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. ]
no subject
Ah. Good. [Well, Sephiroth thinks that studying for SOLDIER is a good idea. How could that be pathetic? It strikes him as a worthy way to spend time, and as a man who's been known to lock himself in the Research Room, he can relate.] That does you credit.
If you have any questions, I think you'll find I know a few things about being in SOLDIER. [This is one of his dry attempts at making a joke. Most people tend to laugh at them, perhaps more out of fear than amusement--that is, when they can figure out he's joking.]
no subject
Cloud can't imagine not being called on his bluff immediately, were he to try, anyway. ]
Th-Thank you, sir! [ Was that... A compliment?
If he sounds disbelieving, it's because he is; the tiniest commendation validating his tireless efforts comes unexpected, still, from far lesser superior officers. (It's not that he doesn't try often enough, but he succeeds so rarely that it's become something even he can't anticipate.) Had that been outright praise, he might've been shocked right out of his dream, entirely.
Fortunately, Sephiroth's joke brings him back down to earth fast enough. To Cloud (and his own admittedly lacking sense of humor), it sounds more like an admonishment, though, whether honestly in jest or not. Of course he shouldn't be talking about SOLDIER to Sephiroth. He ducks his head uncertainly, eyeing the mess of notes cluttering up his desk in the periphery of his vision. ]
Sir. I wouldn't want to waste any of your time. [ But there's something painfully hopeful he can't keep out of his voice, just the same. ]
no subject
Quite all right. I'm not on duty now. I'm on leave.
[I'm on leave. The words sounded strange in his mouth, almost surprising him as he said them. When was the last time he'd been on leave? He couldn't even remember.]
So I may do as I like. [That, too, wasn't the kind of thing he ordinarily said, usually set upon doing his duty, completing his work. So much work. ShinRa kept giving him more and more. He was currently shouldering twice the workload he used to.
Except for now. Now he was on vacation.] I'd be pleased to help.