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)
onepassingnight2012-06-16 04:11 pm
anonfantry) wrote in onepassingnight2012-06-16 04:11 pm
oo3 ❄ stuck on repeat
[ Well, it's not exactly a novel dream - the perfectly formed scenery fits the desert island cliché to a T, though it's quite a bit more expansive than a rock with two palm trees sticking out of the middle. Above the rolling dunes that sweep down to the surf, a lush green forest rises to cover most of the visible, the tangle of trees thick enough to seem impenetrable (and half of them completely out of place, in a tropical climate). The only thing this leafy, viney (pine tree dotted) brush doesn't ensconce is the narrow mountain range rising from the center of the island. From those towering masses of land, slate grey and tipped with thin spires and a halo of fog (or perhaps smoke), volcanic activity seems the least of all potential dangers.
But all of that's merely an exciting backdrop to the true mundanity of this phantasm. Shored up at the very top of a wave of fine, yellow sand, sits a desk - plain and spare and rusting at the hinges, in no way special at all. And at it, nearly topped over in height by the towering stacks of (random, unsorted, some completely unlabeled) textbooks, sits Cloud.
Hunched intently over something - pages of notes, upon closer inspection - he pays no mind to the intermittent call of seabirds on the breeze, nor the way that lazy warm puff of air tugs at the messy spikes of his hair. He's scribbling furiously. Then considering. Then turning over the pencil in his hand and erasing with equal ferocity. Rinse, repeat, and more than once on the same line, with increasing frustration.
It's only when one of the precariously balanced texts atop his leaning tower spills over and slides down the sandy slope of the dune on the other side of the desk that he stops with a start, dropping his pencil and his notes at once. Skating around the edge of his desk, through the shifting ground, he all but dives after the book, snatching it back up and sinking to a stop in a small avalanche of sand. With an inaudible sigh of relief, Cloud digs his socked feet in (boots tucked safely into the hollow beneath his desk) and starts to haul himself back up the to the crest of the dune, and the loose pile of notes in desperate need of endless correction. ]
But all of that's merely an exciting backdrop to the true mundanity of this phantasm. Shored up at the very top of a wave of fine, yellow sand, sits a desk - plain and spare and rusting at the hinges, in no way special at all. And at it, nearly topped over in height by the towering stacks of (random, unsorted, some completely unlabeled) textbooks, sits Cloud.
Hunched intently over something - pages of notes, upon closer inspection - he pays no mind to the intermittent call of seabirds on the breeze, nor the way that lazy warm puff of air tugs at the messy spikes of his hair. He's scribbling furiously. Then considering. Then turning over the pencil in his hand and erasing with equal ferocity. Rinse, repeat, and more than once on the same line, with increasing frustration.
It's only when one of the precariously balanced texts atop his leaning tower spills over and slides down the sandy slope of the dune on the other side of the desk that he stops with a start, dropping his pencil and his notes at once. Skating around the edge of his desk, through the shifting ground, he all but dives after the book, snatching it back up and sinking to a stop in a small avalanche of sand. With an inaudible sigh of relief, Cloud digs his socked feet in (boots tucked safely into the hollow beneath his desk) and starts to haul himself back up the to the crest of the dune, and the loose pile of notes in desperate need of endless correction. ]
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[ Aerith it's not a pop quiz if you mention it beforehan--
oh she's running off already. Well, Cloud might have his peace and quiet for once. ]
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(Actually, that was a lot easier than he thought it would be - maybe his luck isn't completely out, today.)
Although the threat of a quiz, in his current state, is practically mortifying - no matter how flippant - Cloud manages to keep whatever's left of his composure as he sets himself back to work. He doesn't like it, but it needs to be done.
Noisy beach fun isn't something he has enough experience with to want to try, anyway. Really. ]
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Soothingly so, the waves coming in and out, in and out...
...But maybe disquietingly so as more and more time passes and there isn't any sound identifiable as Aerith, play or otherwise. A few minutes pass like that, and--oh, footsteps on the sand. ]
Cloud, catch! [ There is a gentle overhead lob coming his way. And the lobbed thing is sparkly green.
...No it's not a Destruct materia. It is Time, though. ]
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After spending all that time trying for so long in vain to ignore all the ruckus, this weird new silence is very nearly worse for grating on his fragile concentration. Those minutes feel a lot more like an hour or two, but maybe that's thematically appropriate, given the way things seem to be going.
He barely has time to react to both the shout and the toss, unused to being expected to play catch at a moment's notice. (General clumsiness aside, however, he does at least manage to fumble the materia out of the air with both hands and by catching in toward his chest. It's. Less than graceful.
Not to mention, a few papers go scattering, again, too.) ]
Huh!? Wh-What is this?
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[ It takes him a second, but that one's pretty basic - if not precisely standard issue. ]
I will admit now that my brain is all sorts of fail and misplaced Aerith's first plan
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[ Nope, he's pretty much at a loss, here, shaking his head as he glances anxiously back to his notes. This could be some new, even more nefarious distraction technique. ]
I don't usually use it at all.
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Well that's no good. You shouldn't waste Time.
[ okay okay MILDLY MORE SERIOUS ] Haste is the first spell. It's a good start.