for a bit, run a few more errands for food and board.

[ A beat, as crimson eyes sweep over the other man from head to foot. ]

A change of clothes is definitely on the list for you. Everyone’s liable to think you’re Garlean in that getup.

[At least Luka gets straight to the point, knowing what he wants to ask, which Sephiroth can appreciate.

The comment about his “get-up”, not so much. He straightens, arms falling back to his sides.]

If a SOLDIER’s uniform is unacceptable, then I’ll have to rely on you to pick out attire that is. [Which is a small amount of trust that he isn’t used to putting in anyone’s hands (outside of Shinra’s military, at any rate), but Sephiroth is willing to make an exception in this one extreme case.]

And I don’t think it needs to be said that I don’t have a way to offer you recompense just yet, either.

Just trust me. Kugane remains neutral territory, but most folks aren’t gonna like you much if you look like a Garlean.

[ War and subjugation leave scars that run deep, and with Doma reaching out her hand to begin relations with her neighbors as a free nation, there are bound to be people with a less than pleasant history with Garlemald in the city. Not that he doubts Sephiroth’s ability to handle himself, far from it, but it’s awfully hard to get home – no matter where that home might be – from the confines of a jail cell.

He inclines his head, looking past Sephiroth to the kojin smith behind him. ]

Thank you, Master Masoto. We’ll leave you to your work. [ Luka bows before taking his exit, palms flat against his thighs and head dipped low. Trusting that Sephiroth followed him out of the smithy, he turns to the other man. ]

Don’t worry about paying me back. I got no gil either, remember? We’re both dealing in favors, here.

[He had given Masamune, still broken in two, a final glance before turning on his heel and following the young man outside. A frown has begun to tug at his mouth again.]

And favors are hard to quantify, so we should come to a clear arrangement beforehand. [Sephiroth was never one for “winging it”, preferring a plan before diving headlong into the unknown. He’s already had too much of the latter for his tastes, thanks.]

How long are you willing to help me find a way back to Gaia? Or do you plan on leaving me in more capable hands the moment you find someone with more of an understanding of magic than you?

[ He knows this line of questioning isn’t meant to be a guilt trip – Sephiroth doesn’t seem the type. If he felt Luka was being unfair, he would surely say something and pull no punches about it – but Luka feels guilty all the same. He winces, ears flattening. ]

I… can’t. I can’t help you at all, Sephiroth, I’m sorry. Once we’ve bartered our passage, we’ll be heading in opposite directions. I have to get to Doma.

[ It bothers him how much this bothers him. His mission is paramount, and he’s wasted far too much time on this island as it is. He can’t afford to waste anymore, yet for as capable as Sephiroth is, this is still an alien world to him and leaving him to his own devices seems cruel. ]

I see.

[Comes the simple reply, his expression difficult to read. He’ll be left to his own devices then, an alien in a world that was not his own. A frightening, isolating existence to some — for what it’s worth, though, Sephiroth rarely experiences the first, and is far too used to the second for it to show on his face.]

…It’s fine. Do what you have to do.

[Self-sufficient. Adaptable. He’s a SOLDIER, it’s all he’s ever been defined by, and he’ll survive. In his head, he tells himself this twice more.

Silence fills the air for a few seconds. Then the man willfully banishes it away — Luka is right. He’s not the sort to guilt trip anyone.]

Anyway. You were going to help me find something else to wear in the meanwhile?

[ Sephiroth doesn’t need to make Luka feel guilty, when his own conscience does a stellar job of that on its own. The other man may not care – or simply doesn’t wish to show that he does care – but Luka does, and what an annoying thing that is in the middle of his quest for revenge.

It's just as well that Sephiroth breaks the silence, because Luka was a hair away from giving in and offering to take him back to the city. As it is the notion is left unsaid, and Luka kicks the knot of guilt twisting around in his gut under the proverbial rug, where it hides just as well as a full-grown chocobo might. ]

Right you are! I think I saw a merchant or two on our way over.

[ And there are indeed a couple. Kojin don’t really wear clothes, so there isn’t terribly much to choose from. Still, anything has got to be better than sea-soaked leather. ]

[Leather is fine, but the sea-soaked part? Not nearly as much, even (or perhaps especially) for a man like Sephiroth. No longer drenched, the moisture has now dissipated just enough to make himself feel soggy, and while there is much he can bear when necessity calls for it, he won’t turn away the opportunity to dress in something dry.

And so, wordlessly, they make their way over to a merchant who has set up shop with their wares visible from afar. It is… all very unlike what a SOLDIER would wear. What anyone one Gaia might wear, for that instance, though perhaps in Wutai seeing such manner of dress wouldn’t be so strange.

Even so, where to start? Once they’re closer and greeted by the merchant, Sephiroth’s eyes rove over the visible selection. A beat or two of silence, and then—]

I prefer something in black.

[Of course he does.]

Of course you do.

[ There’s not a speck of color on the man, apart from his rather striking eyes, so Luka isn’t terribly surprised by the preference.

The Miqo’te sidles up next to the other man, crimson eyes sweeping over all that there is available – it doesn’t take him long as there isn’t much – and there is one garment in particular that catches his attention. Not only because it’s black, a spot of night in the sea of color that is the merchant’s other wares, but it seems that it will fit his companion’s general… well, style, he supposes. ]

That one there. [ He motions, and the merchant retrieves it for them, holding it out for Sephiroth to see. ] Give this one a try, yeah? I bet it’ll suit you.

[His gaze first follows where is indicated, before he takes a few steps to inspect the clothing closer. The merchant prattles off how well-made the attire is, how it would certainly suit Sephiroth, but the military man is keen on making his own decision regarding that.

A quiet moment of assessing follows.]

Fine. Let me try it on. If it fits, then we’ll buy it.

[Not a time to be fussy, he knows. But Luka has curiously picked out something that truly does suit his style, which… perhaps is not all that difficult, given that his uniform is rather straightforward in revealing his clothing preferences. Something lengthy, something black, with more contours than rigid lines. Still-]

Though it'll be unusual to have my arms exposed.

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