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discedo_logs2008-01-15 04:12 am
deicided.livejournal.com) wrote in discedo_logs2008-01-15 04:12 am
[incomplete]
Who: Vincent, Sephiroth.
Where: near/by/close to the seaport.
When: not very long after Vincent arrives.
Rating: PGish, atm. Will be changed accordingly.
Summary: Vincent has some loose ends to tie up. Sephiroth is perfectly agreeable. Yeah. Shit's probably gonna go down.
the log:
Whether he was aware of it or not, Sephiroth had been unusually easy to find.
Even through the heavy shield of night that lurked beyond every corner and every wall of stone and brick, seeking him out hadn't been all that difficult of a task. He had been able to familiarize himself somewhat with the city during his initial arrival, during those first couples of hours in which he had no idea where he was, what he was doing there, or if anyone he knew or was acquainted with were wandering around somewhere, as well. And as the minutes had ticked by, as the seconds had drifted quietly past him, his frustrations with the newfound city had only grown. There was nothing. It was nothing. Worn ruins that spoke of a violent history, a violent past, and of a fog that kept all its sinful little secrets at bay, right where it always wanted it, pinned and helpless behind lips that were pressed tightly together should they have started trembling.
He had thought, of all the places. Of all the places for him to end up, and it only made sense. It only made sense that he'd stumble upon a bound and enclosed world in which he was not able to escape from. Maybe, behind the dust and the grime that greased padlocked gates, maybe there was an exit. A hole in the plot of an invisible force that had been built never to be penetrated, never to be breached, and somewhere. Maybe, somewhere, there was something. A sliver of light that peeked just beyond the doorway to black, and helplessness, and vulnerability.
But those thoughts, those ideas -- they had fled the moment he had discovered that nearly all the people he had ever cared about were along for the nightmarish ride, too. As always, they had a habit of banding together in the toughest of times, in even the darkest of places, and he hadn't been surprised. Hadn't been at all caught off guard to find them there with him, to see that they were all right, that they all had been taken care of and were safe, uninjured. Just the way he wanted them. The way he always preferred them, and the way he would give his life (a hundred and seventy times over) for just for the chance to perfect that single certainty, that one factor that he never wanted to change.
Vincent was rarely an openly passionate person about anything. Everything, even, except for them. It was why he would turn up, time and time again, whenever they needed his help, whenever they needed his assistance. Whenever one of them was in danger, and he wouldn't even have to hear the call, wouldn't even have to hear the ringing of his phone, before he was gone in a flash of black metal and scarlet red.
His dedication to them hadn't faltered at all since his entrance into the odd and off-centered city. Not in the slightest.
So, finding Sephiroth? Only another duty. Only another privilege that he was lucky enough to have. Only another mission, another work of art that needed to be tweaked and remolded and repainted. He had always been the source of everyone's problems back on Gaia, hadn't he? The source. The single flame in an ocean of water that defied him, and if it were to be extinguished, if it were to be let out, put down, he knew. He knew that'd change everything. Change everything for Cloud, and for Tifa, and for Barret, and Marlene, and everyone. It was why he hadn't hesitated at the very thought of seeking him out, of finding him when he was alone and powerless, and. It was why he had been up the next second, searching every inch of the city until he was stopping in his tracks, gravel cracking hard beneath heavy boots.
One gloved hand had moved down, fingers flexing lightly over the hard steel of Cerberus, as dark eyes sought and observed their target with a ruthless intensity. Sephiroth. Impossible to miss. The flame of silver hair, and that face, god, that face that almost looked like hers. From the bone structure, to the way it slanted slightly, and. Everything about him was so familiar. So familiar, and frustrating, and he had to take a breath. Had to will his shoulders to relax, had to tear his eyes away for a brief second to remember that he wasn't her. There was nothing stopping him. Nothing, and there was no excuse for it, either.
Another step, and then another, until he was making quick work of the distance between them, only halting when he was mere yards away, hesitant. Pausing. Careful, and knowing, and understanding, and still observing. Again, his fingers twitched almost instinctively over the warm leather to his holster, his palm pressing hard against the hilt to his gun. He was silent for a moment, silent as his brain took notes, formed quick and hasty theories on the man that stood so very close. The legend that couldn't be erased, couldn't be forgotten. The brand, and the scar, and markings that were littered across the planet, littered across the hearts of those he cared for, and then he found his voice, murmured and firm, constant in its pitch:
"Sephiroth."
One more step, and then nothing. He was quick, yes. Eerily fast for someone of his stature, for someone of his age. But Sephiroth had always been quicker. Always faster, and always quicker, and he had to be careful. Still. It didn't change anything. Didn't change that he had work to do. That he had business to finish. That people were waiting. That there were responsibilities expected of him. That he had to protect them.
That he hadn't been able to once before.
And maybe.
Maybe it was a little personal, too.
He still owed Hojo that "thanks," after all.
Where: near/by/close to the seaport.
When: not very long after Vincent arrives.
Rating: PGish, atm. Will be changed accordingly.
Summary: Vincent has some loose ends to tie up. Sephiroth is perfectly agreeable. Yeah. Shit's probably gonna go down.
the log:
Whether he was aware of it or not, Sephiroth had been unusually easy to find.
Even through the heavy shield of night that lurked beyond every corner and every wall of stone and brick, seeking him out hadn't been all that difficult of a task. He had been able to familiarize himself somewhat with the city during his initial arrival, during those first couples of hours in which he had no idea where he was, what he was doing there, or if anyone he knew or was acquainted with were wandering around somewhere, as well. And as the minutes had ticked by, as the seconds had drifted quietly past him, his frustrations with the newfound city had only grown. There was nothing. It was nothing. Worn ruins that spoke of a violent history, a violent past, and of a fog that kept all its sinful little secrets at bay, right where it always wanted it, pinned and helpless behind lips that were pressed tightly together should they have started trembling.
He had thought, of all the places. Of all the places for him to end up, and it only made sense. It only made sense that he'd stumble upon a bound and enclosed world in which he was not able to escape from. Maybe, behind the dust and the grime that greased padlocked gates, maybe there was an exit. A hole in the plot of an invisible force that had been built never to be penetrated, never to be breached, and somewhere. Maybe, somewhere, there was something. A sliver of light that peeked just beyond the doorway to black, and helplessness, and vulnerability.
But those thoughts, those ideas -- they had fled the moment he had discovered that nearly all the people he had ever cared about were along for the nightmarish ride, too. As always, they had a habit of banding together in the toughest of times, in even the darkest of places, and he hadn't been surprised. Hadn't been at all caught off guard to find them there with him, to see that they were all right, that they all had been taken care of and were safe, uninjured. Just the way he wanted them. The way he always preferred them, and the way he would give his life (a hundred and seventy times over) for just for the chance to perfect that single certainty, that one factor that he never wanted to change.
Vincent was rarely an openly passionate person about anything. Everything, even, except for them. It was why he would turn up, time and time again, whenever they needed his help, whenever they needed his assistance. Whenever one of them was in danger, and he wouldn't even have to hear the call, wouldn't even have to hear the ringing of his phone, before he was gone in a flash of black metal and scarlet red.
His dedication to them hadn't faltered at all since his entrance into the odd and off-centered city. Not in the slightest.
So, finding Sephiroth? Only another duty. Only another privilege that he was lucky enough to have. Only another mission, another work of art that needed to be tweaked and remolded and repainted. He had always been the source of everyone's problems back on Gaia, hadn't he? The source. The single flame in an ocean of water that defied him, and if it were to be extinguished, if it were to be let out, put down, he knew. He knew that'd change everything. Change everything for Cloud, and for Tifa, and for Barret, and Marlene, and everyone. It was why he hadn't hesitated at the very thought of seeking him out, of finding him when he was alone and powerless, and. It was why he had been up the next second, searching every inch of the city until he was stopping in his tracks, gravel cracking hard beneath heavy boots.
One gloved hand had moved down, fingers flexing lightly over the hard steel of Cerberus, as dark eyes sought and observed their target with a ruthless intensity. Sephiroth. Impossible to miss. The flame of silver hair, and that face, god, that face that almost looked like hers. From the bone structure, to the way it slanted slightly, and. Everything about him was so familiar. So familiar, and frustrating, and he had to take a breath. Had to will his shoulders to relax, had to tear his eyes away for a brief second to remember that he wasn't her. There was nothing stopping him. Nothing, and there was no excuse for it, either.
Another step, and then another, until he was making quick work of the distance between them, only halting when he was mere yards away, hesitant. Pausing. Careful, and knowing, and understanding, and still observing. Again, his fingers twitched almost instinctively over the warm leather to his holster, his palm pressing hard against the hilt to his gun. He was silent for a moment, silent as his brain took notes, formed quick and hasty theories on the man that stood so very close. The legend that couldn't be erased, couldn't be forgotten. The brand, and the scar, and markings that were littered across the planet, littered across the hearts of those he cared for, and then he found his voice, murmured and firm, constant in its pitch:
"Sephiroth."
One more step, and then nothing. He was quick, yes. Eerily fast for someone of his stature, for someone of his age. But Sephiroth had always been quicker. Always faster, and always quicker, and he had to be careful. Still. It didn't change anything. Didn't change that he had work to do. That he had business to finish. That people were waiting. That there were responsibilities expected of him. That he had to protect them.
That he hadn't been able to once before.
And maybe.
Maybe it was a little personal, too.
He still owed Hojo that "thanks," after all.