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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Uneducated, are we? Even Sephiroth would be able to answer that one.

[Sephiroth had the advantage of growing up surrounded by scientific terms lobbed his direction, however. The boy is cognizant of more science than he cares to show, but that's neither here nor there. His point is being made that you should definitely educate yourself, Luka! Read a book.]

Let me simplify it for you. Can your kind reproduce with a human?

[ He just wrinkles his nose at the jab. He already knows Sephiroth can think circles around him, he doesn't need this guy to tell him that. ]

What's a human, then? That you? No fuzzy ears, uglier than a gobbue's arsecrack? Not if you were the last person on earth.

[Everyone is uneducated compared to him. Even Sephiroth. Don't take it personally -- not that he'd care if you did or otherwise.

It is comforting that he only looks amused at the insult? Likely not.]

No feline ears, no tail to match. No... fangs, I presume? Not accounting for the biological differences unobservable to the naked eye, it's a fair summary. Yes, human. Like Sephiroth- Well! Mostly like Sephiroth.

You don't have them where you're from?

[ The fact that this man seems to shrug off Luka's every insult with a grin is very unnerving indeed, but he would bet it's because he's on the outside of the cage. He's the one with all the power here, and he knows it. Sharp words and a quick wit will not get Luka out of here, no matter how much he wishes it were so. ]

We got 'em. They're called hyur, though. Most folk frown on it, but nothing's stopping a hyur and a miqo'te from getting cozy. I never met a half-breed myself.

[He makes a noise from the back of his throat, impossible to discern whether or not it’s acknowledgment, satisfaction, or lacking surprise.]

Still not a very conclusive reply. But I suppose there are ways of finding out in a more empirical way.

Would you consider yourself physically superior to the average... what was it, “hyur”?

[ Luka has never been much for patience, and that combined with his frayed nerves are making him even more twitchy. He's trying here, not that it will save his life, and this guy can't even be satisfied with the answers he does give. ]

The hells you want from me, huh? I'm just some kid from out in the sticks, you think I give a chocobo's arse about "superiority" or "taxicomical" or whatever the fuck?

You want me to lay it out for you, then Sephiroth outcalsses me in every single way, but I could sure as shite take your pasty arse, if you'd stop being such a coward and hiding behind this fucking glass!

[ His rant is punctuated with both fists swinging up and forward, the sides of his clenched hands colliding heavily and loudly with the glass encasing him. It doesn't do anything but cause his hands to sting, but there had been a part of him hoping for the glass to spiderweb and crack. ]

[The glass enclosure is made for specimens who might try to escape, and it is therefore designed to withstand so much as a rain if gunfire and more. Luka’s fists barely do more than cause the surface to vibrate.

Hojo, on the other hand, suddenly barks out laughter.]

And what makes you think I want to draw the comparison solely to Sephiroth? No, while that might be ancillary data to pursue, I want to know more about what makes you—

[He presses a hand to the glass, leaning in, grinning wide.]

—tick. All the parts you’re made up of, from the inside out. I wonder what stories your cellular structure has to tell. How your organs are all strung together. How they might react to mako, and then some.

But I take it by your attitude, your cooperation won’t be easily won. There are ways of getting around that, too.

[ Luka holds his gaze stead, glaring daggers at the man on the other side of the glass, in spite of his heartbeat thundering in his ears at a rapid, terrified pace. This man wants to take him apart, piece by piece, and Luka is powerless to stop him. ]

Fuck off.

[ That's all he says, bitten out and full of venom before he turns away. He does not turn back around, instead keeping his hands balled at his sides and his gaze on some random point on the floor.

He's done talking. It didn't do him any good, anyway. ]

Oh, well. That’s a shame. Things are always so much easier with a willing subject.

[But already, it seems like Hojo’s interest in Luka’s presence is fading, as if his mind is filtering through the possibilities of how to proceed, rather than how to deal with the subject's current emotional state. He doesn’t care much for the latter, not when it’ll be made sedate and malleable soon enough.]

But you wouldn’t be the first to make things difficult for me. Thankfully, I am a man of science, and a scientist finds ways to adapt.

[He grins again, arms spread in a “what can you do?” gesture, before turning to head out. A few words before he goes-]

Even so. Try not to resist. You’ll save everyone the trouble.

[And he leaves Luka on his own.

But it’s seconds later before three men arrive, dressed in 3rd class SOLDIER fatigues. With a beep of an authorization code, they enter Luka’s containment cell and are upon him in less than half a second. No matter how the man struggles, the strength of three SOLDIER units is hard to overcome, and it won’t take long before they pin him down.

An anxious researcher comes in with a oversized syringe in one hand. Keep him down! he exclaims, all nerves, and eventually a needle is pressed into Luka’s neck.

All will go black after that.

Time passes in a blur.

And when Luka does awaken — in whatever capacity that might be — an alarm blares harshly through the halls of the science department. Warning lights flash in Hojo’s labs, glinting off the glass of his containment unit. (A different one than before. Larger, but just as sterile.) A handful of scientists in white coats dart out towards the exit, but their voices are muffled. It’s hard to tell what’s happening.]

[ The second three men swarm into his cell, faster and stronger than him by a wide margin, Luka has to wonder if he did something wrong. Should he have indulged that creepy bastard and tried to answer his questions?

Some part of him realizes it was always going to end like this, but that thought is of little solace, even as he manages to pull together enough aether (it's different in this world, and trying to shape it makes his stomach roll) to jab an icicle through one of his assailant's shoulders. In the end, however, he is outclassed and out-manned, and the sharp sting of a needle is the last thing he feels before he goes under.

Much like when he first crash-landed in this world, everything after that is a blur. Who knows how long he's down, who knows how long it takes him to stir, but in the couple of times he drifts to consciousness, he's aware enough to know that he feels awful, and then he's dragged back under just as quickly.

He feels no less awful when his eyes crack open this latest time, and flashing lights and blaring alarms do little to help. He has half a mind to cover his ears, but his body feels like its full of sand. Gods, he wants to throw up.

It takes him a good while of feeling miserable to even remember where he is or why. Fuck. Fuck. What did they do him? ]

[When Sephiroth enters the lab, light reflects off of the length of his blade, kaleidoscopically bright. Before, in that other world, Luka had caught glimpses of his the man's humor, never vibrant, but present. He had seen parts of his humanity kept hidden behind a curtain of military rationale, pieces of himself slowly unearthed and shown to someone he would finally call a friend.

None of that is present now. He is hard edges, a cold bearing, drained of all warmth. Anger has banished it away, but it has turned his demeanor into ice. The scientists here, they had good reason to run — he would not cut them down on a whim, of course, but they wouldn't leave any encounter with him uninjured if they stood in his way.

The lab is vast and cavernous, like the metal belly of a beast. He seeks one area out in particular, knowing this floor well enough from his own childhood years. He had always hated to stalk them in his adult lifetime, but now is a great exception to the rule. At a distance, he sees Luka through thick glass. Sephiroth picks up the pace, his brow twitching and pulling together. It doesn't take much longer before he's closed the space and thrust Masamune through the barrier — it cuts through with such ease — sending hairline cracks spiderwebbing through the surface. He pushes his blade up, and the rest of it shatters in thick, jagged pieces, scattering at his boots.

Sephiroth enters, stopping short of where Luka lies. Finally, something like emotions crawls across his expression, a deep kind of discontent shown in his frown.]

Luka…

[What did they do to him? How much more would this company do this to his friends until they were finally satisfied with the results? Until they had upended the lives and each and every one?

He bends down just enough to place a gloved hand on the man's shoulder, shaking gently.]

Luka, can you hear me?

[ He wishes he was still asleep, he wishes that damnable noise and that horrid flashing would stop, he wishes... gods, he wishes he was home. Back in the Shroud, with Kuli and Naesi and the rest of his sisters, safe and warm and not in whatever hellish experiment he's landed himself in.

The alarm seeps its way into his skin, the noise overtaking every one of his senses to the point where he wants to scream, and he almost misses the shattering of glass, the shadow that cuts through the too-bright light, and the hand upon his shoulder.

At first, his dizzy mind half expects to see his mother there, come to take him away from his world because he surely feels like he's dying, but when he finally wills his eyes to open again, a different form takes shape altogether. It may well still be an angel for the way he smiles. He has no idea what he must look like, how whatever they put him through shows, but he smiles all the same. ]

Sephiroth?

[ It feels like his mouth is full of sand, too, which does nothing at all to stop him from feeling like he wants to hurl. Clumsily, a hand comes up to grasp at Sephiroth's hand on his shoulder, as if he needs the confirmation that his friend is real. ]

You came for me.

[ Somehow it just makes sense, with the alarms and all. ]

[He looks terrible.

He's seen others suffer from mako poisoning in the past. Not just employees of Shinra, working maintenance in the reactors where potential accidents were an unfortunate reality of the job, but would-be SOLDIER recruits, too — healthy, willful, confident individuals, bolstered by making the cut and so very assured the process itself would be an easy obstacle to surmount, given the rigors of their training.

In the end, all the confidence in the world could not account for what mako could do to a body unprepared. Make them weak, sick, barely cognizant — in the worst cases, completely comatose.

Seeing Luka like this, still smiling up at him as if he should be glad that Sephiroth is here, makes something undefinable stir within. Anger at the company, for doing this one time too many to someone he cared about; frustration, at himself, for Luka would not be in this situation were it not for him; and a deep, lancing relief that his friend can speak to him at all, that he's still alive, and Hojo had not done even worse to him. The scientist is a madman. Maybe it was only a matter of time.

Time that he'll no longer risk. Sephiroth, for all the chaos unfolding around him, offers him a faint smile — wan, but truly sincere — as he bends forward to gentle raise Luka up. Arm against his back, trying to get him to sit up and lean on him.]

It took me a while. Sorry about that.

[Too long, but he’ll fix that now.]

We're leaving. Can you walk? [Sephiroth thinks he knows the answer. He'll carry him out if he has to.]

[ Rest assured, he feels just as terrible as he looks, like his whole body is at war with itself, leaving him drained and churning his insides around like the waves of the Ruby Sea.

He doesn't blame Sephiroth for this - how could he? It was an accident, an unfortunate circumstance of relying on strange magic. In the end, he's just glad his friend is here, come to spirit him away from his awful place and the awful people who inhabit it.

Sephiroth moves to help him up, and that's when the world tilts for real, and Luka heaves forward, emptying the rather meager contents of his stomach over the edger of his cot. It takes a bit for everything to stop spinning, and Luka wipes his mouth on the back of his trembling arm. ]

... Probably not.

[ He'd almost be embarrassed if he could bother to care. ]

[Hefting Luka up only ends with his friend losing the contents of his stomach on the lab floor, as if Sephiroth really needed proof of his ailing state. The sight itself doesn’t bother him — he’s certainly seen messier on the battlefield, the soft insides of those falling to his blade — and there’s no embarrassment to be had. Only the discontent and anger at the company, which continues to wind through him, hitching across his nerves like a line made of barbed wire.]

I’ll carry you. It won’t be graceful, because I’ll still need to use my sword arm, but I want you to trust me to get you through this.

[He will leave this place with Luka, one way or another, and never look back. Anyone who tries to stop them will not succeed, and how critically they fail will be up to them.]

There will be resistance, but don’t be afraid. Do you understand?

S'okay...

[ Sephiroth still has to fight, to get them out of here, and a little jostling can't possibly make him feel worse off than he already is... hopefully.

Luka takes a quiet moment to catch his breath, to breathe through the turning of his stomach, the taste of bile on his tongue. Sephiroth always seems to catch him at his very worst, but now he's hit rock-swiving-bottom, and Luka is too weak, too ill, to feel any sort of blow to his pride. His friend is here, and that's all that matters. For the first time since he's woken up in this Twelve-forsaken place, he feels a glimmer of hope.

A quaking hand comes up to grasp at Sephiroth's sleeve - Luka doesn't quite have the dexterity to reach for his hand - and he looks up. Pale and sickly as he may be at the moment, there's nothing but earnestness in his tone. ]

I trust you. Always.

[ To say he trusts Sephiroth with his life would be redundant. That's exactly what he's doing. ]

Good. I won’t misplace it.

[He cannot lose someone else. Sephiroth will take Luka’s trust and hold it close, protect it with his life, because to watch another become snatched-up in Shinra’s machinations, crushed beneath the corporate cogs, will break him.]

Come on. Gently.

[His strength is more than enough to sling Luka over his body if required, but there’s a gentle way he does it, offering his shoulder before his arm slips around his friend’s torso. A moment later and he’s rising with Luka hanging on one side, and Masamune still gleaming in his free hand.

He turns, and a squadron of guards are already filtering into Hojo’s laboratory, 3rd Class SOLDIERs in dark fatigues, blades in hand— suddenly hesitant now that Sephiroth levels his cold eyes at them.]

...Luka, just close your eyes, and we’ll have left this place soon.

[Sephiroth steps forward, and hardening his heart, treats this like the battlefield.

Exactly what Shinra itself had trained him for.

The next few minutes are a blur of violence. Sephiroth’s blade makes quick work of anyone who draws near with aggression, anyone who might even try to stop them. Soon, multiple alarms are blaring in their ears, layered on top of each other, for each floor he descends. For long stretches of time, there’s no one — as though the day-to-day employees of the building know to give him a very wide berth — but then there will be the sound of gunfire, and the quickness of the SOLDIER’s step, graceful in a way that tries not to jostle his friend further. The clash of steel, a yelp of fear. No sound from Sephiroth himself.

And then it stops, and they move again. The cycle repeats itself. At some point there’s a fall, gravity taking them down and impossibly quick, before his boots land metal and the flooring vibrates beneath the force.

The stairwell, of course, is a cramped but effective shortcut down. Shinra forces will bottleneck their way up to Sephiroth, which is a surefire way to fail in their assault. He knows this.]

How are you doing? [It’s the first time he’s spoken since the lab, and it’s only to check on Luka.]

[ The next few minutes are a blur alright. Luka does as he's told and closes his eyes, and he wishes with all his might that he could slip back into blissful unconsciousness, but it's not to be. That nauseous, awful feeling crowds into his every cell and sets his brain buzzing, putting him well beyond sleep - to say nothing of the noise and the jostling movement.

For a small miracle, he has nothing left to vomit, though that doesn't stop his body from trying a time or two, but for the most part, he just holds on and blindly trusts Sephiroth to see them both through this safely.

The sudden drop makes his stomach do all sorts of interesting acrobatics, fingers curling tight into whatever pieces of Sephiroth's garb he can reach. It takes a moment or two too long for him to realize that Sephiroth is speaking - and to him no less. ]

... No worse'n when you found me.

[ That's probably good? ]

How much further?

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.]

We can’t stay in Midgar.

[ The rest of the trip out of the building is just as much a blur as everything else, his grip on consciousness becoming tenuous enough that sometimes even the gunfire and the blaring alarms aren't enough to keep him awake. Chaotic and violent as it all is, there's something about Sephiroth's presence that makes him feel like everything will be okay, that with his friend by his side, even the awful nightmare flowing through his very veins will somehow turn out fine.

They don't have vehicles like the one Sephiroth loads them into on Hydaelyn, but Luka doesn't even have it him him to be fascinated. He merely curls up in the seat into which he is tossed, limbs pressed close to his body, and lets the rumble of the engine lure him to sleep.

His nap can't have been long, or even very deep, because Sephiroth's voice tugs him back up, easy as anything. ]

After all that... don't wanna stay in Midgar.

[ Like seriously, fuck this place. ]

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