Do not read, even if you do, do not review. I revel in anonymity and I am currently suffering from a bout of reflux after consuming way too much Laksa. With all the ham. For those not in the know, those are small cockles which taste like sewer fallout, and not the smoked leg of pig which you have come to know and..... know.
I'm sure you understand that none of these characters belong to me. That's right. And no, this is not for profit.
Anyway.
Ad Nauseum.
A huge cleaver ripped through the air, slamming into the weird, pig-headed robot.
"Golem."
The spiky headed young man was panting heavily. Ever since when had golems been so hard to deal with? They usually went down with a whack or two. He redoubled his efforts. Dashing up to it, he dealt another punishing slice with his blade. Maybe it had something to do with the sun in this region. It was all hot and shiny, and it was blinding him. Sweat dripped on the hard earth. He was confused. Very, very confused.
His panting companion, a sniper, shot him in the head with his rifle.
Cloud got his act around him. Yeah. That was it. He had to get his act together. He quickly poured a bottle of potion over his head. As the sparkling blue liquid flowed over him, he felt much better. He still couldn't see the enemy very well, but at least his head was clearer.
He sheathed his sword and summoned a bolt of lightning down from the heavens. It hit his opponent with a satisfying crackle.
Unsheathing his sword, he prepared himself for his next attack. Then, in a curious fit of indecision, he sheathed his sword and brought down a second lighting bolt. Then he unsheathed his sword again.
Resheathing his sword, he called down a third bolt of lighting. And again, unsheathing and resheathing his sword, he called down a fourth.
The crusty, unshaven pilot shook is head. Early dementia was what he had always believed, but these days he was more inclined to think of it as one of those nervous tics that everyone had. Vincent kept twirling his gun for one thing. Didn't matter whether it was that huge sniper rifle of his or the weird green water gun he seemed to love, he would always spin it on a finger before holstering it. And of course, he had that dangerous habit of lighting sticks of dynamite with his cigarette, while the cigarette in question was still in his mouth.
"^$&#@**#, I just love living dangerously."
The red stick blew a crater in the middle of the plain, taking away the robot with it.
I never figured out how monsters always seemed to have a little spare change about them. It really sets you thinking, maybe you're just a pawn in some greater game, know what I'm sayin'?
Ahh...... @(*$#&$(&!!!
And there you have it. Repeat that ad nauseum and you should have a good idea about what final fantasy 7 is about.
I'm sure you understand that none of these characters belong to me. That's right. And no, this is not for profit.
Anyway.
Ad Nauseum.
A huge cleaver ripped through the air, slamming into the weird, pig-headed robot.
"Golem."
The spiky headed young man was panting heavily. Ever since when had golems been so hard to deal with? They usually went down with a whack or two. He redoubled his efforts. Dashing up to it, he dealt another punishing slice with his blade. Maybe it had something to do with the sun in this region. It was all hot and shiny, and it was blinding him. Sweat dripped on the hard earth. He was confused. Very, very confused.
His panting companion, a sniper, shot him in the head with his rifle.
Cloud got his act around him. Yeah. That was it. He had to get his act together. He quickly poured a bottle of potion over his head. As the sparkling blue liquid flowed over him, he felt much better. He still couldn't see the enemy very well, but at least his head was clearer.
He sheathed his sword and summoned a bolt of lightning down from the heavens. It hit his opponent with a satisfying crackle.
Unsheathing his sword, he prepared himself for his next attack. Then, in a curious fit of indecision, he sheathed his sword and brought down a second lighting bolt. Then he unsheathed his sword again.
Resheathing his sword, he called down a third bolt of lighting. And again, unsheathing and resheathing his sword, he called down a fourth.
The crusty, unshaven pilot shook is head. Early dementia was what he had always believed, but these days he was more inclined to think of it as one of those nervous tics that everyone had. Vincent kept twirling his gun for one thing. Didn't matter whether it was that huge sniper rifle of his or the weird green water gun he seemed to love, he would always spin it on a finger before holstering it. And of course, he had that dangerous habit of lighting sticks of dynamite with his cigarette, while the cigarette in question was still in his mouth.
"^$&#@**#, I just love living dangerously."
The red stick blew a crater in the middle of the plain, taking away the robot with it.
I never figured out how monsters always seemed to have a little spare change about them. It really sets you thinking, maybe you're just a pawn in some greater game, know what I'm sayin'?
Ahh...... @(*$#&$(&!!!
And there you have it. Repeat that ad nauseum and you should have a good idea about what final fantasy 7 is about.