Disclaimer: Square Enix owns FFVII. Fanmade.

Masamune cuts in slowly, slowly
And I have time to feel apologetic to her
She has not killed anything so bloated, so putrid
Since the overgrown sea worm years ago in Wutai.
Her tang will need new grips.

And it was unnecessary, really.
Shinra was dead as soon as I entered the room, though he did not know it.
Heart attack.
He had grown used to the attacks.
A twinge here or there and he gets a new one
Fresh from the morgue or
From slum beggars no one missed
The mechanized one, he said, spoiled the feeling.
I could have left him there,
To fart and vomit and rail against the slowness of his attendants,
Never knowing that they were all dead
That his building was dead.

I could have let his heartless greed kill him.
For he was greed personified.
Cowardice personified.
His very body made of stolen snivels and screams and sobs
A patchwork of all the creatures I hate.

He was killed already by his own fear
Human, truly.
But if I left him he would not know that it was me killing him.
He should know that I am killing him.

The boy he watched grow
Grinning greasily at what he thought I would do for his company
His was the money, the mind behind the madness.
Or the madness behind the mind.

I can feel the blade sink down.
Fat.
Fat.
An acre of fat.
Down at last through the squirming viscera
And out through the soft spine, weak as fish bone.
He spews white spittle, as if he were spitting up his own skeleton.

I work slowly
Out again and finally hitting the solid expanse of the desk.
And into the dark empty expanse beneath
Where underpaid secretaries have knelt and prayed for their jobs
With their mouths around him.
Down again into the floor so that he lies
Pinned like a bulbous butterfly.

He is still alive.
He looks as if he is about to rupture from within.
Eyes bulging red.
Face purpling into darkness
Rage
Shock
Disbelief
The contempt he felt for his pet monster
Turned to terror

The terror is an unexpected joy.
I cannot feel fear myself.
He made sure of that.
But I love the sight of it
Real in those bleeding eyes.
Mere revenge, this.
Not entirely worthy of a god.

He looks like a pallid fish born to swim the dark depths,
Suffocating in sudden air.
He looks down.
Sees the truth of the righteous sword in him.

I wait for him to burst, but it takes too long
And I get a pen from the desk
His favorite. Round embossed silver.
A pen that has killed more than ten thousand Masamunes
I stab downward into the red fish face
Through cheek
And cheek
And mouth
And nose
Pressing down inquisitively through his screams
Looking for the air bladder within
That will rupture
And make the enormous balloon of him deflate.

I find none.
Disappointing.
No secret organ that let him float so high
While his fellow cowards groveled
In poverty and war and shame.

There is red.

Again through cheek and cheek and mouth and nose and eyes and heavy skull
That breaks the pen and spoils the pure red with dark ink.

It occurs to me that I could have let the puppet and his friends kill him.
But they would want to do something silly
Question
Negotiate
And they should know that I have killed here.

They should know that.
Masamune does not like to be left behind.
But I reassure her.
I will clean her with clean blood
On an altar of water and light.
Someday.
Soon.