Author's Note: Good morning (or afternoon). Just a few things I should get out of the way before you start. This story takes place in America. I would have it take place in Japan or the fantasy world of Midgar, but I feel like I have more knowledge on America and its culture without offending people. While on the topic, some of Cloud's humor can be offensive. So, if you are easily offended I would suggest not reading. Understand that he is a sarcastic, little shit in this story and he will have a unique taste in humor. I am not studying journalism, nor have I ever studied journalism. So, I apologize for incorrect information concerning the world of journalism. As far as the SephCloud relationship goes, it will take its time like all great things. Also, this is my first posted fan-fiction, so feel free to provide constructive criticism. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy! - J
Warning: Offensive, dark, and overall bad humor with a tinge of terrible metaphors and references.
Untitled
Chapter 1: Introduction
If my life were a movie, I would imagine it starting out with a 80s rock anthem as you see me swerving dangerously on the road, out of my mind, and on my way to my own personal hell. If my life were a movie, it would be placed in the categories of drama, horror, and comedy. Comedy because my life, in and of itself, is one big fucking joke. If my life became a movie, it would barely make any revenue at the theaters as people from all over the world would roll their eyes in disgust as they walked to the latest Spielberg screening next door.
If my life had any meaning at all, it would be made into a movie.
My life is not being made into a movie. Therefore, in an ontological argument, my life is meaningless.
You might say movie stardom has nothing to do with my life's value. I can agree with that. See, the thing is, my dream isn't to become a household icon or a face on the largest billboard in Hollywood. My dream isn't to see the latest fad of an actor pretend to have my name. My dream, however, is to be important. Whether my importance is important is a philosophical question that summons the idea of the value of importance. It plagues my thoughts constantly. You might ask: What the hell is this guy on about? I would like to answer that question. In fact, I'm sure my answer could be a great one. I feel like my answer would have a twist to it though; not too simple, easy enough to understand on the surface, but if you look closer you fall into more questions. Yes, that would make a great answer. It reminds me of my life.
Speaking of my life, while we're on the subject, it's a brittle one. I imagine it will be short, almost as short as a one of those early, crackling black and white films. The silent ones that only lasted a few minutes before the projector would eventually give way due to the lack of technical advances. That is my life. Something fragile that is destined to fail; something too big and ambitious being controlled by a mind too small and frightened. They say: Man's greatest enemy is himself. You ask: who are they? Well, obviously they're men; but how would they know? Has every man picked apart his thoughts as viciously as I have? Has every man succumbed to the tyranny within their skull as I have? Has every man witnessed the world through my eyes?
Are you asking yourself if I've lost my mind yet? Not yet.
Like everyone else, my mind affects my life. It can expand it or collapse it until nothing but pseudo-psychological babbles of insane theories of importance come to a bitter fruition. Like everyone else, I think I can bring something to this world, whether it's good or bad—though likely to be the latter. Like everyone else, I'm one against myself. Like everyone else, I struggle to find a place in this shit-speckle of a world, a place that brings meaning to my seemingly short existence. And in this string of useless ramblings of man vs. mind, I've come to the conclusion that I am just like everyone else.
I am you.
I am not important.
-Cloud Strife
Professor Davis had a long, pensive pinch to his brow as he read the piece with intense concentration. The old devil sat across from him, grumbling and huffing every few seconds at what Cloud imagined were errors. A beaten mahogany desk, cluttered with exams and student papers, separated the two: teacher and student, devil and demon.
Cloud knew he was complete horse shit at writing. It didn't matter the type. Fiction, non-fiction, biographical, auto-biographical… Maybe it was because he always waited until the night before—sometimes even the mornings—to start. Maybe it was because he received sick satisfaction at watching his Professor's face blossom with red anger once he realizes that Cloud only wrote one out of six pages—and sometimes not even on the required topic. Watching Professor Davis' cheeks flush scarlet, Cloud determined with twisted amusement that it was definitely the latter.
"Cloud." His voice matched his appearance: Ancient, frail, and sickly soft.
If there was one thing in the world that Cloud pitied more than the starving ethnics of Africa, it was old people. Bones as delicate as unsullied, fluttering snowflakes—
—Wait, that image is too serene, too beautiful. Cloud isn't taking this writing class just to give a bullshit image of a person who is miles past the age of serenity and delicacy. Let's try that again. Their bones are as brittle as the leftover scabs of dry, burnt bacon; their skin compared to the thin film on the surface of coagulated, spoiled milk, wrinkled from time. And their feeble, weary minds, trapped in their own golden age where ignorance reigned, continued to mock the newer generation with condemnation. Perhaps it wasn't pity after all. Perhaps it was detestation.
"The assignment was to write about the portrayal of women in 19th century literature. This is not only off topic, but inappropriate for this class." Another lecture wanted to crawl out of the poor man's loose, sagging throat. Cloud could see it in his faded eyes; he could see how much he craved for another tongue-wagging just to express his superiority. He'll say nothing about the grammar, nothing about the creativity, nothing about the thoughts that were given; he will say nothing that interested Cloud. Nothing important. So, before another dainty breath was wasted, Cloud interrupted.
"Professor Davis, if I may," The young man gestured to the pile of papers laying neatly in a stack at the end of the desk. Ignoring the protests, Cloud seized the papers and sifted through each one. "Caroline says, 'in her opinion'—which, let's be honest, is probably Wikipedia's opinion—'the portrayal of women in 19th century literature'—gotta' love how she repeated the question in her answer—'is mostly negative due to the inequality among genders at that time'." Cloud blew a low whistle as he flipped to the next one. "I'm glad that one lasted six entire pages."
"Cloud, please do not read your classmates' work—"
"No, but look what Jeramiah said, 'Women were depicted poorly in 19th century literature as it reflected the unequal roles of both genders in that period'. Wow. What a relief he explained it in six pages because who knew, right? Sarah is, and I quote, 'certain' that 'women were treated unfairly'. How certain, you ask? About six pages exactly certain. Tyler—"
"Your point is made, Cloud, but this was a required assignment, one you failed to complete and turn in. In the real world, you don't get to choose—"
"In the real world, we're not going to be forced to write about something that we've learned in junior high." Cloud interrupted. "So before you try desperately to educate me on 'the real world', let me tell you something, Mr. Davis: the only 'world' you're preparing us for is a generic, one-dimensional cesspool populated by a bunch of brainwashed, robotic idiots whose personalities have all but deteriorated due to your pathetic excuse of teaching skills. But that's okay, because at least we know how to write six fucking pages on women's suffrage in 19th century literature."
It wasn't like Cloud actually cared about what he was saying. To be honest, he was apathetic to the subject. He has heard a few students make these type of speeches in rallies before, so he merely adopted their idea, stamped a dramatic flair to it, and presented it angrily to his inept professor. And it worked.
He was withdrawn from the class the next day.
This subject began to quake and stumble on his words like a diddling buffoon that accidentally tripped his way into a circus. However, the circus had an audience of one, and the only skill being tested was intelligence. Unfortunately for the stammering young man who looked five seconds away from an ambulance emergency, he lacked that skill.
"While I appreciate your interest in this course, I will have to decline your application for attendance." Sephiroth spoke. The small man's mouth gaped open and close in a mindless fit for words, but none came. "I do not want to give you false hope by sending you home without an answer. Please understand that you're just not what I am looking for as an investigative journalist for not only my class, but also my company. I hope your future is bright, but unfortunately it isn't with me."
There was no emotion to his tone. If Sephiroth stood by one thing, it was giving people honesty and the respect they deserve. He didn't believe in sugar-coating, whether it had to do with news, information, or emotions in general. There was no need for exaggeration of expression since he felt that it was more offensive rather than courteous.
"Um…thank you for your time, sir."
They always thanked him. Sephiroth could charge an entire massacre on the city, and they would still probably thank him.
The young man had trouble keeping his eyes in contact—well, he had trouble with pretty much everything, including talking—throughout the interview, so it was no surprise when he stumbled out of the room with his head down and eyes downcast. Sephiroth found it hard to trust anyone who couldn't at least look a person in the eye while they spoke. He knew he wasn't the loveliest man to have a sit-down with and chat about the weather, but at least have decent manners of professionalism.
One word to describe Sephiroth Crescent, you ask? Oh, that's simple. Professional. He wouldn't be where he is today if it wasn't for his work ethic, willpower, determination, and brute sense of proficiency. For his age, his accomplishments may seem impossible—damn near unattainable—but after years of struggling, learning, and wearing the mask of success, he became it. He became one of the world's most popular and respected journalists who brought the importance of investigative journalism to a bright culmination.
And then you will ask: What is investigative journalism? Because any curious, intelligent, well-grounded, rational person would ask instead of using Wikipedia. Investigative journalism, while it can be used for many forms of news, is the good side of media. It is the honest side of media. It is what you call the imaginary form of media, because unlike mainstream press, investigative journalism relies heavily on sources, proof, and unbiased evidence. Because it depends strongly on fair, impartial treatment to everyone, so nearly anyone can be a target.
Unlike CNN journalists where their main targets for destruction are right-wing nut-jobs and they praise and worship liberals' every action. Unlike FOX News journalists where they pin the tail on the leftist donkeys and celebrate 'conservative' agendas and figureheads. Both types of media brainwashing their audiences, causing them to emit hate towards one another, and they thrive on it. They feed off the divide they've created because more people will listen to their garbage-spewing "news". Sephiroth was sickened by the bias, revolted by the intolerable disgrace the media had become and how the press became a dancing monkey for large corporations to control. Because of mainstream journalism overtake and its toxic regime, Sephiroth created something better.
But the word 'better' isn't good enough to what he did. He made history. He washed out the bias, the corporations, the liberals, the conservatives, the republicans, and everything that made the media a disgrace. Sephiroth brought back the integrity of journalism. He revived the honesty behind the word, instead of relying on brainwashing propaganda speech that filtered the truth through lies and deceit. He brought back the truth. He resuscitated the dying dream of investigative journalism and turned it into one of the world's largest media factors. And the greatest part wasn't the fact that he did all of this before he turned thirty, the greatest part wasn't because he was now one of the richest editors of the world; no, the greatest part was that media was beginning to fall back more on evidence and truth rather than prejudice and lies. And that was because of him.
So if he changed history, you might be wondering why on earth he was cramped inside a small, dim office grading papers and interviewing students in the middle of Montana. The answer can be split into multiple ones. First, he needed a break. The life of a journalist isn't always research, write, and then reward. It can be overbearing, stressful, and mind-numbingly painful, especially for the CEO of the media company, M.C.R. (Media Center of Reporting). So, he appointed his assistant to temporarily run things as he takes his professional vacation. And that leads to reason number two. Second, he needed fresh minds and what better way to find them personally than by teaching and getting to know them? His company is a wide-range of journalists that have been personally hand-picked by Sephiroth himself. And third, why did he choose University of Montana-School of Journalism of all places? Simple, he graduated from there eleven years ago, and what better place to recruit from than his "birthplace".
Sephiroth almost scoffed at the thought. He couldn't personally pick his students, so he was stuck with dull, unintelligent robots that drooled every time he opened his mouth. Not only that, most of the ones that did have potential were let down by their physical appearance. Now, Sephiroth was not a shallow man. In fact, when it comes to romantic relationships, he wouldn't say he actually had a preference at all. But when in regards to the inner-workings of journalism, having an unattractive look did not help.
It was harsh, but like said earlier, Sephiroth is an advocate of the truth. And if that makes him the world's biggest douchebag, then so be it.
Right now, he was taking interviews from students that are desperate to attend his classes in the middle of the first semester. Since he was a celebrity among them, it was understandable that they would be nervous. But what Sephiroth didn't understand was the lack of ambition, the drive, and the energy that he needed for his company. Hardly any of them have stood out or made an impact on him to the point where he wanted that person in his class. He didn't need another brainless fan that only showed up to stare at him. He only had a select few students in his course that continued to improve their potential. But a select few in an entire class of supposed striving journalists was laughable and embarrassing.
There was a knock on the door.
Sharon Beatrice, one of the college's academic advisors, stepped through. Her blond hair tied neatly into a clean bun as her glasses rested on her thin nose and rounded ears. She was a tall woman with broad shoulders and held an authoritative aura around her. She was strict, to the point, and didn't take any fuss from her students. Sephiroth admired that about her.
"Good morning, Mrs. Beatrice." He greeted, gesturing her to take a seat.
"Good morning, Professor." And with her firmly planted into the chair, she sighed. Her expression was drained and her eyes were pleading. She wanted something.
"What is it?"
Holding out a manila folder, she explained. "I have this student that needs to take another credit and I would like for you to at least consider him."
Sephiroth rose a brow. "Does this student have a particular interest in Investigative Journalism?"
"No, he doesn't." Realizing her vague statement wasn't enough, she said, "But he is willing to set up an appointment with you."
Sephiroth wanted to laugh, but he kept his expression in check as he spoke sarcastically, "Well, I'm glad he's clearing his schedule."
"That's not what I meant. I'm sorry. It's just…" Her face became defeated as she spoke. "The reason I am coming to you is because other professors don't appreciate his—er—behavior."
"And what kind of behavior is that?"
"He can be opinionated." She paused. "In a rude way."
So she wants Sephiroth to scare the living daylights out of an unruly teen with a loud, offensive mouth. That didn't sound appealing at all. His job wasn't to babysit whining rebels and discipline their misguided ways. He was there to teach and to recruit, not tend to unwanted students. If other professors didn't want him, what made her think Sephiroth did?
"I am not a childcare agency. If other professors are reluctant to take him, then he has to live with the consequences of being unpleasant."
She thrusted the folder into his line of sight. "Just read over his file. He can be very bright…when he wants to be."
Sephiroth took the weighted file from her dainty fingers and opened it. Information sprawled out in neat ink about the boy in question: Cloud Strife. He made decent grades, excelling more in creative writing than factual. That was a minus in Sephiroth's eyes. There was no picture, but there was a list of comments—mostly complaints—about his conduct. His latest one was from a professor he actually knew.
"Professor Davis kicked him out?" From what he knew about Davis, he was a sweet and gentle old man.
She cringed. "It was a misunderstanding."
"He apparently did the wrong assignment on purpose and proceeded to insult him." Sephiroth said deadpanned. Raising a delicate, judging brow at her over the papers.
"Like I said: opinionated."
"In a rude way." Sephiroth finished with an unamused smile.
With a defeated sigh and a long look of desperation, she said, "Sephiroth, I know this is asking a lot. But just give him a chance. One interview and if you still decide to reject him, then that's okay. All I'm asking for is a chance. Please."
To see this woman, who usually holds the world beneath her as she walks, actually plead for this stranger's education, raised his respect for her tenfold. But respect did not equal acceptance.
"You tell me he has no interest in my course, that he's insulting to his elders, and that he has no respect for education; and you want me to make time for him?" He might have been harsh, but he was done wasting his time with mindless students. Not to mention mindless, obnoxious ones.
With a deep breath and sturdy gaze, she said, "Yes." She kept her hazel eyes direct. "While he may be an unhinged young man at times, he can also be annoyingly clever. Just read through some of his works, and you will see that. I believe he has the potential to impress you. You just have to give him that opportunity."
Sephiroth sighed and turned his attention back to the file. He flipped through the pages, skimming over his written papers before stopping on one that almost bled from pen corrections and notes. The notes were from Professor Davis and basically criticized his belligerence to the assignment. He read over the paper quickly.
It was just mad ramblings of the value of importance.
"How philosophical." He said dryly, flipping the folder closed and gave Sharon a hard stare before saying, "I'm leaving my office at five. If you can send him earlier than that, then I'll speak with him."
Relief flooded her expression as a giant grin lifted her face. "Yes, I will. He'll be here."
"This doesn't mean he's in my class." Sephiroth reminded her. "I won't make that decision until after we've had a conversation."
"Of course." But she smiled anyways and rose from her seat. "Thank you, Professor."
He didn't say anything as she left. He reviewed the files once more before closing them with a deepening frown.
Sephiroth believed in the power of aspiration. He believed that leading an ambitious life and working hard to fulfill hopeful dreams could make a person stronger. It could develop a person into not some ordinary human, but someone extraordinary and essential to the world as a whole. So, because of these bold beliefs and after raking his attention over Strife's file, he had a horrid, sinking feeling that they were not going to get along.
And he sighed.
As a kid, growing up in a drunken, unstable household in the middle of bumfuck-nowhere-Arizona, Cloud was never asked of his aspirations or his dream college. In fact, adding to the list of the cliché, troubled childhoods that most stories need to have, his mother left before she even thought about asking. You see, the truth about the college subject when it comes to young adults is that they rarely want to be asked about it. So, when he was younger, Cloud liked to imagine that his father was just respecting his privacy and trying to decrease his stress levels by not asking.
However, time is a funny thing. It can change a person, morph someone into an entirely different being. That's what happened to Cloud. Time. Over this wild, little thing called time, he realized that his father wasn't respecting his feelings. He realized his father wasn't actually "cleaning" out his demons. He soon realized that the other kids at school never spoke about their parents' "daily cleansing" because they never experienced it. Yes, throughout this slow crawl of time, Cloud became what he is now: someone desperate to seek another life. People also label him as an asshole, but he would rather go with the former identification—it looks better on the résumé.
So he chose the most ambiguous, off-the-map college he could find that:
One: Would accept him and all his academic flaws.
Two: Was literally across the country.
And three: Focused on what he considered his dream job.
It was…University of Montana - School of Journalism.
Now this is where it gets complicated. When he applied, he thought he enjoyed the act of writing about current events because he always had a strong opinion on said current events. But Freddie Mercury enjoyed the act of unsafe homosexual sex and look where that got him. But unlike Freddie Mercury, Cloud won't die from something he loves, because after almost three years of journalism he has realized that he dislikes it immensely. To say he 'hates' journalism would be an exaggeration, but he would rather stick knives into his sockets and listen to cats fucking in the middle of a blizzard than be a journalist. But it was too late. Nearing the end of his junior year and buried in student debt, he might as well brave it out.
His counselor, T.B.M.—Tall, Blond, and Married—had suggested he take a journalism course as a replacement class for one of his English credits. Investigative Journalism. And given that it was the only class that still had open seats and whose professor was open to all types of people—including cynics—he had no choice. But due to the late timing—it was nearing mid-terms—he had a scheduled appointment with his new professor before experiencing class. Cloud hoped it was just to catch up with other students, but he had a nagging feeling it was going to be one of those "change your behavior or else" lectures.
And it better be life-changing because this guy's office was on the other side of the fucking campus. November in Montana compares to the center of an ice cube lodged up a frozen cow's ass, stored in a meat-locker, in the middle of the North Pole. Or maybe Cloud was still used to the dry heat of Arizona. Or maybe his balls were so close to the frostbite stage and was sending his brain in an over-exaggerating frenzy of metaphors.
Cloud followed the directions T.B.M. gave him to a lone, generic study hall, glazed over with white as small specks of snow drifted down. Cloud hugged his coat closer to him and reminded himself that maybe it was the time for a new one as wind broke through and sent a chill across his body. Before he reached the front entrance, someone beat him to it. Cloud forced himself to look away, shielding his eyes with the hood of his jacket so he couldn't gape.
The man was gigantic.
Now, in all fairness, Cloud wasn't a very big guy. He didn't have bulging, gym-trainer muscles or a tall, towering stature. He was average height, with lean muscles wrapped with skin that could almost rival the snow on the ground. Unlike the beast before him who could be America's next top swimwear model.
The man was leaving the building, but still held open the door for Cloud who in turn murmured a quiet "Thanks" before taking refuge in the refreshing heat. He felt his balls thaw out at the sudden warm impact.
"Dear Jesus." He cursed. Why did he have to pick Montana of all places?
There were a few students lurking outside of classroom doors, either waiting for their friends or just being a nuisance for people trying to walk down the halls. Cloud never understood the idea of standing in the middle—
He found the office that apparently belonged to—he squinted at the name embroidered on the door—Professor Sephiroth Crescent.
Cloud held back a snort. That couldn't be his actual name. Sure, he knew who he was. Cloud has heard that name plenty of times given the career path he chose, but like his thoughts about journalism, he didn't care.
He knocked twice before hearing a calm invitation from inside. Compared to the hallways, Professor Crescent's office seemed—and almost felt—homey. It was warm, in colors and in temperature, with bookcases lining the walls being used more for file storage than actual books. There was one window where minimal light peaked through half-drawn mahogany curtains, casting a soft, white glow on the figure behind the desk. The rest was like every other office Cloud had the pleasure of visiting. A large desk in the corner, two leather seats on opposite sides, a love sofa on the parallel wall for who knew for what purpose, and two dim lamps that attempted in producing a sophisticated aura—it failed.
The professor lounged casually in his seat, watching Cloud through calculating, unique green eyes that retracted a silver sheen in the white light from the curtains. Adding to that was a mane of long, flowing silver hair that just barely caressed the floor. And Cloud couldn't help but think that he looked…good.
And by that, Cloud meant he was well below the average age of most professors and well above the average appearance.
"Please, sit." Professor Crescent gestured to the guest chair, seemingly annoyed that Cloud was lolling about and getting distracted.
Cloud did as he asked, setting his rugged bag on the floor next to him and slipping the hood of his jacket off his head causing his blonde hair to look even more disheveled. Now that he was closer, he could see the defined edges of the man's jaw and the well-sculpted straight shape of his nose. While Cloud's features were of a more delicate sort, his seemed manlier, but still lean and not overly bulky. Basically, it wasn't what Cloud expected from a man who apparently flipped the entire core of journalism on its corrupt head. He expected wrinkles.
After what felt like an hour of him watching Cloud's every move—or lack thereof—he finally spoke. "It seems that I am faced with a problem here."
"Oh? And what's that?" Cloud took pride in the fact that he actually sounded genuinely curious.
"It's a week before mid-terms and you lack any grades for the class." He lifted a finger to his lips as if in contemplation. He continued to stare.
"I just transferred." Poor choice of words, but what else was he supposed to say. Sorry?
As expected, Professor Crescent gave him an incredulous look. "Yes, I know." He spoke as if he were talking to a rambling child, trying to console the useless blabbering with a participatory comment. "You see, my problem—Cloud, is it?" Cloud nodded. "My problem is that I'm not sure what you could do to make up for lost time. My students are almost done with their mid-term paper. However, to give you this assignment so late in the quarter, well, it seems like I'm asking for a miracle. And I don't believe in miracles."
Good, because Cloud wasn't Jesus. And he certainly won't be creating any miracles with his shit writing.
"Well, I have a 6-page paper on the portrayal of women in 19th century literature waiting in the wings if you want to take a crack at that one. I assure you, it can be in many ways, miraculous." Just because Cloud failed to turn it in, doesn't mean he failed to do it.
Crescent simply stared at first before his lips tugged crookedly into a smirk. "Ah, the infamous paper. As intriguing as that sounds, I would much rather have you write something for me. Leftovers are never as good as the fresh ones." With another quick look, he changed the subject, "Where are you from?"
"Arizona."
A quizzical brow rose. "You don't look like you're from Arizona."
"I spent most of my days inside." He clarified. His complexion was far from tan.
"Writing?"
No. "Yes."
He seemed to see through that lie pretty quickly. "What did you do?"
"I read." Cloud said, watching as the professor still held that look of disbelief. "Couldn't afford video games and there was a library down the street. I was quite popular." Cloud actually could afford video games, he just wasn't allowed. He decided to swerve around that truth.
"Was it a small town?"
"Unbelievably."
"Near the Grand Canyon?"
Cloud bit his lip. "Fortunately not."
"Why do you say that?"
"I have a lot of enemies." Cloud grinned.
"So why did you come to Montana?"
And just like that, Cloud's grin dropped. "I never enjoyed Arizona. I thought a change of scenery would be a step up."
Crescent ignored the mood change and asked, "And was it? A step up?"
Considering the fact he doesn't come home to more colorful bruises, then yes.
"I'd say so." He sighed. Was this an interview or an appointment?
As if reading his thoughts, the professor explained. "I'm asking you these things because this is how I would like to choose my students. An investigative journalist, at least a successful one, should have an interesting personality, but also sustain an aura of control around them. You never want to interview someone and then turn out to be the one being interviewed. You also need to have a charisma that will keep them talking, not only because you asked but because they feel a desire to talk to you. Unfortunately, I didn't get to do this for my current class, so half of them I can't be too sure about."
So, basically, half of his class are a bunch of dimwitted losers. At least, that's what Cloud heard.
"So this is a test?"
"In a way." His eyes were studying him now, as if trying to decide whether to keep him or kick him to the curb. Cloud stared back. If there was one thing he was good at, it was staring contests and he'd make damn sure he'd win this one.
"Am I passing?" He made sure to keep his eyes glued to his target, unblinking and unwavering.
"How do you think you're doing?" Crescent's lips twitched in what Cloud assumed was amusement. "And give me an interesting answer."
If there was another thing Cloud excelled in, it was interesting answers.
"Considering the fact that I managed to hold a decent conversation with a stranger with severe staring problems while I simultaneously defrost from walking almost a mile in the ninth circle of hell thanks to your bizarre, inconvenient location? Well, I believe I'm doing quite well, Professor Crescent."
The silver-haired man leaned back in his seat, surveying his potential student with a quirk to his lips and an arch to his brows. "Call me Sephiroth."
"Noted."
"And you're very honest."
"It's a flaw, really." Cloud admitted. He took this time to let his eyes wander around the room once more. There wasn't anything eye-catching or particularly intriguing, but he would much rather stare at dusty books than partake in another eye-battle. Once he returned his attention—after not finding a single object to fascinate him—he found the professor opening a manila folder with what Cloud imagined was his file.
"Earlier, I had the chance to read the latest paper you wrote for Professor Davis' class." Sephiroth glanced briefly from the papers to Cloud before continuing. "The one about the value of importance."
Cloud wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh because of the backstory behind it or bury himself alive.
"He wasn't too pleased with it."
"Why is that?" Sephiroth questioned, though not entirely engulfed in the conversation as he was in the paper.
"It was 5 pages too short and on the wrong topic." Maybe one day he might regret it, but today is still not that day.
"On purpose?" Sephiroth looked up then, his green eyes colliding with cerulean ones.
"Yes. I thought you knew that."
"I did." Sephiroth gave a flash of a tiny, barely there smile before returning to what Cloud assumed was his poker face.
"Did you like it?" Cloud was asking the questions now. Sephiroth rose a brow, so Cloud clarified. "The paper."
Sephiroth returned his gaze coolly. "I enjoyed some parts and other parts I did not."
"Well, it was only one page, so which paragraphs did you hate?"
Sephiroth cocked his head. "The last two." After a moment of silence, he added. "Aren't you going to ask me why?"
Cloud snorted. "No, I already know why. Probably something like 'oh, Cloud!'" He faked some strange accent that has probably never seen the light of day until then, "'you are important! Every star shines differently and you are one of those stars! You are different!' It's just a bunch of politically correct bullshit that gives people false hope for an unattainable future."
"So you think people are nameless?"
"There are approximately seven billion people in the world. And I can name, at most, one hundred off the top of my head. That includes celebrities, historical figures, and people I know personally. So, yes, people in general are nameless unless they make a name for themselves. I've just reasonably placed myself in the most realistic category." Cloud explained. He wasn't sure why he explained it, but he felt that it was needed. That it was necessary to give his side of the story.
Sephiroth hummed in thought, his eyes were back in study-mode as they roamed Cloud's face. It wasn't in a sexual way though. He was trying to gather information, garner emotion, or whatever expression that Cloud wore. Cloud hoped he didn't find anything.
"I didn't like the last two paragraphs because you asked too many rhetorical questions and, towards the end, you were trapped in a loop of repetitive phrases that ran its course a couple paragraphs earlier. As far as the message behind it is concerned, while a bit too philosophical for my taste, it was still an interesting piece."
Oh. That was a waste of breath, Cloud thought.
"Do you want to take this course, Cloud?" The subject changed and he was serious now. The mood in the room shifted as this was the moment of truth. Cloud opened his mouth but nothing came out. "This is a course where your full attention is required at all times. This isn't just for a credit. There's an opportunity to make something of yourself through it."
"Opportunity?"
"I'm not sure if you've noticed how out-of-place I am, here at this university," Cloud scoffed at that understatement, "but I'm only teaching here temporarily for business needs only. You see, I've recently opened up an internship program for young aspiring journalists. I'm teaching this class in hopes to find three suitable interns for the winter and summer. I plan on hiring one of them to my company before next fall if everything goes according to plan."
"So, like a journalism version of the Hunger Games?"
Sephiroth almost smiled. Almost. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. I believe competition brings out the best work in people."
"Why should I even attempt it this late?" It was a silly question, but for Cloud it held the most weight. What was in it for him if he hasn't even exercised his 'investigative journalism' skills yet? Most of the class were likely miles ahead of him.
"While I haven't seen any of your journalistic work yet, I have gotten to know you as much as the others. Like you, I sat down with all of my students in a one-on-one session and attempted to learn more about them. Some impressed me, some didn't."
"What qualities are you looking for in your 'perfect' candidate? Republican or Democrat?"
Sephiroth paused briefly in thought before he relayed the information. "I'm going to be bluntly honest, Cloud. I don't care how great your grades are. I don't care how much money you have in the bank. There are a few simple objectives that need to be met to be a successful journalist." Cloud waited. "Appearance, personality, and intelligence. Each of these are being tested as we speak."
Cloud leaned in with artificial interest and a quirk to his lips. "What's my strongest attribute so far, Professor?"
Sephiroth remained deadpanned as he spoke. "Personality."
"I'm offended." Cloud gasped, rocking back into his chair until he stilled and asked the next question. "Why appearance? Don't tell me you rate your students on a 1 to 10 scale."
"Nothing like that. To get information, sometimes it's better to use looks rather than wits, especially for some of the more rural people of the area."
"Seduction." Cloud simplified.
Sephiroth nodded then tapped his fingers twice on the desk before shifting back into his seat.
"So…just a heads up." Cloud said. "The last thing I do when I talk to people is attract them." Look at that. More honesty.
Sephiroth huffed in agreement. "Seduction isn't usually about what you say. It's about how you act, how strong your personality is, and how much you can emit that energy onto someone else. All the while using your looks as a strength too. It shouldn't be a problem for you at all."
He knew it wasn't a flirt or anything as silly as that, but the fact that Sephiroth, his professor, openly admitted in finding him attractive was strange in all forms of the word. So that's why, after being stumped and smacked with a very large stupid stick he responded with, "Cool."
And the most genuine smile he has seen from Sephiroth appeared as it crinkled his eyes and dinted his cheek with a dimple. "But you still need to work on your communication skills."
"Noted." Cloud brought back his wits and brain as he asked, "Does that mean I passed?"
"You're definitely in my class. But as for the internship, we'll see. I'm making a selection tomorrow, so you'll at least find out by then."
Cloud nodded. He didn't really care about the internship though; he just needed the credit.
"Do you have experience in journalism?" Sephiroth asked, just when Cloud thought their meeting had come to a close and he grabbed his bag.
"No. Unless you count nonconsensual gossip."
"Thankfully, I don't." Sephiroth said. "Have you ever been arrested?"
Cloud snorted. "Are you reading these from a teleprompter or something?" He made a show of looking behind him to find a screen and then turned back to find Sephiroth still waiting for an answer. "No. I haven't. Not officially, anyways."
Sephiroth lifted a brow at the 'not officially' part, but didn't mention it.
"Where do you see yourself in ten years?"
Dead. That was the first word that came to mind. It was also the second word, so Cloud had a slight pause thinking of an answer that wasn't 'dead', 'dying', or some variation of the two.
"Well, when I was ten I didn't picture myself going to a journalism school. Ten years is too long of a time to tell."
Sephiroth didn't like that answer so he altered the question. "Where do you want to see yourself in ten years?"
Dead. But, again, he couldn't say that unless he wanted to see a shrink. So he chose a more appropriate answer.
"Writing a book."
"A book?"
Cloud shrugged. "It's something I've always wanted to do."
Sephiroth hummed at his answer as he observed Cloud with careful eyes.
"Are these questions for the internship?"
"Yes."
"And if I told you I wasn't interested?" Cloud queried.
Sephiroth simply put on a small, fake smile and said, "I'll still consider you for the position. I do with all my students, whether or not they're 'interested'."
Great.
"I take it everyone in your class wants it?"
"Seems like it." His watchful gaze was penetrating, daunting. It was as if he were studying every word, every movement, every feature, and every emotion that Cloud offered. And he gave nothing in return.
"Anyone ever tell you that you're intimidating to talk to?" Cloud is best when blunt.
Sephiroth's lips twitched. "No. Not unless you're telling me now."
"I am."
"Well, I apologize." He certainly didn't sound sorry. "You seem to be doing alright though."
"Thanks. But it would help if you'd blink some more."
Sephiroth chuckled, briefly breaking out of his poker face and into a smirk. "I like the view."
Cloud felt his cheeks warm from the unexpected comment and from the look he was being given. He wasn't going to respond to that and thankfully he didn't have to as Sephiroth spoke.
"Do you have any questions for me before you leave?"
Cloud pretended that he was thinking of something, but in reality he just wanted to go home.
"No. Not yet." He replied. Sephiroth stood which brought Cloud to stand and gather his bag. The professor held out his hand and Cloud completed the gesture firmly and professionally.
"Pleasure meeting you, Cloud."
He let go as Cloud responded just as cordially, "It was nice meeting you, too."
"I'll see you in class tomorrow."
And that was how Cloud's consultation with his newest professor ended. It was brief, strange, and to the point. Hopefully, that's how his journalism class will go, but with more emphasis on the 'brief' and less on the 'strange'.
As far as the internship went: he wasn't interested. Not in the least bit. Perhaps, if by some miraculous, dimwitted choice Sephiroth chooses him as one of the potential candidates tomorrow, he'll try to reason with him and remove himself from said list. But that 'if' was as big as Mama June after a Thanksgiving feast. Not to mention, utterly unimaginable. If Sephiroth had any sense of intelligence or pride for his company at all, he would ignore Cloud completely.
And that thought was the one to lull Cloud to sleep that night. It whispered of failure and worthlessness. These were ideas Cloud could handle, these were the ideas he was used to. The dreams of hope and being important were just that. Dreams. He knew better not to dream.
And that's why, as he drifted slowly off to the realm of sleep, he saw nothing but darkness and reality. Dreams were forgotten.