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
Great. This is just going great.
"I'm gonna get written up for that," he sulks, ignoring the weird shift in the landscaping. As a matter of fact, she'll undoubtedly begin to learn, his younger mind is just so terribly impressionable. Enough so that such radio interference - with a certain measure of deliberateness behind it - isn't ineffective.
Yup. Just great.
no subject
"Tell em the Turks commandeered it. We needed it for a disguise or something." Get written up? Kid, Reno has been written up so many times, for her complaining about that is about equivalent to a complaint about breathing. And her own paycheck is so much bigger than Cloud's can ever hope to be, so she's hardly likely to empathize on that point.
Unlike Cloud, Reno has never been impressionable, always full of confidence, false or not, always ready to interpret reality her own way. Her initial idea of a town is swelling into a large urban area, city girl that she is. Yes, she's imagining an Edge bar. A cool one, not like Seventh Heaven. One where Turks would hang out. "Quit complaining and let's get something to eat."
no subject
"I'm not complaining." It's really more of a grouse, and only halfhearted, at that, as he looks around to take in the new scene. This isn't any city he recognizes, but that's no surprise. He wasn't so certain where he was going, to begin with, and he's not any more, now. Her mention of food is a small motivation, but not enough to quell his curiosity entirely.
"Where are we, anyway?"
no subject
Though from Cloud's standpoint, it surely looks like insubordination.
"Sure, sure. Whatever you say. You're better off without the helmet, anyway. Now everybody gets to see your pretty face." She laughs briefly before sobering.
"Oh, this's Edge," she says, then points. "You can see Midgar over there. Might recognize it." From where they're standing, there's a good view of the ruins that the creatively named Edge stands on the, well, edge of. The twisted wrecks of familiar landmarks loom over the poisonous wasteland of the older city.
no subject
Edge doesn't ring any bells, either, but by now he's decided simply to take everything she says with a grain of salt. (He's sure, somehow already, that that's probably the only way to cope with this new and initially unpleasant kind of person.) The sight of Midgar is another matter.
For a second, he almost thinks- Almost sees the city skyline lying in fractured ruin over the horizon, close enough to run toward and never reach. But then his own memory superimposes easily over the sight, and there are lights and towers and the highways cut through the darker wastes spread out around the base (the slums).
"Oh. Yeah." A new settlement, then, perhaps. He wouldn't have any reason to know about that. "I've only seen it a couple of times."
no subject
And with this cryptic remark, she grins again and plunges ahead, catching sight of a bar (or else her mind conjures one up here in the middle of Cloud's somewhat malleable dream). "Now that's more like it. See, isn't this better than runnin all over nowhere all by yourself?"
She still wants to mess with him, but she's toying with him for now, plotting. And it's true that there are worse dreams, now that she's gotten rid of those stupid monsters and that boring landscape. Leave it to Cloud to have the dumbest dreams of all time.
no subject
"I guess," is as close to outright acceptance of her philosophy as Reno can possibly hope for, the words thoroughly lacking in enthusiasm and accompanied by a one-shouldered shrug as he surveys the unfamiliar city. There are plenty of bars in Junon, too, and he's about as compelled to visit any of those as this strange new one. Especially with a Turk.
"I should probably get going, though."
no subject
"You know what happens if you're insubordinate." There's a slightly dangerous edge to her smile. ShinRa's not keen on peons acting up against high-ranking personnel. Like her. Back in the old days, it was a lot worse.
She ushers him into the bar. Inside, it's rather busy, for all that the grey landscape, and then the streets of Edge seemed relatively empty. "C'mon, I'll get us some beers."
no subject
Even if that line is one made on a completely arbitrary basis, by someone who's so clearly just messing with him.
He follows along (grudgingly, stiffly) obediently, but he's not any more interested in her offer inside the bar than he'd been, outside. "No thanks."
no subject
Some things were worse, and some things were good, in the old days. At least, from her perspective. It had
She rolls her eyes. Even past Cloud is not much fun. Maybe he was born not fun. "Then have something to eat. Do you ever loosen up, Field Support?" She claps him on the back.
no subject
"Not on the job."
Which isn't necessarily true - or not to a fault, anyway. But there are some things more important than being a good sport. Like being a professional, for instance. Even if he has the world's crappiest occupation to do it at. "...But I guess something to eat would be okay."