sephiroth, “tol alien boy”, SOLDIER first class. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
supersoldier) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
finalflight2019-06-26 03:23 pm
supersoldier) wrote in finalflight2019-06-26 03:23 pm
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?]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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?
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.
no subject
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. ]