[the words barely register, like trying to pull him away from memories that conjure an agonizing reality to his psyche that he is, unbeknownst to himself, not ready for. it's hard to not pay attention to sephiroth; the way masamune gleams and is drawn forward—instinct alone has cloud reaching for the buster sword and placing it before him to block the attack.]
[it's just enough to keep him whole, but not enough to put any weight behind any attempt at a parry.]
[cloud loses his footing, pushed upwards almost like it's the will of the flow, of this dream-like place they've found themselves in. and he falls, unable to control the imbalance, the only solid thing the hilt of the buster sword as the world slides by, like paint draining down a wet canvas, all colors mingling together until it's just black.]
[he's falling downwards, headfirst—...or so he thinks, anyway. it's hard to tell if he is moving at all anymore, or if he's going anywhere at all. but one thing is certain, and it's that the pain that plagued him has disappeared almost entirely.]
[again? how many times are you going to keep losing your footing?]
[closing his eyes, cloud forces himself to focus. swinging the blade at hand, he manages to put himself upright, and soon his boots touch ground again; a gloved hand on the floor to keep himself steady. the cold of the steel plate doesn't escape him and that's when he opens his eyes. pods as far as the eye can see, an eerie glow within, tubes and pipes like tentacles of some inanimate horror. he looks around himself.]
[hojo's lab? slowly, he brings himself up to his feet, looking around, waiting for sephiroth to appear. or was it really all a dream?]
no subject
[it's just enough to keep him whole, but not enough to put any weight behind any attempt at a parry.]
[cloud loses his footing, pushed upwards almost like it's the will of the flow, of this dream-like place they've found themselves in. and he falls, unable to control the imbalance, the only solid thing the hilt of the buster sword as the world slides by, like paint draining down a wet canvas, all colors mingling together until it's just black.]
[he's falling downwards, headfirst—...or so he thinks, anyway. it's hard to tell if he is moving at all anymore, or if he's going anywhere at all. but one thing is certain, and it's that the pain that plagued him has disappeared almost entirely.]
[again? how many times are you going to keep losing your footing?]
[closing his eyes, cloud forces himself to focus. swinging the blade at hand, he manages to put himself upright, and soon his boots touch ground again; a gloved hand on the floor to keep himself steady. the cold of the steel plate doesn't escape him and that's when he opens his eyes. pods as far as the eye can see, an eerie glow within, tubes and pipes like tentacles of some inanimate horror. he looks around himself.]
[hojo's lab? slowly, he brings himself up to his feet, looking around, waiting for sephiroth to appear. or was it really all a dream?]