middaeg | ( open ) i will never be

Entry tags:

( open ) i will never be

Who: Sephiroth and YOU!
When: Aereuer 13th
Where: The Looking-Glass House
What: Memshare event!
Warnings: N/A, will add when necessary.

[Sephiroth's mirror is framed in black, cut in clean, elegant lines that look as though they are sharp to touch. It is hard to perceive much else in such a dark color, not without peering closer, and strangers won't note anything odd. Those who know him better could see more: patterned lines interspersed throughout like the vanes and notches of feathers, and a long, curving katana carved into the bottom. The contour lines of a steely city, artfully hidden beneath the rest.

The wood is glossy, unmarred, and perfect to those uncaring. Spiderwebbing, barely-there hairline fractures are visible to closer CR. They shimmer at the right angle, so briefly that it might have been a trick of the light.]

((ooc; these memshare prompts are open to anyone unless specified otherwise! he'll just be more guarded about a few of the more personal ones if you're not close CR. if you want something specific, hmu at

aurajen! thanks!))

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[The horizon is tinged with yellow-pink, a color that settles into every crease and shadow of Junon’s Sister Ray. The metal platform, and even the length of the canon itself, is large, open, and high above the ground — or so it seems to those who wouldn’t know any better. For as real as it all looks, so much that even the “wind” is felt at one’s back, the environment is nothing more than Shinra tech. A VR simulation, a training room for those looking to hone their skills.

Three men exchange words with each other. They seem friendly, familiar. Even as they suddenly take up arms, blades singing across both the ground and air, it’s nothing new between them. To most, this would be a deadly dance, one wrong move and a man’s sliced clean open by one of those weapons, but the one in black — Sephiroth, the holder of this memory — only smiles faintly with amusement even as the fight escalates. Magic thrown without restraint, the faux environment sliced clean through. Until the intensity reaches its peak, pressed too hard by the man in red (despite his dark-haired companion’s protest) and the training room surges and fizzles out with exterior damage.

The man in red, the newly-wounded one, takes his leave with words Sephiroth’s heard time and time again. The real him — the one belonging to the here and now — watches from a corner, warning lights flashing above his head.]

To think that his wound was caused by his pride. [He says, and the frown is clear on his features.]

[If you keep moving, my sword will pierce your skull instead, says Sephiroth, voice echoing in the metallic hollowness of one of Shinra’s many training rooms. He stands with his inordinately long katana in hand, holding it as if he were about to throw a harpoon, rather than a sword, a position poised to send it sailing through the air. His target? A man several yards away, arms crossed and unaffected. A dark-colored fruit, shaped rather like an apple or pear, sits balanced on his head.

The great war hero himself, miss a target? Then I’ll be living proof that even you can make a mistake now and again, he says, lips twitching into a faint grin that doesn’t quite reach keen eyes.

Wrong, another says, a dark-haired man with strong features, especially with skepticism etched into them. You won’t be living proof, at any rate. Throw it, Sephiroth, you’re making us nervous.

I’m hardly ner-, the target adds with incredulity, but suddenly that long katana is sailing through the air, thrown so quickly that it’s only a silver blur as it races towards the dumbapple.

The sound of fruit being sliced clean in two sounds out, a buzz of conversation moments later. A clean hit.

The current Sephiroth watches from a distance, face impassive and nothing to say. Moments like these were irrelevant now, as extinct as they are.]

[Even those who live glorified lifestyles are not immune from the dull or mundane. The latter chases everyone in the form of idle moments, slipping in-between the cracks of the work day, the time in-between missions, obligation, and action. And the Shinra building, built on the foundations of relentless business, has many of them to share.

For instance, it’s easiest to take the elevator up to a higher floor, but inconvenience has overtaken every aspect of the day. The elevators are out of service right now, sir. The maintenance staff should be done with the work if— uh, if you’re willing to wait about an hour or so.

That wouldn’t do, he had told him, and so now the memory materializes from those old shadows to the here and now: a great steel staircase that rises up and up, floor by floor, passing by oversized numbers which taunt those with lacking willpower.

...5, 6, 7... 11, 12, 13...

His pace is brisk, unhesitatingly so, like a machine is the one ascending more so than a man. They're still a ways off, and whoever is visiting this memory had better keep up, else the surroundings begin to fog and haze for those about to get left behind.

Either way, he isn’t slowing down.

And neither is the "real" Sephiroth, who walks at the same place from a floor below, speaking to his companion-]

I remember how ridiculous I thought this was. [...] You need to keep up.

Edited 2020-04-15 01:45 (UTC)

[An open console sits in a room currently empty of people. Its screen flashes with flickering notifications demanding attention — unread messages, emails, and the like. A keyboard encourages easy access to these same emails, the first two in the long list marked as unread.

The first appears to be a forwarded message to Sephiroth specifically, the second a company-wide news announcement to all employees.

Which do you care to read?]

...Take one of those with a grain of salt.

[Suddenly, the room isn't empty as initially thought. Sephiroth approaches, stepping further into a memory which he deems relatively harmless. He won't put a pause on anyone's curiosity this time.]

( A ) [Training again. The days blur together when the schedules are all the same, only differentiated by the parameters set in the VR room’s programming — and even that becomes a predictable rotation after a time, since the result must be precisely measured in order to satiate a certain man’s obsession with data collection.

Today’s target consists of a hulking behemoth, angry and thrashing, colliding into the illusory walls with a shimmer after it careens towards Sephiroth. He dodges with ease, his expression placid. In the next moment he’s leapt onto the creature’s back, digging his sword straight into its spine. It lets out a faux cry of pain, rearing up, and Sephiroth dislodges his weapon as he kicks off its frame, landing without fanfare.

The monster falls, grows still. Then it dissipates in an array of light and a floating HUD forms where it once lay, plastered with the details of the too-short training session and a bright, blinking timestamp to indicate a his time. One full second slower than his record.]

Restart. [He says, a tone too serious for someone who looks barely into his teens. The room complies, jittering to restart the battle, and the behemoth appears a second time, as angry as the first.]

( B ) [Later, the circulating whispers eventually reach his ears, as they always do. They’re always the same, adulation mixed with disbelief, a sort of reverence that someone so young should not have to endure nor expect. A cadet much older than him will say, Have you seen him fight? It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s crazy. It’s scary. Or another will remark, The war will be over before we know it at this rate. A kid that strong, he’s basically inhuman, right?

He learns to push it from his mind, block it from his ears. The last time he lingered a moment too long, stopping to gaze at a group who thought their whispers were much quieter than they were, he earned the chiding of a man he hated, dark-haired and always donning the same lab coat, as if it were attached to his body.

And here I thought you weren’t foolish enough to care about the opinions of the dull and mediocre. The chaff of Shinra’s army, he says in his ever-uncaring way.

I don’t, Sephiroth replies, so hard-edged that it leaves no room for doubt. The man’s chuckle is grating, telling him that he doesn’t want to see his numbers suffer as a result, but Sephiroth turns to leave before he cares if he’s finished.

Again, the Sephiroth of now stands watching and silent. He watches his younger self disappear down the corridor, wondering why he remembers this short exchange so well.]

Edited 2020-04-15 02:48 (UTC)

[Riku isn't sure who the mirror belongs to when he steps through, but its appearance, with its dark color and sharp lines, had been enough to peak his curiosity. Even after everything he's been through, his curiosity is a part of his nature he's never been able to tamper with. Meddling is practically a part of the job description for a Keyblade Master.

He's not expecting to have an up close view of some kind of training match. The sight of the behemoth has him dropping into a defensive stance before he reminds himself that nothing around him can hurt him. It's only a dream. Not that he needed to worry. A silver haired boy even younger than Riku took care of the creature in a quick and efficient manner that Riku can only envy. There is a trace of familiarity in the boy's face, but not one that he can place right away.

When the boy calls for a restart, unimpressed by his inability to beat his highest score by so small a margin, Riku can only smile. It's a drive he understands, wanting to be better than you were before. So he stays for awhile, curious about this familiar boy he can't place. He watches him train and eventually follows him down the corridor past whispers and gossip. There are uniforms he doesn't recognize, but he hears about a war and assumes they all must be soldiers of some kind.

Still, the remarks raise his hackles just a bit, and a part of him wants to defend the boy. So what if he's really strong? That just means they all needed to work harder to catch up. If they couldn't compare it was only because they weren't working hard enough. Envy and jealously weren't good looks on anyone. He would know first hand.

He watches the boy interact with the man in the lab coat, wondering who he is, and what numbers he's talking about. But the exchange is too brief to learn anything else. Not for the first time he wishes he could talk to them. But as he turns to follow the boy out of the room he sees that someone else has joined him.

And the familiarity snaps into place as he looks at the adult Sephiroth. The hair and eyes an exact match with the boy's.]

So this is your mirror. I couldn't place you at first, being so young. [He nods in the direction the younger Sephiroth had exited in.] You were pretty strong back then. You must be even stronger now.

[He sounds almost excited by the idea.]

[Cloud was here because of a job. ...Sort of.

As he'd checked the job board for the day, the same as he checked it every day, some store keep he remembered from a few day's tasks ago (was that the 'help me unload these boxes' guy, or was it the 'I got robbed, go find the bastards and get my money back' guy?) had approached him, yelling that there was something going on at the Looking Glass House, that all of the mirrors were out of control.

...That...
In his head, the mirrors were his way home. Eventually. ...If he had one to go back to. So of course, he'd come running. Except to him, it wasn't a case of 'all' of the mirrors. ....Or even a third of them. His own was lit, of course, but perhaps two or three were flickering faintly- kind of like a light that needed changing.

...Out of control, his ass.
But it still needed checking out. He been moving between the lit mirrors indiscriminately, but there had been a certain one which had presented more interest on his part than others, and... well, yeah. This one, the sword on it...

He knows what to do- to touch the thing until the ripples bend and shift the pane of glass, to step through, to sit tight, and to not say or do anything. To watch whatever happens, and to move on.

Except he didn't exactly expect to be standing on Junon's cannon. Shinra's VR system, of course, is in a league of its own. To someone like him who had never experienced it, the sea breeze's smell (even the smell of the slum village below) is taken as the real thing. As is the very real chill that comes from being right next to the ocean, as well as the gusts of wind that threaten to blow him right off the thing if he doesn't pay attention to his footing.

To him, he's there- so of course the fighting also feels like the city's under attack. Upon closer inspection, there seems to be something in the sky, discharging something that- at first, looks like heavy automatic fire from some sort of gatling gun, but seems to stick to something else, almost making it look like a sun.

Something else falls from the source of the energy. But he can't pay attention to it. Not when the ball of energy suddenly bursts. It's magic. He hadn't realized it earlier, it was that far away. But it's some kind of magic- and one particular burst of it is heading right toward him from where it'd deflected. All he can do is pull his sword out in attempt of blocking it.

He's not the target, of course. It's only what's fired from the red speck in the sky and then deflected from the black one- but shit if he doesn't feel that some kind of injury's coming from this.

The magic goes right through him. And it... it explodes? as it hits the generator behind him, and... he's fine?

What?

Except there's more. Long lines of light which cuts the cannon itself into so many pieces, as if thousands of tonnes of steel is nothing.

Being on the thing, Cloud finds himself running toward the start of it, but of course, he's not fast enough. As parts of it he's standing on groan and fall, he's leaping between them as they crash through the air, eventually getting his bearings again on the back end of it, just in time to leap back from the explosion resulting from the mako containment unit on it- and...

They're down.
When did that happen? He didn't even notice.
He can barely see the fight now. It's happening too quickly- and all he can do is stare as Sephiroth.... well, batters, a man in red with an offensive that can only be described as overwhelming in its ferocity.

It's Sephiroth. That's for sure. But the other guy? It's ...some guy in red that... somehow, his head hurts to look at. But suddenly, there's a larger man- taller, even than Sephiroth, and the sword on his back...

...He can't have the same one. That's...

He stares- and he stares and he stares, even as, well, despite having the buster sword on his back, the largest of the three uses himself to keep them apart.

And-
Well, that's an end.

...Junon itself seems to collapse and fold in on itself around him. It's important. But it's also not- not compared to the sight of the three of them, to listening to their exchange.

They're all SOLDIER. He can tell by their eyes. Relative freedom with their uniforms, possibly First Class. ...Actually standing up to Sephiroth, even for a few minutes, probably First Class.

His gaze drifts toward this version of Sephiroth after the man in red leaves. When was this? ...Who were they?

And shit- his voice didn't come from the right place. Startled, he looks in the direction of which the (present!) Sephiroth stands.]

Who was that man?

[Some idle part of him misses the height of the cannon, as false as it was. The innate predilections of a harpy grow faintly stronger every day, and when the memory solidifies itself a training room instead, Sephiroth cannot completely banish his disappointment.

But Cloud is here to distract from that, even if he notices him only just now and after scrambling about in the fake environment in a harried way. Maybe he could have spoken up to the other man, but watching his reactions were all too intriguing to interrupt.

No doubt he’s surprised to see it. He expects the question, and though he tries to keep anything disapproving from his tone, he cannot quite succeed.]

Genesis Rhapsodos. SOLDIER First Class. [A friend, at the time. He watches as the doors slide shut, the man in red no longer a part of this old memory any longer.]

Or rather, he was once. No longer. He abandoned Shinra soon after this happened.

[In the memory, Sephiroth and Angeal are the only two that remain. He remembers the lecture he would receive soon after.]

Hm.

[Familiar. What's elicited is a pretty strange feeling, one that brings to mind Zack, but more prevailingly, some middle-aged guy in a lab coat. And a good deal of shame attached to it. ...Wait. That's right.

He remembers now- he's seen that man before. Zack fought him, right? While he went after a scientist. ...Hollander? Yeah. And the scientist got in a lucky elbow and knocked him flat out.

...Yeah. That's... pretty embarrassing. Getting laid out by a guy from the science department. Wonderful.

An exhale follows, and he takes the last few steps toward Sephiroth, arms folded tightly around himself. To Cloud, it feels so long ago. But it probably wasn't that long, for Sephiroth. This training session, too. Couldn't have been long at all. ]

Right. I remember Zack was on the mission to-

[Well.]

That big guy with the sword- [His sword.] went AWOL some time later, as well. ...Right?

Yes.

[He holds in an exhale as he turns to look at Cloud, focusing on him rather than the flickering memory that plays out in the background. It’s strange, to have the other here — this memory is personal, and Sephiroth does not want these pieces of himself on display for Cloud to see, but he can twist the information into something relevant, wrung free of personal attachment.

At least, he can attempt. Sephiroth’s expression has melded itself back into its default, difficult to read state.]

He, too, thought there was no recourse but to leave Shinra. And though desertion isn’t a crime that the company takes lightly—

[He glances beyond Cloud’s shoulder. There, Angeal begins one of his famous lectures directed towards the memory of him. How strange to see it again, how uncomfortable it makes him feel.]

—it was Shinra’s own secrets that set them down that path. The science department keeps many.

[The irony is that Sephiroth has no clue just how true that is.

For now, a gloved hand motions to the dark-haired man.]

His name is Angeal Hewley. He became a mentor for many in SOLDIER, but for Zack especially. He... [He drops his hand.] In the end, Angeal and Genesis both came into conflict with Shinra. And Angeal paid for it with his life.

[He wasn’t there, he wouldn’t take the job. But Zack had told him, relayed the details of Angeal’s transformation and how he had to be stopped of his own accord.]

So what you’ve seen today is a dynamic that is soon to fall apart.

[A part of him wants to ask him to leave, an innate reaction of the reticent when something personal has been put on display for all to see. He thinks that he should stand in front of his own mirror, now, instead of investigating the memories within — so that curious passerby’s like Riku do not wander in unattended.

But what’s the point, now? He has not seen anything out of the ordinary, nothing that he wouldn’t have admitted to. So many of his days were like this, and he thinks that this instance is only ingrained into memory as a lesson to himself — the words of others will always be present, always swirling around the extraordinary. There is no need to pay them heed. It is easier to keep that distance, let them wonder from afar.

He considers Riku’s enthusiasm for a moment, and how it skews his reply.]

I beat my old time, if that’s what you mean.

[Wryly, dismissive. A dull quip all the same.]

Every day was training. If there wasn’t visible improvement, that was a problem.

Edited 2020-04-15 21:44 (UTC)

[It's more an attempt than a success. Of course, not by any fault of his own. Sephiroth's own actions are impeccable. To look at him would give no hint that this exchange was anything important to him whatsoever. His expression is impervious- his tone as flat as if he were reporting on something which had nothing to do with him at all.

What tipped him off was the way Genesis left. The way this memory's Sephiroth allowed him to do so, the expression on his face as he allowed him to do so, and the way of which this other man, this Angeal, is currently going into some kind of lecture, something that sounds...

...well...
lengthy.

The fact this memory's version of him is standing there, taking it, tells him all he needs to know. But he's quiet about it. Not for Sephiroth's comfort- more for the fact he doesn't want return questions about friends.

...But even then, it's disarming, to think that there were people Sephiroth actually gave a damn about. And it makes him wonder- really wonder- about Nibelheim. This Angeal must have died before then, right? Because...]

...Right. Zack changed about then, too. He got put on leave, and came back more serious.

[...And not happy, either. Not even remotely close to it.
His gaze moves, again, from Sephiroth to Angeal.]

Started using that sword about then, too.

[A quiet exhale.

... Angeal's still talking? He blinks, as what was a long, convoluted, very meaningful story about the virtues of honour, discipline, and respect which leads to so many more questions suddenly fizzles out into a single statement. 'And that's why you don't give him what he wants.'

His eyebrows furrow, and he glances to (the viewing) Sephiroth, just as Angeal claps a hand over the memory's shoulder pauldron and walks off with a deep, satisfied laugh.]

I guess you had to deal with that a lot, huh. ...Not the stories. I mean people jealous of you.

[Irhya has had to brave flights of stairs before, because apparently only the Garleans have heard of lifts. Of course she has. But she has never had to brave quite this many at once.

Not to say she doesn't tough it out for a while, but after about 30 or 40 sets, she can't help but complain, a little breathless. Her strength is in her ability to swing a sword at least as heavy as her, not in how many sets of stairs she can climb without needing a rest. Damn her insatiable curiosity; maybe if she wasn't wandering aimlessly into the mirrors for fun...]

You don't think it ridiculous now?

[Even Syrcus Tower didn't seem this bad.]

[When they’re quick enough, their steps unfaltering, they can catch a glimpse of his memory-self continually making his way up the stairs, expression placid, silver hair swaying with each step. The differences between him and the present Sephiroth are clear — he has the subtle changes of a harpy woven into his body. Black feathers interspersed in long hair, the pointed tips of ears.

The propensity to speak with his stair-climbing companion, who might have been oblivious to what she was getting into when she first wandered into his mirror.]

I have the advantage of hindsight this time.

[Meaning that it loses its edge of absurdity when it’s already happened, despite re-living it through surreal memory.]

Tired already?

[He says, forty-ish floors up.]

I've climbed a whole damn tower before, but we at least stopped to kill stuff on the way up...

[But is that supposed to be more or less exhausting than the alternative? Apparently less, according to her.]

"Already," he says. At least I don't have my blade on me, or I'd be really screwed.

[A low growl, and she sucks in a breath to try and keep moving, slower than him though she is. Speed was never her strong point.]

[That blade… he wonders what happened to it. If Zack was dead, then where did it end up? Had it made the rounds through Shinra, falling into another SOLDIER’s hands? Or lost to the environment, edges dull with rust, neglected and forgotten?]

...That sword was emblematic both of what was lost, and what he should hold onto. As far as I could gather, at least. I didn’t try to pry too deeply into the sentiment.

[He watches the memory play out. The voices are warbling and indistinct until the very end. Sephiroth would admit to ineptly remembering pieces of it, knowing that his old friend’s famous lectures always ran long, confusing, and convoluted. It often made more sense to wait them out, pay attention only to the point made at the end. And that’s why you don’t give him what he wants. Maybe he shouldn’t have. Or maybe it wouldn't have changed anything at all.

Sephiroth forces himself to look at Cloud a second time.]

I can’t do anything about what others think of me. [Both the adulation or jealousy.] You learn to separate yourself from it. Realize how irrelevant it is, in the end.

Edited 2020-04-16 07:17 (UTC)

Stopping to kill things on the way would be problematic here.

[It's said dryly, matter-of-factly. The employees, he's certain, would not particularly appreciate it, as unfortunate personnel would be the only other warm bodies he'd come across on this endless stairwell.

Having little better to do, and with a tendency to nip complaints in the bud if necessary, Sephiroth deigns to pick at this stranger's logic.]

Didn't you have your sword when you were climbing your tower and "killing stuff" along the way?

At the time, I wasn't using a sword at all. Though I suppose you could say a healer isn't particularly suited to running up stairs, either.

[She manages to maintain a steady distance behind, slower than him for sure, but evidently much better suited to endurance than she is to speed. Lag though she does, she never quite stops outright.]

I am a dark knight now, however. And knights, especially those in full armor, are not typically known for their lightning speed or easy maneuverability.

Hm.

[If only he knew about the sword. Cloud's... not exactly been affectionate in regard to the thing. Or how he used it back then. His own version of it, some years later, was covered in nicks and scrapes from rough treatment. In his mind it served him well, what seemed like a long time ago, But it wasn't exactly worth much of a damn. Not really. It was simply constructed. Not exactly well designed. Its counterbalance, in particular, was a bitch.

... But even then, he'd kept it. Even when it wasn't worth using compared to other pieces, something in him wanted to keep hold of it, even if who he thought was its original owner had been buried in his mind. It still felt important.

But even then, he's certain he's never heard the scant details Sephiroth can provide about it before.]

...Right. I get what you mean.

[He does. He truly does. He'd spent so long with the same mindset- of not giving a damn- or seeming that he didn't care about what people thought of him. But...]

Looks like they cared about you, though.

[Also looked like they, as people, weren't irrelevant either.]

[ In the brief span of time where the three men converse, Stiles takes it upon himself to waltz straight up to the memory of Sephiroth. There, he – uh, he’s arranging himself to lay on the ground beside Sephiroth’s boots, what are you doing, Stiles, and now he’s wriggling about to line his feet up with the end of the katana hilt.

Ah. Stiles is trying to measure the length of the Masamune. With his body.

When the katana is hurled like a javelin, he startles at the blur of rapid movement. Tilting his head back (yes, he’s still on the ground), he stares wide-eyed at the sword embedded in the wall and the neatly sliced fruit on either side of the auburn-haired man. Stiles whistles in appreciation. And then notices that he’s not alone. ]

Oh my god, warn a guy, would you!? [ he demands, as if he wasn’t the one who snuck into someone else’s memories without invitation. ]

[He is reminded, again, of Zack. Sharp, bright eyes sweep over Cloud, as if trying to form a reply to a statement hard to acknowledge, harder still to feign ignorance to. You guys were pretty tight, the man had said at the time. His reply to Cloud now is the same.]

I wonder.

[He knows it’ll not suffice. He’s not been asked a clear question, but he can feel it hanging over his head, made solid through the presence of this memory. It would be easier to remain indifferent, cold. But Cloud is his bonded and he knows that a lie would be seen through even the most unwavering armor.]

They were my friends. Now one is dead, and the other is a traitor.

[And Zack— The words are halted in his throat with severe efficiency.]

Maybe the foundations were never that strong to begin with.

[The mirror catches his eye for its precise, black-cut frame, no hint of imperfection as compared to the rest. Itachi sees little else in it aside from those sharp and unmarred angles. There's no shock in that, but hanging there on the other side, he is possessed by a curiosity that becomes difficult to suppress. What might lie on the other side of this cool-faced mirror? After only a moment of thought, he steps through.

A controlled battle unfolds before him.

This first scene is cold and alien, technology beyond the scope of anything Itachi has yet encountered. Even beyond that, he understands the purpose of a training simulation through context alone. A similar situation might be possible to recreate using chakra alone, although live opponents are a better substitute for their unpredictability. The beast is strangest to him. Purpled, monstrous, seeming as real as flesh as it lashes around the contained area, taken with rage. The young fighter makes fast work of the animal, reminding Itachi of an almost parallel scene from his own childhood when he had struck down a wild boar with his brother's (faulty, in the end) help.

The timing, the deft skill—all of this is certainly impressive. A grueling devotion to combat, and a perfection Itachi himself had chased at a similar age.

Then another scene follows, this one occupied by other strangers, though it's here Itachi recognizes the owner of this particular mirror. It should have occurred to him earlier, yet their encounter on the city streets is not one he's revisited; an unfortunate end to a unsettling evening. Never before has he felt so compelled to approach someone with admiring and reverent attention, both being far out of his own character. Though it was not out of his own will, Sephiroth isn't necessarily aware of that.

He watches Sephiroth's younger counterpart ward off the attention of the man in the coat with a wondering, critical interest. How many times had he himself suffered under the same attention? Revered by his own clan, placed on a pedestal at a distance... power is isolating. He'd had that realization as a child. It hadn't mattered in the face of his goals, but forced to witness it through the perspective of someone else is an unusual experience.

That dark gaze flickers over to the Mirrorbound Sephiroth, fully aware now of his presence. It's a quick and subtle glance from the corner of his eyes.]

Sephiroth. [An acknowledgement.] I see this mirror belongs to you. [He's struck by an urge to find his own, an almost desperate adrenaline spiking, though his face remains coolly composed.] That we've been given the ability to pass through them... I wonder if there is some purpose for it.

[ He looks up at Sephiroth incredulously. ]

Were you really just showing off?

[Ah, it is yet again This Small Child. Sephiroth doesn't know what might have compelled Will Henry to wander into his mirror — but he cannot say, either, that he has much of a grasp on his personality.

Still, curiosity grips everyone, eventually. Especially children. He isn’t surprised.]

It’s a game they wanted to play.

[Genesis usually being the one to propose it; the man had always found a way to turn everything into a challenge between them. They hardly ever said no.]

[How strange to see another here, in this memory from a childhood long swept out from beneath him. In the tall, sleek halls of a Shinra building corridor — like a monster about to swallow them whole — he recognizes the man. He thinks that he stands out too much in a place like this, as if there were some embedded essence in all of those not from Gaia declaring them as foreign.

Or maybe that was the result of HQ’s design; authoritative, sleek, modern, but always pressing loyalty and conformity unto those who would tread inside its belly. At least, to those on the lowest rung of the corporate ladder.

Instinctively, Sephiroth straightens. It is easier to theorize about why the mirrors have decided to toss them all into old memory than to address the images themselves.]

If there’s a practical purpose, it’s obfuscated by inconsistency. The memories range from poignant [though he would never call one of his own such] to mundane.

[A pause.]

I would consider this one mundane if you were curious. [Curious enough to wander into his mirror, at any rate.]

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( open ) i will never be

old friends.

dumbapples.

the shinra building. (stairs for days edition)

the silver elite fanclub.

training.

a/b;

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a/b

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