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
Cloud honestly can't say which he believes less - the world saving and the weirdos or just the claim that she might be any older than he initially assumed - but the thought of arguing probability with her crazy fantasies is vaporized the instant she drops that name.
"T-Tifa!?" This time, he nearly does go pitching off his windowsill perch, turning a shade of red he can hardly hide behind fair hair and the bulk of his scarf as he wobbles dangerously. By the time he's managed to collect his wits enough to look away pointedly, he's regained some measure of sullen intent to mask his absolute horror. "What would she know about it?"
no subject
His reaction to the mention of Tifa cracks her up, and she laughs. "Yeah, Tifa. She knows plenty, Spike, you guys live together."
A fact that, going by his reaction, might possibly break his brain. Which probably isn't the best thing, now that she thinks about it. Reaching up above her and grasping a window ledge, she pulls herself up higher, determined to get to the top.
"We gotta get moving." There's a little bit of strain to her voice, but she quickly glances back at him, smirking. "We can gossip at the top."
no subject
"Shut-up!" he snaps, scrambling up the building side after her (whoever she is, and it doesn't occur to him that he really should ask before assuming she's insane). "Don't mess with me!"
no subject
As they climb closer to the top, Yuffie wonders if they're ever going to reach it. She's thinking they can just rain down bullets and sharp weapons down on their pursuers (or really Cloud's pursuers - she noticed that little tidbit), and she's sure Cloud wouldn't have any problem with that.
"So, my thinking is this," she rambles as she climbs. It helps her think. "Once we get to a place where we can stand up, we need to just throw everything we've got at them."
no subject
"Fine by me," Cloud grumbles, pulling himself up another window's height and determinedly blocking out the tired, heavy feeling pervading his limbs for just a little longer. Young or old, he's still not much of a talker. Especially not when someone so annoying has got his number.
no subject
Mostly because of the fact most guys this age think about only one thing, right?
Her thoughts meander a ways as she climbs, so that before she knows it the top is near. This gets her excited enough for a last burst of energy, leaping up like some type of monkey to reach the top in record time.
Once up there, she glances down at Cloud with a proud grin. "Come on, blondie, let's get this show on the road and kick some ass!"
no subject
Well, in most ways - enough to count, at least.
In spite of himself, he's (a little) impressed with that feat of agility, hardly matched by his steady but wholly ungraceful struggles. By the time he reaches the top after her, hauling himself up over the high edge and all but collapsing on the other side, he looks twice as exhausted as she feels. The landscape up on the roof is no easier to navigate than the side of the building, though, and he clings to the edge to keep from sliding backward to the other side, even if letting go and falling back to finally catch a break is rather tempting.
Of course, he doesn't have any snappy comeback for her encouragement, huffing and puffing as he tries to psych himself up for his next move (pulling his rifle around and situating himself in this precarious position to fire with any degree of accuracy isn't going to be enjoyable). But the affronted look he shoots in her direction is the Cloud version of agreement, obviously.
no subject
It manages to slice through something, her only indication a long howl from below. The weapon comes back around and she catches it effortlessly. Her brow furrows, though - she was actually trying to hit multiple enemies at once, rather than just one. It's times like this she wishes she had a few of her tiny shuriken with her.
no subject
Or. At least put forth a valiant effort toward that end, as it's pretty much all a Shinra Trooper can do (some more than others, but none more than any random band of terrorists).
The noisy rattle of gunfire is nowhere near as elegant as the curving arc of that oversize shuriken, and at such a distance his accuracy is hardly a match even for her disappointing first strike. But it gets the job done, one way or the other, and even though he's sure he'll have a nasty set of bruises from where he's socked the butt of his gun in too tightly to the shoulder holding him propped steady over the edge of the crooked roof, he won't have to worry about reloading nearly as quick as if any part of this were real.
(No good)
"They just keep coming back-!"