[There's nothing here.

Nothing. No sound, no shapes, no movement. A void. Were it not for how frighteningly aware you are of a lack of substance is in this place, it would be easy to believe that you weren't dreaming at all.

Until enough time passes, and the darkness begins to close in.

It's not the sort of darkness associated with emptiness - it's a real thing, where before there had been nothing at all. The kind of darkness that grows and expands, covering, choking all that stands in it's way. Except nothing is there. Nothing but you, of course. No matter how much you run, or try to push it aside, there is no end to it. No light.

But the darkness does recede, eventually. There is no more feeling of being covered, or surrounded, though there is still nothing to illuminate the world around you. Instead the darkness is a force that lingers, surrounds this place, but those who are wise will realize that it's far from benign. It holds back power that can only spell destruction.

It, or him.

Because there is a boy there, among other things. A boy with glowing yellow eyes, who seems to belong in this darkness. Who may even be part of it, or at least know what it hides.

The are sounds, now, too, to fill the void, somewhere off in the distance. The sound of blades, clashing during a fight. The sound of the wind blowing over a vast wasteland.

The even fainter sound of waves.

And the sound of a voice as the boy finally speaks, because he knows that he isn't alone.]

You should leave.

[It's a threat, one that he sounds all too happy to back up.]

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.

Zack's strength of mind hasn't been at its peak lately, which may explain his absence from the consciousness of others.

As it was, the former SOLDIER was secluded in a web of emerald wisps and crystals, cocooned in the center by an even thicker web and two white wings surrounding his form. His eyes were closed, head bowed, the rest of his body also concealed by the maze of webs. So he... hasn't been able to meld himself entirely cohesive yet, but he's getting there. There's no telling what the rest of his body looks like, trapped in that mess.

If you dare to approach, he'll glance up briefly, quietly. He's studying you, wanting to know the reasons why you would come deep into the Lifestream like this, to talk to a forgotten, deceased SOLDIER.

And he'll welcome the company.

It is quiet and cold. This is a ghost town. No one ever truly lived here, for no one was meant to stay. No roots were put down, no futures built, only an ephemeral present, past now. It wasn't meant to stand for long, a mining town built to strip away what was valuable, leaving nothing behind but the desolate land and the shells of buildings. Why would anyone want to stay, when there's nothing of worth remaining?

There are no people here, but in the shadows of an abandoned building, the body of a monster lies on the ground. The chill wind that blows through the wounded walls stirs the beast's hair, so that for a moment, it almost seems about to stir, but it does not stir. It is dead.

It is not the only creature here. Another lies nearby. It has a long, leathery reptilian body, partially hidden by what seems to be a tangle of wings, but like the other creature, as monstrous as it may be, its head and torso are largely human. Its hair is silver, and its wings are black. It lies just as still as the other, and it, too, seems to be lifeless. It lies motionless for a long time, only its long, pale hair moving in the breeze.

Then, suddenly, it opens its eyes. They are bright green, glowing faintly, their pupils narrowed to razor-thin slits. It shifts its limbs, reaching out as if trying to drag itself forward, but the movement is pained. It isn't clear whether it's an injury or something else that has impaired it. Perhaps its body is simply too heavy or too malformed. Regardless, it stills again, but its eyes remain open.

Sephiroth--for it is him--turns toward the other monster (his fallen friend) with an oddly empty, hopeless expression on his face. He's not used to experiencing such despair, such uncertainty. It pierces him through, and he doesn't know what to do. He only knows that it's cold, and that he's changed, changed utterly.

One wouldn't think a place like Midgar could be this cold, much less effected by such an intense level of snow and ice coating the once-lively city. The thick, winter sky above graciously littered the land in gentle, white flakes, resting upon layers of already-compacted snow on the ground, the buildings... and something else towering above.

On the highest section of the city, upon the highest building, rested a large black dragon. And from the layers of snow covering its prone form, it was safe to say the creature hadn't budged from that spot in ages. Feathered wings were tucked behind a spiked back, green eyes bright yet sorrowful, staring down at the crumbled memories below.

For half of his life, this city had been his home.

He'd fought for it, protected it... and now this very same city was destroying itself - the manifestation of the greed he'd been so ignorant to before. And now his friends were suffering from it as well, with very little a thing he could do. He rumbles lowly, shifting his head to the sky his spirit now occupied or was it the earth? the Planet could be both.

Little to his knowledge, there is a path of steel and rubble, leading to the structure above.

Is it dark? Are you still awake? Where are you? Is this a dream?

All of these thoughts and more would flutter through your mind, caught on the thin wire between consciousness, and being trapped within the confines of your own imagination. In time, it slowly dissapates, burning away as the universe reveals itself. You might find yourself standing on a tall, icly pillar, gazing at the stars that seem forever locked in twilight. Or perhaps you're deeper, nearly drowning in a pool of water that seems to have an almost green tinge, wouldn't you agree? and just barely managing to float to the surface. Planets are out of line, the clouds are tricoloured and thick, but no matter what.

The stars remain.

This land is open, free. Shattered. There are absolutely no restrictions here, and the asteroids have already grasped the concept. They shift and crumble before you, just before drifting into the great abyss. You might see those you know, wandering the stars - some with a confused stagger, and others with defined purpose.

Look down.

One of the asteroids is misshapen.

And there is the faint outline of a man resting upon it, sitting as if in meditation.

The will of this world guides you towards it.

The forest is quiet, and green. A cloaked man heads towards an altar in a clearing, already laid out with candles and, crosswise, his sword in its sheath. He takes a deep, cleansing breath, and picks it up.

"Kunzite!"

The voice interrupts him. He fires a swift, angry look in its direction, unwilling to let the blue-haired girl hurrying towards the clearing from the forest's edge interfere in this. Under his glower, the ground shakes violently and a chasm opens between them, stopping her short as she scrambles to keep her balance and can go no further. She shouts something else, but her voice is useless and the sound is stillborn. Her mouth works uselessly, frantically, as she tries to make herself heard, to no avail.

Kunzite frees the weapon from its rest, and throws the sheath carelessly on the ground. His hands are steady as he deals his own death blow and gives a great, wordless cry. Mercury can only watch, face tight with conflicting emotions and dark eyes forcibly dry.

--

There's nothing to explain how the forest has suddenly changed, but Mercury is still there. The chasm is gone. The altar has been replaced by a memorial tablet. Glimmering flowers, closed buds made of living ice, grow throughout the entire clearing; it doesn't take counting to know there are one thousand and ninety-four.

Mercury tends the grave site, as she has done regularly for three years now, as she will do tomorrow when she awakens. If the passing of time has helped to alleviate the impact, it has not lessened the importance. As she pours the water over the stone, her face becomes almost calm in repose as she sinks into reflection.

She could use a sympathetic presence.

It's a sky of storm clouds, dark and threatening, piled against each other, the air thick with the scent of ozone - but it's a silent sky.  The clouds don't move, there's no storm wind, no rumble of thunder or flares of lightning.  Instead the sky is static, heavy.  Indifferent.  Strange streaks of a living, glowing green trace across the sky in slim arches, frozen in place, paths or trailing ends of forgotten energy.  Underfoot, barren, ancient, rocky ground falls away on every side.

It's an island of rock floating in an endless sky, flat on its surface, bottom a jagged mess, as if it was ripped out of somewhere better by its roots and left to drift through a sea of storm clouds.  Far in the distance there are other uprooted clots of earth, just as barren, just as forgotten.  This island in the middle of nowhere however isn't empty.  There are ruins here, fallen pillars.  And there are bodies.  So many dead bodies.  Soldiers, scientists, civilians, scattered around the ruins, each one dead, each one bearing the traces of a violent death even if they blur at their edges and become indistinct if looked at too closely. 

There is one body that's still alive though, deep in the heart of the ruin, sitting on weathered steps that lead to nowhere.  There's a giant sword driven into the stone near his right side and a thick leather wing spreads out from his left shoulder.  He's not dressed in his usual garb, instead a ragged, lethal mix of clothes from memory, not always his, and he doesn't look up from where he has he mouth and chin pressed into the hands of flesh and clawed steel woven in front of him, elbows resting on his knees.  The stairs are clear of bodies beyond his. 

Except for two. 

On his right, near the bloody sword is the body of a dark haired man in SOLDIER uniform, spiky hair clotted in his own blood, blue green eyes closed for good.  On the left, almost under the stretch of the wing is a brunette woman, dressed in pink, flowers scattered dying and forgotten around her.

Blue eyes the color of the lightning that doesn't move through the empty clouds lift at intrusion but other than that Cloud doesn't rise or move at all.  He's here with his dead. 

What do you want?

ooc. so, another Cloud's-messed-up post.  Because we have got to get through these so we can move on to the naked in high school dreams  that just killed the atmosphere I was trying to set didn't it?  Anyway, I am shamelessly swiping the Dissidia setting and his alternate Kingdom Hearts outfit from that too.  He's not Kingdom Hearts Cloud, though feel free to think he is if that applies.  And yes, that's Zack and Aerith quite dead on the stairs with him (though that doesn't mean if you're Zack or Aerith you can't still come for the sheer mind screw of it all).  Be prepared for the emo - or conversely, some violence.  He's just come to the realization that he's going to have to abandon his family in his waking world and he's not in a chatty mood.

The desert sun beats down in full force upon a river of sand. It looks uncrossable, at least by any normal means. Though it's clearly grains of dust and dirt, it flows naturally, rippled with small waves. Dead trees grow within it, with only barren branches.

A boat approaches, a ferry carrying a hooded and cloaked figure. It glides noiselessly atop the sand. Slowly, finally, the ferryman brings the vessel to a halt just nearby. Her face is still hidden as she waits, hand out, for her fare.

"Hop on," she offers, and the voice is clearly feminine. "And unburden yourself." In the dream, everything lost can be regained come morning.

"You have something you want to leave behind, don't you?" It's a shrewd guess; very few people are without regrets they'd like to forget. She makes it sound almost enticing.

Do you remember, way back when you were born? The look of elation on your mother's face as you opened your eyes for the very first time? Do you remember the first words she spoke to you, and the name she bestowed, to be forever known? Of course not. You didn't have the capacity to remember. You didn't know how to remember at the time, and the moment is lost.

This is when you get that second chance.

Instead of crying in elation, there's sorrow. From both of them. They're leaning over you, trying to talk to you but it's just hopeless. You won't respond. You won't be able to tell them that you're okay, that you see them, that you hear them but you just can't do anything. And that makes everyone sadder, to see the life you once held lost.

But he's trying to reach out. Rest a hand on her shoulder, or speak her name. His body won't react, the words stuck in his throat. And for a place with such humid climates, it's so cold. He's staring at her with those tinged green eyes, mentally telling her that he didn't want to go yet. That he loves her, that he still wants to grow old with the two of them.

They leave him, on the bed, in the tiny little hut. They just don't have the heart to cover up the body of their son.

But he's still alive.

[ooc: Just a little note that the baby part is the mun's attempt at being all poetic ffff. He's normal-aged, and once people arrive on in, he'll be able to move somewhat normally.]