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.
no subject
Tying off his harness is surprisingly easy, too, though it takes a bit more effort not to think of the particularly reckless move he's planning to make, next. Planting his feet on the cliff's side, he swings back to face the chaos below, looking on through the sight of his rifle again before he's even realized it's back in his hands.
The first volley of gunfire only clips one of the monsters - but his aim improves considerably with the second. "Come on! I'll hold them off!" After she's knocked the rest of them back, at least. Aiming any closer to her would be dangerous enough on its own, but especially so from his precariously vertical position.
no subject
He's also pretty capable with that gun.
Mercury makes slow headway, climbing carefully on this cliffside too narrow for error. Her arms bear the brunt of her weight, and she feels the tender soreness but keeps herself going by sheer will: If she stops, she'll be lost to those not-wolves.
Just a little longer now. Finally, she makes it to the same height as Cloud. There, she lets her body sag with its fatigue.
no subject
The earsplitting chatter of automatic fire dies down to a few quick shots, here and there, taken more carefully, as she draws nearer the spot where he's dug into the rock face. Those things at the base of the cliff are making a game effort to follow them up, but even their most malformed claws are unsuited to mountain climbing. The best they seem capable of is throwing themselves at the wall of stone, scraping up a few feet before dissolving back into the earth.
He's shouldered his gun again by the time she reaches his height, and it strikes him immediately just how exhausted she seems. He should be just as worn out, himself, after running and climbing for so long, but his unremarkable endurance seems to be favoring him, by some weird stroke of luck. Pulling himself back parallel to the cliff, he leaves off cautiously watching the stalled pack down below to pass a concerned glance over his far less intimidating company.
"Are you okay?"
no subject
"Where are you going? There's no use in just running blindly; we need to focus on our end goal." She plays a long game, with the very end in mind, always.
no subject
His own condition isn't much worse, by all appearances, except for his somewhat bloodied hands, a few scrapes of his own, and more than enough dirt from all the climbing. But her question gives him pause.
"Up there, I guess," he says, only a passing certainty in his voice - but as he turns to look up, up, above them, there's a new twist in their path. A tunnel has opened in the sheer face of the rock, some distance farther overhead, train tracks hanging out over the bottom lip like a broken curl of ladder that's yet to be lowered.
"Yeah."
no subject
"Up there," Mercury repeats Cloud's words, and matter-of-factly heads over towards the tracks.
"These look sturdy enough for now, but don't let your guard down." Unless you can fly.
no subject
It doesn't take long for curiosity to come crawling back, though, and he grabs the bend in those solid train tracks as he leans back over, just far enough, to take a look down below.
The white of the empty sky is almost like mist, this high up, and it obscures the view to something blurry but still distinct enough; the rattling, snarling attacks below have ceased, for the moment, the base of the climb now as eerily silent as the rest of the dream. He doesn't ask her again, if she's managing all right (he learns quickly enough), but he does glance over again, a little too obviously. He's not too keen on looking back over his shoulder, yet, anyway - that way is darkness, like the dark that will swallow him whole again, before this dream ends.
"...My name's Cloud," he offers, instead, as he returns quietly to watching the ground.
no subject
She turns to Cloud, and seems about to answer him, but just as her mouth opens, somehow no sound comes out, a silence just as eerie as the hush in the air.
And then she's vanishing as something draws her back to light and waking, her form indistinct and then gone.
no subject
(...on?)
Before he can manage to finish that thought aloud, there's no trace of her left; he's in his uniform, again, even, and in a matter of seconds it's almost as if she were only a dream, herself.
Except he isn't being shredded by those ugly things that'd been after him, before. He's safe (or safe enough), and when he turns toward the darkness in the tunnel to Modeoheim, he's sure he wouldn't have made it this far without that hand up. With that certainty in mind, he doesn't waste any time pushing himself to his feet again and moving on.