Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 7
Subjectivity
1 review"He is standing before the Planet's oldest corpse." Sephiroth, in Nibelheim: reality is always subjective.
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A/N: To be honest, I think this was just my subconscious trying to explain why he jumps in Last Order, but is thrown in the game. Apologies for the trippy POV; he is kind of, well, crazy, right?
Oh, and concrit is appreciated.
*
Mother's song. Warm sparks at the edge of his vision.
Ravings of a madman.
He was free--every step he took, light as air, heavy with purpose. They couldn't imprison him now--couldn't partition him into their custodial work, their pointless murders--he could act on impulses entirely his own.
He is a traitor to his company and to his world. What morals, what principles he adhered to have now been abandoned. He is feral, and attacks as though all of life has cornered him.
The world itself cried his name.
These are the villagers screaming as he slices them down.
Strength unfolded lotus-like within his every cell as he let the cold mountains draw him upward. For the first time, it didn't frighten him; he didn't frighten himself. Temperature and tiredness seemed distant things, and the mountaintops became goals instead of obstacles, pedestals instead of cage bars.
He is mutating. The alien DNA has lain dormant for years and it thrashes now like a cancer; a weaker man would simply fall apart. He has the strength and senses of a human at the peak of a drug high, and his mind flickers through thoughts like a lightning storm. None of this is temporary.
Mother was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, even through glass, even though she slumbered still. Her silver waterfall hair was just as his. They encased her in an angel-shaped prison, while inside her soft features shamed all the women of the world. And she waited for him. She wanted him.
He is standing before the Planet's oldest corpse. She is decay in physical form; her skin bubbles and snaps, alternately hard and soft; one of her eyes no longer works; dried blood crusts her ears and mouth and floats like a dust cloud in the gel of her cage. But he is distant-eyed, heavy with need for her, half-dead himself.
The instant he touched her, he knew he had found himself at last.
"You aren't the Sephiroth I knew!"
He and Mother would never be taken. They would never be beaten.
Except by the boy who screams out things stolen and throws his full weight into the sword; it plunges deep and deeper and all the way through leather and flesh and muscle, organs, bone.
He was the righteous man taking vengeance. When he saw the blood pumping out below his lungs it didn't matter, for Mother was with him now, and he had only to smile and step over the bodies, to the whimpering human not ten feet away. Masamune was a swift punisher.
He can't be shamed by this boy. He can't lose to this boy. He was always invincible when he was human; why does it feel like he's dying now? Strange--ironic--he wants to laugh but finds the air shatters his throat into glass. Only his hand around his gut is keeping things from spilling out; he hardly knows how he manages to lift his sword, much less drive it through the little Shinra grunt.
There was only one moment of calm consideration before he cradled Mother in his arms, moved to the catwalk's edge, and leaped--the Mako pit was like a huge unblinking eye, he its teardrop, and when he was engulfed he felt no pain but numbness.
The boy is stronger than a grunt should be, strong enough to lever him over the catwalk railing and throw him. He falls. Falls until he forgets he's falling. Until he hits, and then the burning green makes his stomach seem whole again, his body is so rife with aches and writhing. Mother cannot save him. Mother can do nothing.
This was what he hoped for all along.
He's never thought it possible before.
Answers.
Death.
Oh, and concrit is appreciated.
*
Mother's song. Warm sparks at the edge of his vision.
Ravings of a madman.
He was free--every step he took, light as air, heavy with purpose. They couldn't imprison him now--couldn't partition him into their custodial work, their pointless murders--he could act on impulses entirely his own.
He is a traitor to his company and to his world. What morals, what principles he adhered to have now been abandoned. He is feral, and attacks as though all of life has cornered him.
The world itself cried his name.
These are the villagers screaming as he slices them down.
Strength unfolded lotus-like within his every cell as he let the cold mountains draw him upward. For the first time, it didn't frighten him; he didn't frighten himself. Temperature and tiredness seemed distant things, and the mountaintops became goals instead of obstacles, pedestals instead of cage bars.
He is mutating. The alien DNA has lain dormant for years and it thrashes now like a cancer; a weaker man would simply fall apart. He has the strength and senses of a human at the peak of a drug high, and his mind flickers through thoughts like a lightning storm. None of this is temporary.
Mother was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, even through glass, even though she slumbered still. Her silver waterfall hair was just as his. They encased her in an angel-shaped prison, while inside her soft features shamed all the women of the world. And she waited for him. She wanted him.
He is standing before the Planet's oldest corpse. She is decay in physical form; her skin bubbles and snaps, alternately hard and soft; one of her eyes no longer works; dried blood crusts her ears and mouth and floats like a dust cloud in the gel of her cage. But he is distant-eyed, heavy with need for her, half-dead himself.
The instant he touched her, he knew he had found himself at last.
"You aren't the Sephiroth I knew!"
He and Mother would never be taken. They would never be beaten.
Except by the boy who screams out things stolen and throws his full weight into the sword; it plunges deep and deeper and all the way through leather and flesh and muscle, organs, bone.
He was the righteous man taking vengeance. When he saw the blood pumping out below his lungs it didn't matter, for Mother was with him now, and he had only to smile and step over the bodies, to the whimpering human not ten feet away. Masamune was a swift punisher.
He can't be shamed by this boy. He can't lose to this boy. He was always invincible when he was human; why does it feel like he's dying now? Strange--ironic--he wants to laugh but finds the air shatters his throat into glass. Only his hand around his gut is keeping things from spilling out; he hardly knows how he manages to lift his sword, much less drive it through the little Shinra grunt.
There was only one moment of calm consideration before he cradled Mother in his arms, moved to the catwalk's edge, and leaped--the Mako pit was like a huge unblinking eye, he its teardrop, and when he was engulfed he felt no pain but numbness.
The boy is stronger than a grunt should be, strong enough to lever him over the catwalk railing and throw him. He falls. Falls until he forgets he's falling. Until he hits, and then the burning green makes his stomach seem whole again, his body is so rife with aches and writhing. Mother cannot save him. Mother can do nothing.
This was what he hoped for all along.
He's never thought it possible before.
Answers.
Death.
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