OPEN POST; [ SEPHIROTH / FFVII ]

[supersoldier]

those chosen by the planet.

(( despite the ominous choice of music i default to a pre-nibelheim canon point, but can play post-nibelheim upon request! ))

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but your life is just one big mess.

[supersoldier]

[There was a reason why he delegated the last mission to Zack Fair, why he had looked at the briefing for Banora and deferred it, instead, to the other, the one eager to prove, eager to perform his duty, even at the danger of meeting an old and treasured mentor. Perhaps that reason was shaped like cowardice, or selfishness — maybe it was wrong to shuck off responsibility due to emotional rationale, something he has never allowed to define him before. But what was done was done, and at the time, Sephiroth had neatly avoided facing either of his old friends in conflict. Masamune was not raised against them; someone else’s hands could be dirtied by the task.

(Maybe that decision still settles unevenly in his gut, like glass shards sticking to his insides. But he does not regret it. He knew it was the right choice.)

He knows it now more poignantly than ever. Here, facing Angeal (white feathers sprouting from his back, defining himself as a monster, what did he mean?), the war machine in him stutters and sticks, glitches against the notion of cutting him down. His veins sing to fulfill what is expected of him, but emotion becomes nettles against his nerves, slowing him just enough to birth a concept altogether foreign to the legendary SOLDIER — hesitation.

It won’t be enough to bring him down. Both he and Angeal know that. But the other man had always been wise, observant, clever in ways almost enviable, and so the ground beneath Sephiroth’s very feet is assailed instead. There’s not much he can do to fight gravity, not with metal world around him groaning and collapsing, and a second later and he’s falling, falling, back slamming against Sector 5 reactor’s foundations on the way down, silver hair trailing up and whipping all around him, and in the next moment all he can see in his mind’s eye is Zack’s distraught features after he returned from Banora, and Sephiroth thinks to himself that maybe this is deserved.

A second collision sounds like wood splintering, or glass shattering, but he’s met with darkness immediately after.

When consciousness later grasps at him with clumsy, searching hands, he’s stopped falling — something scents sweet in the air, floral and foreign — and he thinks, maybe, that he hears a voice through the haze.]

but from a mess flowers can still grow.

[terracanta]

[ The slums are a noisy place, full of industrial din and nefarious affairs done under neon lights and deep shadows. They're often wet, muddy, and impoverished; and sometimes monsters break in from outside, policing forces stationed in higher density in the booming metropolis above. It's truly a wonder anyone can live decently below the plates, staved off from cleaner technology, with relative safety.

Yet, one girl has made a sanctuary out of the dystopia. By the ancient magic unknowingly seeping from her hands, she grows miracles from the otherwise barren ground of an abandoned church. Old beams and weary pews, grey in colour as though life has left them centuries ago, but the structure itself has withstood time. Maybe, subconsciously, that's why this girl is drawn to the vast quiet of it, for she, too, has survived time and hardship.

If it was anyone else, perhaps the church would seem less serene, filled with the terror and decay afflicting the Planet outside Midgar—but a young half-Cetra doesn't focus on such things just yet. She remains occupied, idealizing the most normal life possible, while tending to the yellow lilies and various other wild flowers spawning wherever the wood had broken apart, and somehow enough light radiated through the glass windows to cultivate the richness, until…

Crash, crack, bang! —Thud.

Aerith isn't the type to shriek, but she does jump, spinning and watching a black form break through the ceiling and fall into the floorboards of the church with a painful crunch. (From just the wood, hopefully.) Dust scatters the sunlight, clouding her view, so she moves closer, footsteps quiet as a cat's. She doesn't often get visitors, much less in this manner. A few minutes of observation passes until she gathers the courage to mirror her curiosity to call out, voice touched with timbre of playfulness and innocence. ]

Hello? Hellooo? Are you all right? …Hello?

[supersoldier]

[…Hello? he hears it again, light and playful. The timbre sits strangely in his ears, unused to being addressed in such a way, an admittedly awkward thought to invade his mind while he’s sprawled gracelessly on the ground, bent stems and flattened petals beneath the silver elite’s weight. But the voice hooks into his conscious mind, drags him up and over the surface of wakefulness, and Sephiroth opens his eyes.

He sees sunlight. A roof with a hole in it. And in his hazy periphery — cat-like eyes already straining to refocus, readjust — a woman whose braid dangles over her shoulder as she gazes down upon him.

For all the surreality of this situation, or perhaps because of it, years of ingrained training kicks in, doubles up and rises to the surface. He could always recover quickly from all that ails him, both rare injury and strange circumstances alike, and this is no different. Every muscle in his body tenses, unleashes like a coiled spring, and memory of conflict (sword raised against a friend, a traitor) bolsters his action; Sephiroth sits up, silver hair untangling from the plants beneath him. His left hand grasps in the soil as if reaching for something that is always there, but Masamune is gone, fallen and landed out of sight.

Not that he needs it. Reason settles in a half-second after instinct, and as he gazes up at her, some of his edged look draining away. Caution and unwanted confusion take its place.]

Who are you?

[Who are you, he asks, like he’s the one who didn’t fall from the sky, a bird with its wings clipped.]

[terracanta]

[ Aerith watches his movements, gauges what tells they offer on his identity, his background. He doesn't look ordinary at all… her heart races a little, but she remains calm in spite of it. New things and people are both scary and exciting, after all. Surely his descent seems to have caught him very off guard. His question almost makes her laugh, but the amusement settles on sitting on her lips, adding to her fairy-like appearance, especially with the particles in the air dancing around her thin frame.

Since her name is not her big secret, she answers diffusively: ] I'm Aerith. You… [ She turns slightly and points upwards at the gaping hole. ] …fell through there. It really surprised me. [ A beat. Then, just to be sure: ] Are you all right?

[supersoldier]

[It isn't like him to be pressed to the earth like this, as strange a sensation as it is -- surrounded by flowers. So Sephiroth guides a gloved hand into the terra firma, oddly put off by its strange vivacity in this steel city, pushing himself up and drawing to his full height.

There's a sense of him realigning his focus, like it's been sent askew during his fall, but that lasts but a millisecond. His back is suddenly SOLDIER-straight, his gaze purposefully placid. Assessing.

She appears relatively unbothered by his presence, which says something for her personality, all things considered.]

I'm fine. [For such a tumble, Sephiroth is made of sterner stuff than to break under the collision of a long fall. His gaze moves back towards Masamune, and he moves towards the blade, bending down to pick it up by its hilt.] I need to return to Shinra. Contact the company if you want to be reimbursed for the damage to your roof.

[terracanta]

[ He appears a dark angel in his full stature, cloaked in soft sunlight that gleams off his silver hair. And his eyes… they shine piercingly of a colour Aerith is familiar with. She sees it glow above the plates at night as well as seeping out of torn pipes in dark, uncared for alleys in the depths of the slums, like blood. (Gaia cries, but does anyone else listen?) Less often, she sees it sparkle from the ground… the Lifestream flows even in this dark, heaving metropolis that separates wealth and poverty so clearly. (Gaia fights, as humans do, but it is not yet her time for war.)

Aerith keeps her secret thoughts between her lungs as they fill with breath, the smell of old wood and watered soil dancing upon her senses. She is unbothered but she is also curious who this man is, where he's from and how he could feasibly use a sword like that. Isn't that longer than his body? Isn't that kind of excessive?

—"Shinra." The name rings in her ears. She tries not to reveal her shock, distrust. Aerith is fairly good at hiding behind a smile, though glancing at the ceiling and the light dusting the blooms, the smile is more grateful than he might expect. ]

Oh! There's no need. Actually, I think the extra light will do great for the flowers. So… thank you for that. What was your name?

[ She doesn't want him to rush out, but in case he tries, Aerith shuffles to a flowerbed and bends down to pick a particularly happy blossom. The yellow is bright like the sun, and its leaves stretch out like arms ready for an embrace. She stands to face him, holding this piece delicately between her fingers. ]