Cloud Strife (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
anonfantry) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
onepassingnight2012-03-24 06:15 pm
anonfantry) wrote in onepassingnight2012-03-24 06:15 pm
oo1 ❄ I've seen this somewhere before
The scenery within this new (perhaps not quite) foreign subconscious is a confused jumble, as if its unsuspecting creator cannot quite decide just where to be — a snowy mountainside has burst up from beneath the streets of a staircase city set into the rise of sheer, seaside cliff. The pieces are whole, details sharp and clear on narrow, towering buildings all crammed close together and rocky outcroppings with their blankets of heavy snow (still falling, as it is, in weird pockets only over corresponding ground).
But these little scenes are shattered among each other, shifting constantly, uncertain as the blank, white sky above, which reflects a dull grey in the ocean below. Where these two endless, colorless stretches of space reach to meet on the horizon, they blend seamlessly, as if meeting the edge of this conflicting reality might be as easy as setting sail for the fragile inner boundary of the eggshell shape it almost appears to be locked within.
Bright and cold, the silence falls as heavy as the inclement weather, in each vacuum of space that covers the mountainside, doing its best to muffle the staccato beat of his boots on uneven pavement broken over icy faces of stone and the competing race of his heart, now trying its hardest to burst clear out of his chest. (And in a dream, who's to say it mightn't?) With his rifle hugged tight against his back by its strap, where it beats a solid rap against his shoulder blades, a sharp reprimand for every stumble, a lone soldier in drab blue is fighting a very literal uphill battle.
The uniform he wears obscures all of him but the lower half of the pale, strained expression writ across his face, solemn as he barrels up the insurmountable slope in leaps and bounds, shadows chasing behind as he rounds a street corner onto another craggy patch of open ground. Snow kicks up in misty clouds around his ankles as he stumbles, but doesn't stop, always only one step ahead of his pursuers.
They're monsters, or maybe only the distant memory of a child's imagining of such, solid enough as they crumble up out of the earth in his wake. But they fade to dust as phantoms while he manages still to evade the catch of claws and snapping jaws at the heels of his badly scuffed black boots, the shirttail tucked under his belts. Shameful as it is not to stand and fight, outpacing them is this dream's objective, instead, and he can't seem to stop his feet from moving on, hands scrabbling at each new hold to pull himself higher.
At least not on his own.
But these little scenes are shattered among each other, shifting constantly, uncertain as the blank, white sky above, which reflects a dull grey in the ocean below. Where these two endless, colorless stretches of space reach to meet on the horizon, they blend seamlessly, as if meeting the edge of this conflicting reality might be as easy as setting sail for the fragile inner boundary of the eggshell shape it almost appears to be locked within.
Bright and cold, the silence falls as heavy as the inclement weather, in each vacuum of space that covers the mountainside, doing its best to muffle the staccato beat of his boots on uneven pavement broken over icy faces of stone and the competing race of his heart, now trying its hardest to burst clear out of his chest. (And in a dream, who's to say it mightn't?) With his rifle hugged tight against his back by its strap, where it beats a solid rap against his shoulder blades, a sharp reprimand for every stumble, a lone soldier in drab blue is fighting a very literal uphill battle.
The uniform he wears obscures all of him but the lower half of the pale, strained expression writ across his face, solemn as he barrels up the insurmountable slope in leaps and bounds, shadows chasing behind as he rounds a street corner onto another craggy patch of open ground. Snow kicks up in misty clouds around his ankles as he stumbles, but doesn't stop, always only one step ahead of his pursuers.
They're monsters, or maybe only the distant memory of a child's imagining of such, solid enough as they crumble up out of the earth in his wake. But they fade to dust as phantoms while he manages still to evade the catch of claws and snapping jaws at the heels of his badly scuffed black boots, the shirttail tucked under his belts. Shameful as it is not to stand and fight, outpacing them is this dream's objective, instead, and he can't seem to stop his feet from moving on, hands scrabbling at each new hold to pull himself higher.
At least not on his own.
pretend I have the appropriate icons
OF COURSE.
The earth is breaking apart underfoot, though, no more than just hastily crowded together fragments to begin with, and soon not even that enduring desperation will be enough. A frost of snow clouds over his strictly limited view of the world, but he bridges the first gap easily enough, as the patch of misplaced mountainside breaks free of whatever tenuous force anchored it to broken-lined asphalt. The same white as in the sky looms beneath, in the cracks that are forming, and the creatures haven't let up, and each staggering landing lends them just a little more gain on the floundering infantryman.
A sharp snag very nearly sends him twisting to a knee, as one of them finally snatches close enough to shred a bite of plain blue shirttail to scrap, and in the haste of the necessary overcompensation to keep his feet, he finally catches sight of the hulking beast keeping pace. More a feeling than an articulate thought (Why hasn't it killed me) - the bolt of horror that strikes through him is such a bad start that he falters again, skating over snow and cement only to drop clear over the edge of another of those breaks in reality. The phantom things chasing after him follow suit, bursting into a harmless rain of stone and dust as they leave the ground a last time.
A weak cough echoes up from where the Shinra guard dangles precariously, suspended over bright nothingness by the fervent grip of a hand clutching the edge of the fall.
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(And this time it won't just be scraped knees. This time you'll just fall forever)
He grits his teeth as he steels himself to throw back the arm that isn't his sole lifeline for the gun that's dangling over the infinite drop with him, to go out with a bang (ha ha), if he has to.
He doesn't manage in time. Gawking up at the massive gray wolf staring down at him, Cloud very nearly lets go of the ledge completely as it lunges - the reflex to pull back so deeply habitual that not even common sense can prevent the notion. His stomach drops out through the soles of his boots, but he isn't having any of it.
"Let- Let go of me!"
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Those helmets were murder.
He hauls the kid back up onto stable ground, large paws making slow but steady work of it.
He's going to wake up with the taste of oiled leather in his mouth, he just knows it.
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And then, you know, he'll be lunch. Or something.
The thought solidifies his wavering desperation once again, and the second he's got a foot over the side and onto solid ground, he wrenches away from the vice grip those jaws have on him. He's likely got a better chance of breaking free of his suspenders than breaking that grip, but weighing the odds of either would take more time than he suspects he's got left. If the wolf doesn't want to catch an elbow hard in the side, it'd better back off quick enough, anyway.
"I said- Let me go!"
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Especially when they sound so damn young.
So he lets his jaws snap suddenly open and release before he can end up too bruised by pointy elbows (he's learned from Tifa how dangerous those things are). And maybe it's just him being a bit mentally snarky that he does it just as the kid puts some real weight into struggling backward. After all, wolf or not, he did just save the kid's life.
Then he just plants his butt, tail wrapped calmly around his legs and watches.
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Nevermind that he hadn't expected to be let go of, at all, in the first place - no, this is much stranger. Pulling his knees up toward his chest, Cloud tugs his rifle down under his arm securely but doesn't make any more offensive attempt on the animal across from him. Backed nearly up to the edge, again, the trooper fidgets uneasily.
(Good.)
"Just... Stay back."
Even managing not to stutter, he doesn't sound very intimidating at all.
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Cloud still feels just a little bit guilty watching that tumble. It's just a kid, after all. A kid dreaming about being a Shinra grunt for some reason. As lofty goals go, Cloud won't rate that one all that high. But that's because he's been there and he knows how disappointing wearing that helmet is.
One day soon Denzel's going to be a gangly, awkward teen.
The thought is a bolt of pure terror but he swallows it down mentally. Not yet. Denzel's still a kid. Cloud's got time to figure out whatever magical property it is that parents must have to deal with teenagers. He's got time.
He should probably stop sinking to teenage level himself. Tifa would be giving him one of those looks. With a little huff, he stands back up because sure the kid said stay but he's not going to sit there for however long the dream goes on. Shaking out his fur, he looks at the kid, not sure what he's supposed to do with him. He can't exactly leave him behind. Those monsters were his and if he's left alone they might come back. Another huff, through his nose this time and he heads over to the side that allows for the easiest jump to the next, listening for that gun just in case. Looking back over his shoulder with one mako bright eye he manages, with a shoulder and chin movement, to give the wolfish equivalent of a 'come on' gesture.
Or maybe he just looks like he's had a mild spasm. He's still working on the human to wolf translations.
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Whether or not he catches the gist of that odd little gesture, Cloud doesn't have the slightest intention of getting an inch closer to that wolf of his own accord, and so stands stubbornly on the spot. He squares his shoulders so much as he can, hands balled into ready fists at his sides. A part of him, maybe, is distantly becoming aware of the fact that the only animosity here is that seething off of him in strange, frightened waves, but that's a difficult think to wrap one's mind around even without enough residual fear to further gum up the works.
"Go on. Get out of here," he mumbles, low under his breath.
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Kid's not a member of his team. He wants to be on his own, he can be on his own. Maybe he'll even get lucky and his nightmares or something worse won't show up. Cloud doesn't have a responsibility to the kid. Liquid, he clears the gap easily and heads off at a trot without a backward glance, easily smooth over the broken terrain. He was younger than that when he was on his own the first time. And it's the kid's own dream. Worse comes to worse, he wakes up in a cold sweat back in his bed.
Which is of course entirely why Cloud heads for the high ground once he's out of sight and doubles back. Not like he's got anything else to do and somebody needs to keep an eye on the kid. The color of his coat blends easily enough with the surrounding area. He's just - keeping an eye on him. That's all.
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He won't let down his guard (isn't capable of it, with that uncomfortable tension still built up high beneath his seemingly lax exterior), but he's just so tired. So long as there isn't anyone around, maybe it's okay-
The weird certainty that he still isn't alone sticks with him, clinging to the edges of his dull perception, but Cloud dismisses it as the same as that residual adrenaline. Peeling out of his bulky, constricting helmet, he digs his fingers into somewhat flattened blond spikes, stealing two seconds of actual respite as he closes his eyes and sighs for all he's worth.
"...What now? What'm I gonna do, now?"
(Get up. Make the first jump. Do something.)
"All right," Cloud mutters, unaware yet that talking to himself is a habit he'll never outgrow. Pulling his feet up underneath himself once more, the unmasked trooper walks to the same edge the wolf left from, before him - but the ravine into nothingness seems wider, now, and the other edge made of loose earth covered in snow. Even with a running start, even if he makes it- He can already see the ground crumbling between his fingers, sending him off into that blinding whiteness, and for a moment a phantom of himself really is there, really does take the leap. The voiceless ghost messes up the way he's suddenly too afraid to, though, and falls into infinite nothingness as he watches, the same quiet horror creeping back into his dream as darkness wells up in his shadow.
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It seems - tinier than he remembers.
And then his eyes focus on the blue of Shinra uniform and -
And he takes a couple steps back. Because that's him. That's him in that trooper uniform and he doesn't have to look twice to double check. It hits him in the center of him like a hammer blow and he sits down, blue eyes a little wide.
He's - dreaming. Himself? Or - himself is dreaming - him? How can he be double dreaming? Or is he just dreaming he's a wolf dreaming about himself as a Shinra grunt?
Except - this doesn't feel like his dream. It's got the same feeling other dreams have had when they belong to someone else.
His shaggy head comes down and his eyes narrow as he twists it over in his thoughts. Because there's the uncomfortable shiver of 'I'm not really me' through him and he knows he's past that and he's really himself and he's not a mimic or an imagination and yet -
Tifa would remind him who he is. She's his touchstone. She'd be able to tell him he wasn't just someone else's dream dreaming he was real. Except - she's not here. And what if he's just dreamed her into his life that isn't real - ?
No. No, dammit, no! He IS real. He's already been through this. He fought it and he came out on the other side and he's NOT a figment of his imagination or a copy pretending to be real. Whoever that is below, it's not him.
He still has to shake himself as he gets back to his feet and there's a hesitation in his paws as he walks back to the edge to look down again. What the hell is he looking at?
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The wolves are gone, but the spirit of the thing is far from; it lurches up out of the liquid ground almost eagerly as he finally rounds on it, shapeless sludge that reaches for his arm and must shock or sear something awful on contact, the way he yells as it dives for him.
Just a second too late, as Cloud twists away and the motion sends him reeling in the other direction, splashed with the discorporate form of his returning fear. He has a choice to make, and it's obvious enough - jump, or be swallowed whole, instead.
It takes him approximately as long as it's taken this new version of the same chaotic mess his dream began with to unfold to make his decision. He'll never bridge the gap, but Cloud scrambles to his feet again, anyway, darts to the edge and throws himself out to the next landing, unable to stop even as he imagines falling just like that lost afterimage. His fingers catch ground, but it starts to crumble, and more the harder he claws for purchase in the rising tide of panic.
That wolf made this look so much easier than it is - an absurd accusation but there in his frantic jumble of half-coherent thought as he feels that blank oblivion below creeping up impossibly quick on him, now.
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He's been free of it for less than a week.
He'd thought he was free of it -
His own cry, high pitched and younger than it had a right to be, coming from a body that isn't his, jerks him out of the moment and it spurs him forward. So much easier to react than deal with whatever is going on. Has he fallen into the Lifestream again somehow? Is that why he's dreaming in multiples?
It's a question that will thankfully have to wait until later as his paws clear the edge of the cliff he's been on. It isn't a horizontal leap. That would have shot him far over the last crumpling remains of the tiny island as well as the much closer edge the younger version of him clung to. Instead, with all the logic of a dream and his own history with ignoring some of the laws of physics if he moves fast enough, he charges down the side of the cliff, claws like steel pitons, outracing gravity. He pushes off before he reaches the level his counterpart struggles to hold on to, a quick launch that brings him skidding to a stop right at those fingers. Loose bits of dirt and rock wash out in front of him and over the kid. This time he doesn't wait to see if the younger version of him feels like it or not. There's a quick snatch at leather harness and cloth, teeth rougher than before and, if he manages the catch, the younger him is getting snapped up and over his shoulder. At which point he can either hang on to a suddenly much larger wolf than was there seconds ago or go ass over end because Cloud's spinning toward the open road, intent on bolting.
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Then his handhold snaps in his grip and he isn't hanging by one arm or the edge of his fingertips, this time; he's falling, down into that empty, open white, and he'll be falling forever. With his eyes clamped shut and another scream welling up in his chest (caught, too, for as long as his stubborn pride can keep it in check), he feels his fists close on nothing but crumbled earth and air, kicking madly against nothing, though it feels like slow-motion, everything stalling out-
And then, weirdly enough, it does. His feet don't hit anything, his hands are still empty, but in that same instantaneous way, he's given one nanosecond's worth of awareness that he isn't falling, after all.
Then that rough jerk upward registers, and he's all but flying, instead, the whiplash move tearing the wind out of him as fast as his center of gravity. There's really nothing else he can do, except return to scrabbling desperately for purchase - a feat that is suddenly so much shockingly easier, sprawled across the soft-hard bulk over which he lands gracelessly. With two fiercely tight fistfuls of rough, shaggy grey fur, he'll be a little trouble to shake off, now. Between the midair tumble and the wind whipping in his ears, still, though, he won't be much for coherent thanks.
sorry, kept half trying to >small< everything
Powerful muscles move under shaggy fur like liquid steel. Large paws find purchase, claws dig in, propel him forward. Blue eyes like electric narrow down in focus as he runs, the ruins they pass through nothing compared to his enhanced body and its reflexes. His neck stretches out even as his body unconsciously adjusts to having a rider, changing form subtly to suit better.
It's really not that different from carrying Marlene or Denzel. Or Yuffie. He hits his stride, motions going smooth and the pleasure of pushing his body settles in. With a huff, he lowers his ears and pushes forward into the wind. If this is ruined Junon than Edge is a long way away. Cloud points his nose toward home.
np! ♥
Not knowing where they're going is gradually becoming a very real concern, though, rising from his muddled thoughts in the wake of fading shock. There are no monsters behind them, now, if only because the one beneath him is fast enough in its leaping gait to outpace anything unwise enough to try giving chase again.
In his daze, Cloud eventually manages to lift his head - too far, at first, into the whipping wind and his own bangs swatting him in the face cause him to duck just as quick - and as his eyes adjust, he recognizes the wolf. His grip tightens and his stomach lurches and he shoots a glance to either side, the landscape a blur.
No help, there.
"H-Hey, I wanna get off-" he starts, tugging at the scruff of fur clutched between his hands.
:)
Besides, maybe if he gets home, Tifa can help him figure out how to put the kid back inside him where he belongs. It doesn't matter that this is a dream. The point remains that there shouldn't be two of him.
At least this one isn't kicking him in the - ow! Hair pulling!
Blue eyes narrow down in annoyance. As pain goes the tugging is actually pretty mild, more a roughness than an actual painful thing.
Why are the extra sides of himself always so damn uppity?
He'd probably better not let anyone else answer that.
He's not ditching himself somewhere in the middle of nowhere however. What if he loses him and then there goes a piece of himself, off and wandering? He already had enough missing holes still. He doesn't need to be intentionally throwing away things.
With a huff, he lowers his head, ears folding back against his skull and that and the bunching of muscle is the only warning before he lunges forward, pouring on the speed so that the scenery whips by.
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The drastically increased speed doesn't do anything good to his already dangerously tipsy sense of equilibrium, and Cloud can't quite stifle a startled shout as his grip tightens desperately. At the same time, though, he is weighing his chances of surviving simply letting go. As fast as they're moving, it won't be pretty - but getting dragged to some terrible (and now apparently fairly pissed) beast's lair for future consumption doesn't sound like a whole lot of fun to him, either.
At this point, it's that or attempting to box the stupid wolf about the ears to slow it down. And he really doesn't want to get bitten, a possibility that still seems very real, as belligerent as the strange animal's been.
There's only an instant's worth of warning, as he tenses like he might want to hang on, after all (and he does, in spite of himself, as he's already able to picture himself a ragdoll battered and broken as he rolls back the way they've come). But the momentary hesitation is only that; a second later, his hands open and he doesn't even have to push himself off, caught in the slipstream as he bounces up with another bound.
And then it's all quite a bit like he'd imagined, the world a blur as it whips him backwards, spiraling through the air in the curious absence of gravity. Falling, after all.
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It occurs to him that he should let the kid deal with the results of making a choice like that. It's going to hurt like hell and it serves him right. It's not the worse thing he's ever going to go through in his life.
Except Cloud's already moving, muscles bunching and straining hard to pour on the speed and agility needed to charge back the way he came. Because it's someone who's going to get hurt. It shorts out the parts of him that insist they don't care and has him rocketing back the way he'd just come. He doesn't consider himself a hero. But he is a protector. Even to younger versions of himself that insist on getting themselves in bad spots. Which is some kind of awkward paradox he decides he doesn't want to think about too closely. He can't stop all of the kid's tumble but he puts his furry, non-rock and non-pointy body directly in the path of that freefall, angling himself to take the brunt of the impact and the resulting blows. It's what he's been built for and it's what he gave up almost five years of his life to be able to do.
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The landing isn't what he expects, though it knocks the wind out of him just as well. A choked, confused sound escapes him in lieu of anything approaching actual words, as he collides not with the rocky, jagged ground, but with the same soft-solid, furred body that he'd only just let go of. He throws out his arms as soon as the strength begins to trickle back into them, the only subsequent blows coming from him, as he shoves himself back toward the weird equilibrium of the falling dream.
Then the world shifts again and gravity fails completely for his part, and he drifts upward with a scattered cloud of rocks and debris, tucking in his legs as he floats in case that thing decides to bite. Weirdly adamant as it is to have him, he won't put the possibility out of mind, where any lingering hurt from his fall goes immediately.
He won't look into the void still gaping overhead, either, won't think of how there's nothing at his back (just endless nothing) - his glare is half fear and half stupid determination as he swims awkwardly higher in midair.
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Claws slow and then have his body stopping and he lays there for a minute, blinking up blankly at the sky.
As dreams go, this one sucks.
It sucks even more when he finally turns his head and sees - shit. Sees himself floating away. Or - swimming away? It's hard to tell but the look on that young face -
Right about now is when Cloud would usually let the kid go. If that really is a piece of him escaping into nothing, how badly does he really need it? It sure seems determined to go and he doesn't feel anything important missing inside himself. Nothing from his mostly miserable cadet days seems worth all this trouble to hold on to. It feels a bit like giving up. He doesn't like that. But he's also annoyed. Whatever that bit is, it's stupid determined to get away. It's not his nature to force things on people, even rebellious bits of himself. In the end though it's both the fear that if he lets one piece get away others will start to drift off as well and the floating. Damn, the floating. He's only floated twice and both times it was indicative of Very Bad Things. Sure the kid doesn't seem to have the Black Materia on him but if he ends up anchored overhead writhing, Cloud suspects he's going to be in big trouble. With a grunt, he pulls himself back to his feet and manages to make it over to underneath where the younger him is doing a good swimming imitation. If he has to jump up there to knock himself back down it's going to hurt. Instead, he lifts his head, plops his butt down to sit, fixing mako bright eyes on that escaping piece of self and very softly says:
"Woof."
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Just when he thinks he's shut of that big, ugly thing - all potentially poignant out of the frying pan and into the fire metaphors notwithstanding - it stalks back around to plant itself right underneath him. If he's determined past the point of it being in any way a potentially beneficial trait, the wolf must be twice as much so. Which, well. Sort of leaves them at an impasse, doesn't it?
Because there's no way in hell he's going to paddle his way back down through the uncomfortably floaty atmosphere, even for that seemingly reasonable offer of woof.
"Leave me alone!" feels like a perfectly sensible response, all things considered, as he fights not to panic in this doubly perilous position. Reaching back for his gun is the next most logical step, but the awkward tug of war that that apparently simple action precipitates, when he finds how badly he's tangled up in his own uniform from the struggle and the fall, renders him fairly defenseless, instead.
"I'm not going with you!"
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And he's not sure how stable the younger him is in that floating position to go rapidly spinning to aim.
Instead he watches the struggle.
...
he really was a wimp back then.
A miserable wimp determined to be more than a wimp no matter how many times he messed up. A back paw comes up to scratch at the back of his neck. He's really not upset that most of his memories from that time are vague. Especially with the floating version of himself to help him remember how it felt. He hated that, being trapped being... himself.
How's he supposed to make sure Denzel never has to go through that?
Standing up, he trots directly under the struggling teen and sits down again. He can't talk but he's bad with words anyway. Instead, he goes for the dog routine and carefully lifts his paw. He's either offering to shake or to untangle the gun for the kid. It's hard to be that expressive with paws.
"woof."
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