#verse: crisis core.

[ghostofnibelheim]

"I apologize for the interruption. I'm Sephiroth, one of Hojo's SOLDIERs." He introduces himself with a mechanical bow of his head. "I am in detention for breaking the rules. I was ordered to assist you in any way necessary for the next four hours."

[unforestalledreturn]

continued from here @serafim Bumping into his lip as he drank, a slice of dumbapple was the source of a momentary pause. It was just enough of an opening for Sephiroth to artfully work his way into the catastrophic endeavors of research without so much displacing a single page. Such tactics were brutal and undoubtedly unfair. Nonetheless, Genesis was unwilling to give up his little treat either. He would make no commentary on 'what he thought of it'. That would require a critique to begin with in the first place.

"Poor thing's hibernating. Hasn't slept well since his last assignment." It was a... messy one, undoubtedly. Even if the reports spoke of one version of events, the heaviness in their fellow First's eyes spoke of another. And like clockwork, Genesis' nest had taken form, building until it was the state it was now. He should have been there, spare the misery. So he was now here, trying to make squiggles of some madman's diary garner clues he somehow missed the first, second, and... twentieth times. "Possibly." He replied to the suggestion of submitting a request for an open study with a suspicious amount of agreeableness. "Provided adequate furniture arrangements can be made." He set the page down on the newly available surface, namely Sephiroth's lap. Without so much as looking up, he took the next page in the diary, water-logged, and hardly legible. If one looked closely, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lip. And it remained there as he gently agitated the liquid of his mug to stir up it's pleasant aroma. Briefly, a comfortable silence fell, the rays of the early morning light creeping across the floor in declaration that it was indeed the next day. He was no closer to finding what he was looking for than when he started. "There... are only so many 'new' pieces of materia to be found." A nonsensical statement, one that made perfect sense in his sleep-deprived mind. "Fira is fira is fira. Once manufactured, that's all it is. The deviation in the memories stored within are muddied in favor of wide use. The same use. Standardized and mass produced. Even synergistic materia runs into the same problem--" Genesis cut his rambling short, seeming to even have lost his own train of spiraling thought. Head hitting the back of the couch cushion, Genesis stared up at the high-vaulted ceilings. A delirious laugh bubbled out from his chest. "I should send them on a wild goose chase. How does the ever elusive and legendary Bahamut Ultima sound?"

[heartbinders]

TAG DUMP: CLOUD STRIFE

❛ ic: cloud. ❛ musings: cloud. ❛ headcanon: cloud. ❛ aesthetic: cloud. ❛ meta: cloud. ❛ images: cloud. ❛ relations: cloud. ❛ open: cloud. ❛ closed: cloud. ❛ inbox: cloud. ❛ dash games: cloud. ❛ starter call: cloud. ❛ drabbles: cloud. ❛ music: cloud. ❛ verse: cloud ; crisis core. ❛ verse: cloud ; original. ❛ verse: cloud ; remake. ❛ verse: cloud ; rebirth. ❛ verse: cloud ; kingdom hearts. ❛ verse: cloud ; smash.

[steeleidolon]

@poeticphoenix

sender’s muse kills someone to protect receiver’s muse. receiver approaches to gently calm them down.

Fire.

It calls to primal instinct, primal emotion. Its glow recalls the earliest illumination of collective memory, something ancient, living, breathing. It can warm and it can protect. It can maim and it can kill. Checked or unchecked, the distinction can be razor-thin.

Here and now it blazes past Kunsel's face and prickles at the hair on his forearms, and at first all he can hear is the screaming beneath its guttural roar.

It's not his.

He's reasonably sure it isn't his. He would have to breathe to scream.

It echoes, it echoes, half-realized night terror blazing bright, memories of entrapment, crystalline cave walls channeling heat and smoke and sound, herding men, women, children into choking darkness.

Shrill and terrible the cries ascend as padded armor ignites, as metal flashes molten, as the flesh beneath burns. They try to flee, but it is useless.

At eight hundred standard degrees or thereabouts, a crematorium reduces human remains to ash and gas. This is not a crematorium, but consuming flames erupt from an outstretched crimson-clad hand and adhere with all the tenacity of napalm to Kunsel's three would-be captors.

The Crescent Unit knows better than to send one man to face a SOLDIER, even one they managed to venom dart at great sacrifice given the slain pair of shinobi on the ground. For all their recon and preparation, they could not have anticipated this.

One by one the bullets in their rifle-lances explode, percussive insult to injury, and still Genesis holds his poise. Between that and the thunder of his own heart, Kunsel shakes himself of his astonishment, swallowing down the embers of panic.

A stagger-step back, aside. Numbing fingers flex, and he remembers himself - remembers to disarm, weapons to the mag-catch between his shoulders, hands open.

"...Sir," he rasps, shifting to approach from the flank, ashen and limned with sweat under his helmet.

"Commander. They're dead."

Done. Crispy, even. Twisted, blackened. The grasses have caught. The fire is spreading, a beacon in the night, and Kunsel aims to set a palm on the redhead's shoulder.

"Genesis...hey. It's alright."

[firxga]

AMBUSH :  for both characters to come under attack by the same enemy

"Tch."

That was the weight of his response to Shinra's infantry, as though it were a mild annoyance to face down the behelmeted fodder. This wasn't how Genesis planned to start his day, and the other defector didn't exactly look thrilled about the surprise guests either.

"Your ragtag little group going to make an appearance?" he asked a question which he already knew the answer to. His lips kicked up into a sharp, lopsided smirk. "No? Do try to keep up, old man."

[nonhumen]

am i really going to be a clown and remake my seph icons for the fourth time

[pyrrhicpaths]

.

[kuhatoarchive]

“hey! are you alright?” rushing to her side, his hand hovers just over her shoulder. “that was a close call.” / cowgirl nibelheim shenanigans round 2 sliding back in your inbox like a dollar bill under a closed door <3

   unprompted.   ♡  * always accepting !  @sicsemper​.

   she knew that, as soon as the flap of wings could be heard, it was already too late. needle kisses liked to stab more than they did scratch, and, worst of all, they moved in groups. if something was timed right, more so than her gasp after dodging the thrusted beaks and tripping, it was zack’s instinct. no blows landed on him, but it felt as though the wounds she should have gotten were someone else’s. from the confinement of his blade’s shadow, everything seemed to slow down, even her unrest, that low simmering frustration at what felt like a defeat, a failure on her end.

   in truth, tifa thought she had dreamed about this, once. she thought she would be happier– if she should be happier, still. the heroics were not lost on her, nor his title, the achievements behind it which she could only speculate of. a perfect image and skill to match, only second to sephiroth’s for all she knew. 

   and yet.

   longing for heroes meant reinhabiting the loneliness after the boys’ departure. a harsher truth: longing or not, the loneliness would be there, overgrown now as a second stomach, albeit managed. their absence bred another hunger, she supposed– the beginning of digging inwards, only to be met with the realization that waiting idly meant atrophy. at worst, it meant nothing. the drift of days without an end in sight, or a feasible alternative. the body was all she had, ultimately. even so, looking back, she found her eyes wandering away to nibelheim’s entrance. waiting, hoping. always in that order. the ache of her limbs didn’t seem so worthwhile then, and that scared her above everything. 

   zack’s approach, the dry impact of his sole against his earth, reached her before his voice did. touch, however, was halted, suspended in the air just above her shoulder. “y-yeah, sorry,” she stuttered out, biting down a wince from the small scrapes atop her knees as she stood. “and here i thought i was being careful.” patting down herself, she breathed out tension, letting the chilly air sweep it down the mountain. her feet were already moving, gaze cast forward when she hummed, “...thanks, mr. hero.”

[ofsgiathan]

@fairboy sent: "this is a joke, right? right?"

❝  No,  Zack.  ❞  the First Class SOLDIER sighed a heavy sigh as he drooped his shoulders. He couldn't believe he was having this talk with him after knowing him for how long again? Hell, he couldn't even remember what brought up their conversation about their dating lives in the first place. With arms folded across his chest, Angeal shrugged ever-so-slightly in Zack's general direction,  ❝  I've  ...  just  never  really  found  any  particular  woman  I've  met  that  suited  my  tastes,  I  guess.  ❞  Then again every woman he'd met worked for Shinra at one point or another. If only he knew that his mother worked at Shinra at one point or another prior to his June birth.  ❝  Always  had  a  preference  for  men.  ❞ 

[ghostofnibelheim]

@umbral-stigmata-unbound || Continued from here~

The question seemed so simple, even a playful tease of sorts. But Sephiroth found that it gave him pause, instead of being humored. He didn't turn to look back right away.

"Is that what you're hoping for? To be assigned to someone who won't care?" He asks. No provocation in his voice; the tone is dry as ever, but there might be curiosity. "You think that would be better for you?"

[unforestalledreturn]

❛ here, give this a try and tell me what you think. ❜

|| an assortment of dialogue prompts || Status: OPEN!

Off-duty, early mornings were always a hit or miss with Genesis, and it was entirely dependent whether he was still up from the night previous or had fallen asleep engrossed in his research into the arcane. That was his excuse, in the least. He was always on the cusp of a major breakthrough, something that would transform the very way SOLDIERs engaged on the field. A little lost sleep was a small price to pay, He'd say, brushing aside any concerns posed his way about his health and habits. In truth, it was hard to sleep. It was hard for all of them. He'd never say it out loud, but there persisted an impossible desire to somehow spare a little bit of that grief and loneliness. Angeal was kind and wanted to do good. But war was filled with the unexpected and the cruel, and the questionable decisions his dear childhood friend had to make weighed heavily on the man's soul. How could one be honorable as a murderer? Sephiroth was another beast-- he was far more accustomed to the atrocities, but only because that was all ShinRa had for their most precious hero. The weight he bore, did he even know how lonely it was? All by himself on that pedestal? Often, Genesis second-guessed himself at this. Maybe he was projecting too much on how he would feel if there did not exist a single person in the world that understood him. How maddening it would be. But it was so far a distance for Genesis to climb, to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, to say with confidence that he could be relied upon. Yet, even burning the candle on both ends, Genesis could not help but feel the effort was futile. The dead language on the many scripts and texts before him had long since become watery and difficult to read. Another trail of another summon to substitute the strength he did not have, pewtering out. And, evidently, Genesis had reached a state where he was not even all too aware of his surroundings. Head supported by his hands as he tried again, muttering the same damn passage under his breath, he almost did not recognize that instead of scribbles and faded ink, there was a cup obscuring his view. The steam wafted into his face, a pleasant enticement of something herbal, cinnamon, and sweet. When he finally looked up, he found Sephiroth standing beside him in the cluttered disaster corner that Genesis called his 'study'.

❛ here, give this a try and tell me what you think. ❜ Dull, exhausted eyes regarded his fellow elite. So far up there... Was there any world where Genesis could possibly reach? The smell of spice drew his eyes back down. "Oh, darling, did I wake you?" He purred sarcastically, but weariness made it sound a touch... too earnest. Genesis grasped the hot mug and brought the rim to his lips, inhaling deeply. Well and truly, there was nothing else that could smell better than that, not that he would ever give Sephiroth that satisfaction. Not intentionally. "Just as a reminder..." He paused to sip, and the sip turned into a gulp, savoring the way it burned down his throat. "... poisoning those who disturb your beauty rest is still considered a crime."

[frangiturastrum]

Tag Drop. Cloud Edition.

[steeleidolon]

Scars.

Starter for @wingsdreamt

It makes a certain logical sense to keep military departments close at hand when stationed at headquarters--a concentration of resources that can be mustered out swiftly and efficiently when the need arises. When these resources are clustered together, it is also a simpler affair to keep them contained, at least in theory.

The Wutai war is in full swing. Cohorts cycle in and out on deployment week by week, month by month. Some choose the army proper--the infantry abroad, Public Security and Peace Preservation at home.

SOLDIER is an ideal. A dream for many. A success for comparatively few. Those with aspirations are considered climbers, using the storied, proud, battle-hardened division as a stepping stone for their own edification. The rivalry is and always has been bitter at best.

The barracks levels are crowded. Chaos is a common state between fitful moments of order. Men off of rotation must adjust to the rhythms of time off of the field, away from the need for constant readiness. In a way, the walls, ceilings, and floors feel like a cage, magnifying and concentrating restlessness. Some find outlets on leave. Some do not have that luxury.

Some find other reprieve.

Discord is not uncommon - shouting, chanting, arguments, challenges to the training rooms, bids for space when space is at a premium, cheer around intoxicating contraband and the corresponding hush to keep it from becoming more than an open secret. Thudding boots and elbows against tables, laughing, wrestling, jostling, establishing a pecking order without the distraction of patrols or latrine-digging or mess tent meal services, without concern for the elements since the elements cannot reach them here.

Less common for it to pitch strident, to the point where blowing off steam, jockeying and play breaks into violence.

Furniture slams into a metal wall. The general barracks for each cohort are comprised of orderly rows of bunk cots sectioned out with footlockers and standing lockers, with a minimum of privacy- even in the shared shower quarters.

Sound carries.

The scrabbling of feet. Boot-treads squeaking on concrete drawn wet. Shouts, growls. Fists strike flesh. An overturned desk, smashed glass.

"Got his legs. Get his arms! Get-"

"Fuck!"

"-Lanoue!"

"--rabid fucking dogfucker bit me! Get him off me! Let go! Let-"

"-go!"

…

Tenuous calm can shatter in an instant. Kunsel slipped into the barracks to quietly and efficiently gather his things per instructions, prepared for his move to his new quarters. While the acceptance rolls for SOLDIER were provisionally anonymous, they weren't, really. Not with the lines of disappointed aspirants hoping to see their serials on the printouts, and certainly not with certain commanding officers letting roster changes slip before they're finalized, not with the air of celebration for some.

Anything can happen in the transition.

Anything at all.

In and out, he promised himself. No goodbyes. No gloating. Just another faceless individual among faceless individuals--except things are never so simple. When so few make the cut, grudges are a matter of course.

Fighting for life and limb warrants a ferocious edge - no holds barred. Even unarmed, the terrain can become a weapon. No rules. Fang and claw. Tooth and nail. Headbutts, kicks below the belt. Disrespectful open-palmed slaps to ears, gripping hair and shoving.

No matter how combat trained, they are still only human. Four on one is hardly a fair fight, especially an ambush.

So he is here, now.

On his back, arms and legs restrained, duffel bag contents scattered across the hard floor. Blood on his lips and chin, a sock stuffed into teeth smeared crimson, stringy with ripped skin. Lanoue cradles his forearm and stands guard. Wheeler watches the other direction, a knee planted on the stripped sheet wound into impromptu shackles.

Kunsel digs his heels in and heaves, hoofing his shin directly into Golden's crotch. For his trouble, he earns Tanner's metal-shod boot directly to his ribs - and then the broader man drops the whole of his weight onto Kunsel's stomach, straddling him wholesale.

"Fucking Cosmo coyote-"

The combat knife gleams dully in the overhead light, eye contact blistering and enraged, anticipatory. No amount of breathless arching can escape the hand latched to his jaw, and no amount of cloth can stifle the guttural sound as the first cut falls.

"Lotta guys would give their right eye to be in your shoes. Gotta make sure you don't forget your place."

[firxga]

"No. I am not putting that on." There isn't anything particularly wrong with the outfit choice. A smart vest and shirt, dress slacks with a subtle pinstripe pattern. Sephiroth can see himself in them, easily, and Genesis has always been a man of taste.

The General has simply made it his mission to foil the attempts of any paparazzi crawling up and down Loveless Avenue to obtain any decent photos of him. Not including the mandated appearances and photo sessions by Shinra's marketing and PR department. The norm may very well be to dress up nicely when attending famous plays and performances within the grand theater, but Sephiroth has never been much of one to conform to such standards. "Black t-shirt or nothing."

Genesis exhaled a long, slow breath. That word again. 'No'. It may have been healthy behaviour to set boundaries and even expect said boundaries to be respected, true — but that didn't mean he had to like it. The scowl on his face said it all.

Are you serious?

Why are you like this?

Is this the hill you're dying on today?

He considered the clothes again. Seemed regretful in the way he started to slowly hang them back where they belonged. It was quite a theatrical act for someone who hadn't uttered a single word out loud.

"... well." Genesis finally spoke. "I'd think your bare ass plastered across Midgar would be blinding in the sunlight." He turned, far too poised given the sharp turn in conversation. "I can't in good conscience allow you to wear nothing, so, the black t-shirt it is."

He spoke of the offending article of clothing as though it were a rat, all without twitching even a hint of a smile at his own wisecrack about his friend's... crack.

[keykidpilipili]

Thinking about Radiant Garden Falls fic/Seeds of Disaster Sephiroth. How the wonder trio was given birth by a generation lullabyed by the tales of fearful pirates whose hideout was never found and just stopped coming one day. How those growups wished for children strong enough to beat the demons that haunted their own parents.

By the time the trio is ten years old, Ansem stops funding the research on how G cells improves battle strength stamina. An age of peace has no need for weapons or heroes. Tournaments or an unsually wild animal to put down or scare is the most excitement a warrior will ever get. Even the devastating magic Genesis brings from his secret travels gets either branded as flashy party tricks or as property damage risk.

Then the heartless come. Of course by the time the warriors are put in the field it’s way past guards finding empty houses with signs of struggle and no bodies. It doesn’t mean they can easily part crowds following a cry. It doesn’t mean they can calm down people crumbling in despair or grief. It doesn’t mean they can predict when or where the darkness will strike. They are only strong enough to strike down what hurts, not to protect what matters.

Power won’t help you console your friend after his apprentice and his mother have gone missing. Power won’t tell you if letting people with darkness problems be carried away for treatment is better for everyone. Power won’t save a dying kid struck down by his own mentor thinking he was a monster.

And when it comes down to it, power can’t compare to numbers. Each opponent that slips away every day, every hour, every second is a person you can’t save. So heroes burn themselves to keep going despite the burden, the grief, the anger and justify their existence. It hits you, as the abandoned rapier you used to stop your broken friend slips from your grasp, the metallic echo resonating in the basement empty of culprits or survivors. Peace was a lie. Order was a lie. Justice was a lie. You are alone, you are mad, you are free...

And never again will you have to pretend to be a hero.

[sacredflorist]

“So much we don’t know, lingering in the furthest reaches of existence.”

BG3 Companion Banter Starters | Accepting | @poeticphoenix

Aerith puts her hands together, smiling gently. Of course, there's so much they don't know, so much they can't predict... but this is part of the beauty of living. No one knows what comes next. It's full of surprises, but it's beautiful. Even through all these hardships, she has never stopped enjoying life. Some woulc consider her naive, but she's far from it.

"But isn't it beautiful this way ?" she asks, letting a soft chuckle escape her mouth. "Not knowing everything... it allows us to live life to the fullest. Don't you think so ?"