Disclaimer: Yes, I own each and every right associated with Final Fantasy. You bet. I bought 'em all last week. And if by some chance anyone believes that, I also own a fleet of Porsches, a private jet, and a gold-plated fortress in the Himalayas where I frolic at leisure in obscene hoards of money.
Yeah. That's a good one. Ha ha.
A/N: Yeah, I'm alive. You may proceed to hurl blunt objects at me now. ^^;
Okay, a warning for those who may not like this sort of thing: this chapter's REALLY OC heavy. There shouldn't be too many chapters like this to follow, if any. This is my longest chapter yet, though! *dances*
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(Come on.)
The twelve attacked as one, meaning to use their strength in number to overwhelm what they surely saw as a lone, overconfident fool. One of them had some great, flimsy-looking monstrosity of a sword not unlike the Masamune in appearance, but it had to be inferior. Another one, the sole female of the group, brandished a simple pair of daggers; the other ten all wielded katana.
Sephiroth slid one foot back and set his heel firmly to the hard earth. Like a great cat posed to ambush its prey, he drew tight every muscle in his body, feeling the fiery tingle of Mako anxious to fuel their release intensify. Jade eyes raked the charging Shinobi.
He gauged, formulated…
(No chance.)
Muscles snapped. Mako surged.
…And he ran, bursting forward with a calculated lunge.
He met them head-on. The Masamune sang in a wide downward arc, and the two nearest Shinobi fell, their throats slit. Half a dozen behind the unfortunate first pair were forced to leap back or away.
The woman vaulted through the gap her comrades had left, spinning a nimble half-turn in midair to light on the shoulder of the General's lowered sword arm, meaning to thwart his balance, but her weight meant little to him. He dipped the shoulder further, ducked, and a wild katana swipe meant for his neck nearly lopped off one of her feet. With a violent Wutaian curse at the other Shinobi's bungled attack, she sprang off, flinging one of her daggers at Sephiroth.
It missed, but the Masamune rose and found her heart before she could know that. She plummeted dead to the ground, and her failed projectile blurred harmlessly past its intended target and plunged into the thigh of the Shinobi who would've left her a cripple had she lived. He, too, started with a profanity, but was quickly silenced when Sephiroth pulled the Masamune down in a silver spin and left him with a bloodless slash to the belly, killed by a wound he didn't even have time to realize that he had.
Sephiroth abruptly halted the motion and thrust the great katana straight behind him, impaling two rushing Shinobi who'd foolishly thought they'd found a window of opportunity. He drew the blade free and snapped the remainder of the circle he'd started, hearing the satisfying squeal of blade severing blade. Three more Shinobi fell away, weaponless, and after a deft flick of the General's wrist led the Masamune in a rapid back swing, lifeless.
Mako coursing through his body like liquid fire, Sephiroth swung the katana around to deal with the last three…and found only two.
(No…I couldn't have…!)
There was a muted click of metal. Sephiroth started to wheel around…and a shuriken clipped his cheek.
Seized by a sudden spasm of rage, his free hand jerked up to snatch the whirring silver less than half a heartbeat after he'd felt its sting. Pivoting completely on his heel, he whipped the shuriken back at -- and buried it in the throat of -- its dumbfounded thrower, who fell dead the same instant as one of the other remaining Shinobi, who'd moved closer to take advantage of the distraction and was run through by a fierce sideward stab of the Masamune.
Incensed further still as he felt wet warmth trickling down his face, Sephiroth once again withdrew the great katana from its latest victim and faced square the last of the twelve…the one with the monstrous blade.
(A…nodachi…wasn't it?) He glared menacingly at his lone opponent, features pulling into a scowl, and took several steps forward.
The Shinobi drew himself up, snarling back at the General like a cornered animal. He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly shut it as Sephiroth broke into a sprint straight for him. He somehow managed to catch the enraged young man's overhead strike with the flat of his blade…
…Long enough for him to meet Sephiroth's burning Mako eyes above him.
His own hazel orbs widened. "A…akuma…!" he gasped, his grip beginning to wobble with fear and strain.
The Masamune bit through the frail blade…and effortlessly sheared through the man's skull.
The halved nodachi clattered to the dirt.
Sephiroth halted his sword but let it linger, watching as the body slid from the blade and crumpled to the ground. He remained motionless for the longest time, staring down at the dead Shinobi, unaware that not all of the blood on his face was his own anymore. The only thing he saw was the corpse at his feet; the only thing he felt was violent, insatiable fury. He heard nothing, and couldn't even tell if the SOLDIERs were still fighting.
Then…something…clicked in his mind, and the anger slowly seeped away. As Sephiroth brought the great katana to rest, his gaze drifted a bit, and he noticed that the rapidly growing pool of blood had nearly found his boots. And then it finally occurred to him, with something he figured akin to shock -- having been through hell almost every day of his life thus far, he wasn't easily surprised -- what he had just done…and that blood wasn't the only thing spilling onto the earth.
A dull chill of revulsion crept over him.
(The Masamune…I…just cut a man's head…in half.)
Bile rose in his throat, and he swiftly turned and stepped away.
All of the others he'd killed, perhaps with the exception of Bailey, had been killed relatively cleanly, with little blood, and a semblance of finesse. But this…this was base savagery. And what for? Because a minute flaw had earned him a minor, stinging wound?
It couldn't have been the bleeding, or the idea of being hurt…heavens, he'd been shot not that long ago. And what little pain there'd been was nothing compared to the gnawing Mako ache that had too often robbed him of decent sleep.
(That rage…)
He'd lost his temper before; goodness, had he, but not that explosively. If he had, the Sergeant's death would have been far messier. Not to mention the fact that he would have long ago found a way to successfully do away with that miserable excuse of an existence that was Hojo's life.
(What…was that…?)
He had more control over himself than that. How many more people would be dead if he hadn't? That demoniacal fit…had to be something else. The over-heightened Mako…?
"General Sephiroth!"
Swallowing back his disgust, and heedless of the crimson splattered across his face, Sephiroth looked up and turned to the source of the voice, keeping his line of sight high enough to avoid his most recent handiwork.
A pair of ragged, weaponless troopers emerged from the camp perimeter, both of them running but one clearly in pain and doing so with an awkward gait.
"General, Sir!"
When they were both close enough, they stopped, the wounded one rigidly, and offered formalities. "Major Cressmore sent us to inform you that the remaining Shinobi have been routed," one of the announced. "Sir," he added hastily.
Sephiroth regarded them with practiced stoicism, noting with a twinge of irritation that they were both more interested in surveying the slain Shinobi -- namely trying to catch a glimpse of the one right behind him -- than maintaining proper decorum. Their faces teetered between shock and awe until it dawned on them that not only was the General not acknowledging them or their sentiment, he appeared narrowly upset.
"Sir?" the injured trooper queried hesitantly, drawing himself up in the best form he could and sharply elbowing his partner in the ribs to do the same.
"And?"
"And what, Sir?"
"The Shinobi have been expelled from the camp," he prompted, a tone of annoyance escaping into his voice. (They're too busy gawking to tell me all they were supposed to.) "Is that all?"
"Oh…yes, Sir. That's all. The Shinobi within the camp are gone, and the Major just requests that you return to the commander's tent as soon as you're, um…" Neither could resist a quick perusal of the closely clustered bodies. "…finished here, Sir."
The lilt of sarcasm was blatant, and rightfully should have earned him a stern verbal thrashing, but since Sephiroth had no mind to remain here and reprimand him for something so petty, he chose not to notice it. He wordlessly stepped over a body in his way and started back for the camp, casting a blood-freezing glare at each of the troopers in turn as he passed them. The wisely deadpanned and saluted, remaining at attention until neither heard him anymore.
"Holy shit," the injured trooper muttered in a half-chuckle. "Twelve of 'em? Major Cressmore said he didn't think the General would have taken care of all of them already, but…" He hobbled over to the nearest Shinobi. "They sure look taken care of to me." He looked back over his shoulder, giving the other man a clumsy smile.
"Yeah." He, too, walked forward, but passed his partner and went to stand over the last Shinobi the General had killed, careful not to step in the gore. "Did you see this, though? I mean…damn." He motioned at the remains of the nodachi. "Clear through the guy's head, and the blade, too…"
"I know." The other trooper's smile faded as he joined him. "That is one damn nasty way to kill a guy, even if it is a Shinobi. The General must have really gotten pissed or something, 'cause none of the others look like that."
They stood in silence for a short moment before the sight got to them, so they turned and headed back as well, the uninjured trooper keeping his pace slack for the other. After a few steps, he cast a sly, darkly amused grin at his comrade. "But y'know…if the General keeps this up…"
The wounded one instantly returned his smirk. "…this war's as good as won."
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Sephiroth walked a short way beyond the camp's perimeter, passing several sagging, bullet-riddled tents -- and equally as many bullet-riddled and very dead shinobi -- before stopping in the shadow of the first undamaged shelter he came upon. Propping the bloodstained Masamune against the jagged hulk of a crate that looked to have been as tall as him until rather recently, he worked his right glove out from beneath the silver band that held it in place and off his hand. He slowly passed the bared hand over his face, his fingers lingering where the shuriken had slashed his skin. Pale brows knit when he felt no cut, only blood…though he recognized now that some of it was from the last Shinobi.
(I felt it strike…) he mused. (…Here, but…there's nothing…) Dismissing it as an adrenaline-wrought overestimation of its severity, he shook his head, and looked for anything else that had been marred crimson.
There was a smattering of blood on the burnished pauldrons…he'd have to get that off…but thankfully, none on his coat. The Masamune was another story…and now his hand…
He looked up. Scarcely six paces away stood a wavering tent beginning to cave in on itself. From the tallest of its bowing supports fluttered a weatherworn black pennant bearing Shinra's unmistakable vermilion insignia. It clung feebly to the pole, and though it was only material, seemed to beg to be put out of its misery.
Sephiroth obliged it. He stepped over, and, rising in a slight stretch, for the flag was not quite within his reach, easily tugged it free. As he returned to his spot, he wiped the blood from his hand with the ebon cloth. The glove he'd removed was clenched in his teeth, and remained there as he then crouched and set about ridding the Masamune of its stain. When he was satisfied with the katana's appearance, he tossed the flag aside and slipped the glossy sable glove back over his slender fingers. A polish would do the blade well later, but for now he just wanted to get back to the commander's tent and get whatever Cressmore had requested him back for in such a hurry over with. After losing himself and killing that Shinobi so barbarically, he wasn't in the mood for much.
He rose from his crouch, immaculate Masamune in hand, and glanced down at the blood-soaked Shinra standard.
(My blood and Shinobi blood…on the same Shinra flag…) he thought, a wry curl finding his lips as he started walking away. It faded abruptly a few short strides later when he suddenly wondered why he'd found that amusing…
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Sephiroth reached the commander's tent just as Cressmore finished ordering a handful of the fresher-looking troopers to join the SOLDIERs in scouring the area outside the camp for any straggling Shinobi. Most of the younger, non-ranking troopers were milling about, straightening equipment and supplies, righting what tents could be salvaged, and seeing the savable wounded to the medical shelter. Reyburn was perched atop a grungy steel barrel behind the Major, examining a shallow, ugly gash that tore nearly the length of his left arm. He appeared more annoyed than in any amount of pain, and brushed off any concerned trooper that offered to help him to a medic.
Cressmore waved off the last of the troopers just as Sephiroth arrived, and it was fair to say that the expression that crossed his face was nothing short of shocked. "General!" he exclaimed. "Back already? I take it there weren't many Shinobi left…?"
"Twelve."
"Twelve?" Cressmore's eyes, which had been smoldering cerulean from provoked Mako, seemed to pale. "Oh."
"Well, you certainly fared better than me," Reyburn muttered. "Some Shinobi woman got the jump on me and did this." He raised his head with a muted chuckle. "At least that bullet to her belly did a lot worse."
Relieved that the First Lieutenant had lightened the mood with that stab of vaguely uncalled-for humor, Cressmore allowed himself a brief, meager grin. "You're not hurt then, I take it, General?" he queried.
The cut he'd taken was…gone, and so was the blood, his or not…
"No."
"Good to hear," Reyburn nodded. "As you can see, there's plenty time for that…no!" He swatted aside a flustered redhead who couldn't scramble away fast enough. "Damn it, I'm not dying or anything! Honestly…"
The Major loosely draped his arms across his chest and made a brisk perusal of the surroundings. "Well…" he began, "I suppose, all in all, we repelled this attack quite well. No casualty report yet, but from what I noticed, there can't be all that many. The officers are all here, so…" He bit back the rest of his words, suddenly realizing what he'd already said wasn't true.
Sephiroth knew exactly the reason the Major caught his own words.
(Not that I'm surprised.)
"Second Lieutenant Burkell is gone." He didn't even have to make it a question.
Reyburn responded to that one. "Sure is, the bastard. And so is one of our rifles."
"He didn't have much time to leave, and no one saw him do so, but in the midst of a fight, no one would." The blonde frowned. "But yes, General, Burkell's gone AWOL. Someone would have seen him or found his body if he were otherwise."
The glow in Sephiroth's verdant eyes, which had only now begun to lessen, went cold. He didn't have to say a word for the two officers to understand how he felt about that.
Wherever Burkell had gone, whatever he was doing or planned to do, crossing the General again would be a very unwise thing for him to do.
"In any case…" Cressmore paused, searching for something to avert the subject. Burkell would have to be discussed, but that could wait until Mako, tempers, and adrenaline had eased. "While the troopers and SOLDIERs take care of things out here, I suppose now would be as good a time as any for that meeting we postponed earlier."
Reyburn slid off the barrel. "You know, I think I will have this arm looked at," he announced.
"Do that," the Major agreed with a smirk. "Then as soon as you get back, we'll begin."
Donning a mask of pretended dejection, the brunette went on his way, passing his blonde superior with a snort. "Damn."
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Less than half an hour later, Reyburn returned, his wounded arm cleaned and dressed. The sham glower he'd left with was gone, replaced by a painfully obvious reluctance that deepened into feigned despair when he entered the tent and saw all the paraphernalia Cressmore had spread out atop the old crate. He dropped heavily onto the remaining stool.
"Damn!" He quirked a brow at the Major. "If I'd have known we were giving the General the history of the friggin' world, I would have taken that painkiller they offered."
"The last officer we had to fill in was over six months ago," Cressmore calmly replied. "A lot's happened since."
"I hope you're a night owl, General, 'cause this could take awhile."
"I'll manage."
Knowing Reyburn hated these meetings and was more than capable of delaying it the night if given the opportunity, Cressmore snatched up a sheaf of tactical summaries, angled a marvelously detailed map of Wutai toward Sephiroth, and started explaining. What he didn't realize was that Reyburn wasn't the only one paying merely superficial attention to his oration.
Sephiroth's thoughts were also elsewhere, though likely nowhere akin to what the First Lieutenant was mentally distracting himself with.
Having done what he just did…there had to be a reason…
"The Shinobi seem to rely on sudden raids, like the one we just repelled."
He'd seen what happened to some combatants who'd been in a war zone too long. He'd lost count of how many SOLDIERs -- who usually saw the most rigorous combat -- had been shipped back to Midgar from Wutai, barely clinging to a fragile thread of sanity. As a guard, he'd overheard many conversations among the officers about how the SOLDIERs had begun to kill with escalating, uncontrollable violence, lost in a berserk haze that sometimes didn't wane when the fight was over.
"We've encountered a few younger -- less traditional, we figure -- Shinobi wielding firearms…they were all Company-issue, so we determined they'd stripped them from fallen troopers in the field."
No one had ever known quite what to blame it on. Mako, some said; those were the SOLDIERs who hadn't been able to handle the spike in power the Mako exuded in the heat of battle. Combat fatigue. Stress. Lack of sleep. Seeing friends die. Killing one of the friends yourself by accident.
"Frontal assaults against them seem to work quite well, contrary to basic military canon."
Now that he truly thought about it, it couldn't have been the Mako; he'd regularly been shot so full of it that it was a wonder his blood wasn't green. That, combined with Hojo's inherent ability to irritate him simply by drawing breath, would have made him a maniac years ago.
"We flanked them here, and routed them before reinforcements could reach them."
He'd been here less than a day. Stress…what a joke; a day without would have been a miracle. A decent night's sleep had been a luxury for as long as he could remember, a luxury he'd long ago learned to do with little or none of. And friends…what friends?
"We lost over two hundred men here…mostly troopers."
What in the hell had that been?
"This fight on the western coast, about five months ago, cost us an entire squad of SOLDIERs…Fourteenth Division, Second Class, I believe."
From the furthest depths of his mind, a peal of soft, penetrating laughter wormed its way into his consciousness.
(Female laughter…)
"We were outnumbered nearly ten to one there…they were unusually well-prepared, and the squad was decimated before they knew quite what was going on."
(Again…?)
"But here…"
Frustration began to pinch his features.
"Sir?"
(I thought I told…it…to leave.)
"General, Sir?"
Sephiroth looked up, banishing the emotion from his face. Cressmore had ceased explaining and was regarding him with an odd mix of concern and bated vexation. Reyburn was staring dumbly at the map his superior had spread open across the crate, by now appearing about as interested in the rote details as a child trapped in a classroom during the last five minutes of a teacher's longwinded lecture.
"Are you well, Sir?" the Major asked.
"Yes, I'm fine," he answered flatly, motioning at the sheaf of papers in the Major's hand. "Go on."
After a moment's hesitation, the blonde dove back into his explanations, resuming precisely where he'd left off…and Reyburn slipped one notch further toward a boredom-induced coma.
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Short ebon hair plastered to his skull with sweat, tawny eyes hot with shock, the young Shinobi tore through the border of his camp, calling a hasty greeting to the guards to assure them that he belonged. Amidst the stares of his comrades he raced straight for his commander's tent. He never slowed or faltered as he made his way through the gathered men and women, the tents, and the small clusters of supplies scattered about.
"Commander Hottori!" he called as loudly as he could, his throat raw and burning. "Commander Hottori!" As he neared the Commander's tent, the pair of guards at the entrance saw the young man's intensity and never bothered to ask his purpose, or the Commander's permission for him to enter, since he'd no doubt heard the shouts already.
Hottori, a sturdy man of not quite fifty with an aura of battle-earned arrogance about him, sat cross-legged on the tent floor, a cup of sake in his hand and a great musty tome of Wutaian legends in his lap. As the riled young Shinobi burst into the tent, the Commander reluctantly detached his attention from a particularly interesting chapter on weaponry and waited a bit impatiently for him to pay the proper formality. "Yes…what is it?" he all but growled as the Shinobi at last knelt.
"Commander Hottori, I beg all the pardons I can," the young man began, his voice yet thinned from exertion, "but this is of utmost importance."
"So tell it then."
He gave a brusque nod. "Yes, Commander. The raiding party that I was with…the one that you ordered to the Shinra settlement in the southeast of the Akitani…was soundly defeated. Only I escaped…and as shameful as that was of me, I felt you should know, Great Commander, that the Shinra forces…have a new leader."
Hottori's rugged face pulled into a frown. He placed the sake carefully to one side. "A new leader…?"
"Yes. The General our scouts have heard mention of…has arrived." The young Shinobi paused, his face blanching as he recalled what he had seen that had spurred him back here with such great haste. "This General…I am certain this man was him, for only a well-ranked person could fight with so superior a technique, and with such terrible speed. I watched him from atop a bluff nearby…watched as he slew twelve of my comrades in so short a time even the mighty gods of Da-Chao would burn with envy."
The Shinobi's hands twitched. "And Great Commander, he is so young…"
"Hold." The Commander leaned forward over his book, his frown replaced with hard incredulity. "Young? How young?"
"Younger than I, Commander," he answered, his dark brows furrowing as he edged his gaze a scant bit higher. "He had silvered hair, but his face…he can't have seen more than twenty winters."
Hottori started at him, unblinking, for several long, awkward moments…before throwing his head back and bellowing with laughter.
Nonplussed, the young man completely lifted his head to gape slack-jawed at his superior. He started to stammer out some kind of protest, but immediately thought better of it, and knelt there in humble silence while his commander made short work of what he'd been convinced of all too vividly was a serious situation.
Still laughing, Hottori swiped up the sake and downed what was left in a single gulp. "No more than twenty winters?" he spat, his laughter dying but an amused smile remaining on his lips. He casually flung the empty cup aside. "The Shinra bastards mock us! Sending a child to command their forces!"
"Great Commander, I mean no disrespect, but I don't believe they are just mocking us." The Shinobi averted his eyes. "And he is no child," he added under his breath.
"By the gods, of course they are, you fool! They mean to show us they think we are feeble enough to be defeated by a mere boy!"
"That 'boy' killed twelve in scarcely more than a moment or two, Commander!"
"A puerile show of power," Hottori scoffed.
As much as he knew he shouldn't, the young Shinobi couldn't withhold his anger at his leader's obstinate mockery any longer. "I know what I saw, Commander!" he harshly insisted. "That was no show of power! This 'boy'…wields the Demon Sword!"
Belting out another hearty peal of laughter, Hottori flipped ahead several pages in the ancient tome in his lap. "This?" he chuckled, stabbing a finger at a finely detailed drawing of a huge, magnificent katana. Old Wutaian script relating its mythical origin and subsequent disappearance, as well as a depiction of a monstrous, grotesque demon, accompanied it.
"That's absurd! That sword is a legend! And even if it wasn't, that boy would have to be a masterfully disguised oni to use it!" He clapped the book shut. "Nearly all of the nodachi look like that," he continued. "Another Shinra dog must have stolen it from a slain Shinobi, and it ended up in this boy's hands."
"Commander…" the young man started to plead, exasperation heavy in his voice.
Hottori didn't seem to notice; he was too occupied trying to stifle another outburst as he waved for the Shinobi's dismissal. "Go. I will send a message to the capital to inform Lord Kisaragi we have a young oni to keep an eye on now."
His derision was moderated accordingly, but the fact that it was there at all upset the Shinobi more than a little. He had just seen this 'boy,' this 'oni,' as the Commander referred to him, slay twelve of his own with nothing but a superficial wound to show for it, and in less time than he'd thought possible. It wasn't for him to decide, but…Shinra was advanced enough as it was. Was it really a wise idea to write off what looked to be yet another threat to Wutai's chances of victory as a mere taunt?
Shouldn't every instrument of that wretched Company's superiority be dealt with before their ascent to domination became more than just an ever-nearing goal?
Mechanically reciting words of gratitude for Hottori's impromptu graciousness, the Shinobi rose and backed out of the tent, only turning his back to the Commander when he was out in the open again. The guards, having overheard the conversation, looked quietly ill at ease. One of them muttered something about Hottori being a foolhardy sot -- which he doubted was true…him being a sot, that is -- but as tempting as it was, he didn't feel like staying and sharing opinions with either of them.
The allure of finding strong alcohol and drinking himself senseless was far more appealing.
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"And that brings us to today's attack…" Cressmore flopped the summaries back to the crate. "…Which we don't have a report on yet."
Reyburn stretched his uninjured arm and repositioned himself on the stool. "That's it, then?" he grinned. "You don't want to explain the battles from the last Wutaian shogunate or anything? The pioneers who settled Kalm?"
The Major shook his head and started with a comeback, but when Sephiroth unexpectedly rose, he swallowed it and stood as well.
The General's expression went cross. "Yes?" he snapped. "Am I not free to leave?"
"Yes, Sir," the blonde said. "We're done. If you don't mind my asking, though…where are you planning on going?"
"C'mon…the General doesn't need a babysitter," Reyburn interjected with a roll of his eyes.
Cressmore jerked a stern glare in the First Lieutenant's direction. "Reyburn, that was…"
"I'm going to watch the sunset," Sephiroth interrupted, halting things before the banter went sour. It was asinine either way, but it looked to descend into pure childishness.
That caught both of the officers off guard.
"To watch the sunset, Sir?" the Major repeated in disbelief, looking back to the platinum-haired young man.
"I've heard Wutaian sunsets are quite spectacular."
"Well…I suppose…" Cressmore began. Somehow, he just hadn't pictured their unorthodox new leader -- one who seemed so…at home…in a fight, no less -- to be interested in such traditionally romantic things as gorgeous sunsets. True, Midgar's diluted dusks were disappointing…and one would almost say disgusting, but…
"The best place for that is on that narrow bluff just southwest of here," Reyburn offered after Cressmore trailed off. "There's a slope on the southern side where you can climb it. I've been there myself."
Sephiroth left without another word, re-sheathed Masamune in hand, turning so sharply that the trailing end of his coat snapped. Both officers remained still for several moments after he was gone.
"Well, that was certainly…abrupt," the brunette at last remarked. "He must have been in a bigger hurry for you to shut up than I was."
Cressmore didn't even make anything of that comment. "I'm just a little concerned that we don't know where Burkell got off to. He made it pretty obvious he hates the General, and if he's got no desire to leave Wutai alive, who knows what the hell he'll try."
"General Sephiroth can handle twelve hostile Shinobi at a time, Cressmore. I think he can manage one crazy bastard with a rifle."
"I know." He sat down again. "And if the Second Lieutenant didn't know how to snipe, I wouldn't even care. But no amount of skill with a blade, even one like the General's got, will stop a bullet from a marksman who's too hidden or far away to see."
"There aren't any snipers in this unit, so none of the rifles in here are built for sniping," Reyburn reminded him. "They're all standard-issue, no silencers. Trained in it or not, he can't snipe with one of those things."
"Ah…true…even so, none of this bothers you?"
"Sure," the brunette shrugged. "But I'm not getting paranoid over it. Burkell's the least of our threats; he's not an army of stealth-fighting discontents. And as far as him hunting down the General…"
"…He's replaceable, right?" Cressmore glanced sideways at the First Lieutenant, a feeble grin on his lips. "That's what they told us once in basic, remember? 'The brass is just as expendable as you ladies are, so don't be completely worthless! Control in the field better not have to fall to a peon who doesn't know what the hell they're doing!'"
"Yeah, that's one part of the creed they make sure you know." Now Reyburn rose. "Look, I wouldn't lose sleep over it," he said. "We can't go all…maternal on each other. That's part of being an officer. Y'know, concerned but detached…all that?"
Deciding the mood had spiraled too black, he gave the blonde a huge, roguish smile. "And like I said…it looks to me like our young General can kick his fair share of ass. I doubt he'll be getting himself killed anytime soon."
Cressmore looked up at the grinning officer, his own expression still lingering shy of melancholy. Minutes passed until finally, despite the misgivings that still skulked in the back of his mind, he succumbed to the First Lieutenant's attempt and returned the expression with a slowly widening smile.
"Damn it, Reyburn…so help me, if you're wrong…" he chuckled.
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The aqueous horizon languidly drew the sun toward itself, readily accepting the rutilant hue that bled from the sinking orb. More shades of red and purple, yellow and blue, than anyone could ever dream of naming suffused the sky and lit the gauzy, drifting clouds. Moments passed, the sun dipped further, and the entire world was bathed in the poppy-colored halo of a distant, cosmic candle.
If he had actually come here to watch it like he'd said, he might have been impressed.
Sephiroth stood atop the bluff Reyburn had suggested. His emerald eyes -- which glowed quietly now, for the Mako had calmed -- looked in the general direction of the fiery display, but were focused on something far beyond…or nothing at all.
The way he'd killed that last Shinobi…though his impassive manner let on otherwise, it bothered him. That sudden, vicious fury that nothing seemed to justify…
Then there was that minor wound he knew he'd taken more or less disappearing. Mako hastened healing, but it didn't make injuries simply vanish…
That's what I'm here for.
(You again?) Sephiroth scowled.
Again? I never left.
(You will now.)
The voice assumed an indignant air. I will not be ordered…!
(And I will not be intruded upon like this!) he mentally shouted back. (Hojo did enough of that when I was a child! I won't have it!)
The only reply he got was a soft, livid hiss.
He let his eyes focus on the sunset at last, which was now in its greatest throes of brilliance. The sky had grown predominately scarlet, and was truly a breathtaking sight to behold, far superior to the sham of twilight Midgar had, but he was unable to revel in its splendor. All that came to mind from the hue was blood…and fire.
(Spectacular, yes…but really, the world just looks like it's set to burn. This is was people like to see?)
Do something about it and find out.
(I thought I told you to get out.) The scowl deepened into an animalistic snarl. What minimal interest he'd held in the sunset was lost.
You're a smart boy…now quite acting like this!
(Out!)
You insolent…!
"Damn you…go away!" he growled.
There wasn't even a hiss.
--------------------
The scrawled characters on the page blurred together. The monster's depiction faded. All that stood out was the drawn Demon Sword.
Commander Hottori had reopened the weighty tome, straight to this particular page, and had been staring at it, contemplating it, ever since the Shinobi scout had left. He hadn't even consumed any more sake.
He'd thought the young man silly, panicked into claiming this new Shinra General wielded the Demon Sword. That was a weapon steeped in more myth than even the creator gods. The most popular tale had it being forged out of white mythril and the hair of a demon too horrible to name by a jealous blacksmith who'd sold his soul to the lord of the ninth hell for the ability to surpass all others in his craft. Most people, even the nobility, found that part bitter and laughable -- such a desperate, final means to simply be a master in his field. Especially since, as the legend went on, the blacksmith eventually died a violent, penniless death, and the mighty katana he'd forged was cursed by the very demon whose hair he was alleged to have created it from, so that none other than its kindred could use it.
He couldn't quite recall the next part…few could, it seemed…but that demon was banished, and the katana, which became aptly named the Demon Sword, was lost.
Many had tried to duplicate the Demon Sword, going by what pictures in the scrolls and books they could find. Its appearance had been loosely copied in their common nodachi, but no one had ever been able to truly replicate the great katana's unholy power.
Hottori's thick ebon brows drew together. The Demon Sword was a legend…a lost legend at that. And oni no longer walked the earth in human guise. That sword their new adversary had…had to be one of those failed attempts at replicating the katana. A nodachi taken from a dead Shinobi as a war trophy…that had somehow ended up in the hands of this silver-haired…boy. It had to be another facet to Shinra's slight -- those hell-spawn sent a boy with flashy swordsmanship to defeat Shinobi with one of their own weapons.
There was no way that that sword he had was that blade. Nothing anybody told him could have convinced him that the Demon Sword actually existed, let alone in the hands of that domineering Company. There was just something though…old war instincts overriding this supposed certainty…that nagged at him. He'd never been a skeptical man, but having survived as many fights as he had, he still possessed a certain degree of…sensibility about these things. Wutai was in too fragile a state at the time being for him not to be.
Perhaps a bout of nighttime reconnaissance was in order…
"Guard!" he hollered.
One of the Shinobi posted outside the tent rushed in, immediately lowering the stout staff he held, and knelt. "Commander."
Hottori closed the book, and this time set it entirely aside. "Bring me Captain Sanzo."
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The sun had set well over an hour ago. The sky, not quite black had the depth and sheen of indigo velvet. Spectral pinpricks of stars had begun to appear, and the late season moon was already near its apex and starting to brighten to its familiar pale luminescence.
Sephiroth had started to go back some time ago, but the closer he'd gotten to the southern slope, the more he'd thought better of it. He ended up turning right around and walking in the direction he'd just come from, passing the place he'd stood earlier and going to the complete opposite end of the bluff. It was the side closest to the camp, but he was still unnoticeable from below.
He didn't get lost in thought right away up here; he usually did when in such solitude, but now he just…stood. Watched…nothing really, yet at the same time something. It was just…better…being away.
He remembered how he used to so hate being lonely…ignored. Always ignored. That was one of the personal justifications he'd used when Hojo had ordered him into SOLDIER -- he would get too famous to be ignored. He would always be recognized, respected…feared…
A breath of chilled air ruffled his argent mane. Sephiroth looked up at the moon, forcing his Mako eyes to find something tangible. His features remained taut with some deep-seated, unrelenting spark of anger.
He had seen the fear in the troopers' eyes when they'd noticed the last slain Shinobi.
Was that what it was going to take to be feared? Making savagery like that a habit? Tallying more kills than anyone else?
He closed his eyes.
(That…I can do. That I will do. But no more…like the last. I will remain as I am outside of battle…in battle. I cannot, and will not, allow that to happen again. I have too much…skill…to resort to that.)
Down below, somewhere in the camp, he heard a hearty, full-bellied laugh.
(I used to hate that…hearing others laugh, because I couldn't do the same. All those people in the street, below my window, in that pitiful hole of a house…)
/And I especially hate them. Those people that are so happy…when I can't be./
How dare they…
(Can't you take a hint?)
…Of course… the voice whispered cloyingly. Can I not make an offer of sympathy…?
(I don't need it. Even if I did, whoever you are, I certainly wouldn't take it from you.)
Insolent and harsh, I see… The saccharine sweetness was gone. And with that snide remark, once again, so was the voice.
Another breeze sighed. Another laugh rang.
Sephiroth at last relaxed his expression to the stoicism he'd learned to have.
(But I don't need that foolish laughter. And I'm not lonely. I'm…alone. I wouldn't know how else to have it any more.)
A niggling premonition about…something…unexpectedly scattered his thoughts. He opened his eyes. A second's pause, and he started to turn, shifting them to the edge of the cliff behind him.
(A noise…?)
Now he turned completely.
(No…just the troopers…)
His steps quick and quiet, Sephiroth crept -- for a mere suspicion he wasn't even sure of yet -- to the lip of the bluff. He peered over it to the ground below, his fingers restlessly flexing around the Masamune's handle.
This side was the closest to the camp, though still far enough away that only a SOLDIER stood a chance of seeing any details of it clearly -- and in the growing dark, only if he had had superior vision to begin with. The ground here was also in the cliff's shadow, with the barest of moon rays just beginning to brush past the sheer face. The ideal place for lurkers.
Seven of them, in fact.
The Shinobi were clad head to toe in black; had it been full night, they would have gone unseen. Six of them were literally bowing to one…and in the blink of an eye, weren't. They'd taken flight along the cliff bottom, skirting the camp.
And they weren't fleeing from anything. They were headed straight to where they could break from the cliff's shadow and infiltrate the settlement's heart with little resistance.
Had they still held their element of surprise, that is.
No hesitation. Not a thought.
Sephiroth snapped into a run to match the Shinobi, and then some; he barely felt his feet striking the stone. It didn't occur to him there wasn't a slope on this end. It didn't matter.
He veered closer still to the edge. Springing with his own momentum, and soundlessly freeing the Masamune…he leapt from the cliff.
--------------------
For what seemed the hundredth time since Sephiroth had left, Cressmore swatted aside the canvas flap and stepped outside, his eyes fervently raking the cliffs to the southwest. Once again, one of the rifle-bearing guards absently assured him that the General hadn't returned yet. And…once again…the Major went back inside, an aggravated frown pinching his boyish features.
"Hey, take it easy, Major," Reyburn chided in a half-yawn, shifting the stool he was sitting on a bit so he could lean back against the ammunition crate. "I thought I told you not to go all motherly."
"I'm not." With a huff, the blonde folded his arms over his chest. "Sunset was over an hour and a half ago. Hell, the moon's up already. Considering the circumstances, I think a little concern's justified."
"Then send a few SOLDIERs out to…"
A shriek of skirling steel suddenly pierced the stillness…and not all that far away.
Cressmore was gone.
"Well, holy shit," Reyburn grumbled, rising to follow him, though he had enough wits about him to grab a pistol. "The Shinobi are getting bolder, Burkell went AWOL, and now he's paranoid…" He heaved a sigh and cocked the sable handgun as he stepped outside. "Bloody Ifrit…either hell just froze over, or it's getting time to go home."
Several curious, unoccupied troopers were running by in the direction of the cliff to the southwest -- the one that curved halfway along the camp's western perimeter, and the one General Sephiroth had gone to earlier. The would-be onlookers must not have thought the noise a threat, for none bore any obvious weapons.
Reyburn went that way as well, though at an even faster pace. The Major was nowhere to be seen; it occurred to him then, for no reason, that he'd never really realized how fast the blonde could run, Mako-spurred or not. He only hoped that had Cressmore already discovered the source of the commotion, it hadn't been his suspicions turned truth. Be they officers or frontline grunts, he knew the young blonde habitually got attached to certain people just…being around.
Though he'd only been here a day, Reyburn had a feeling the General was one of those people.
Passing through the last line of tents, he at last saw the Major. There, just beyond the diffused lantern light at the camp's edge, stood Cressmore, staring intently at the base of the cliff.
Reyburn didn't even have to be as close as him to see what held him rapt.
He saw the General distinctly even in the shadow, his darker-still attire and platinum hair setting him apart. The great katana was naked in his hand. His back was to them; at his feet were several still, ink-black forms…and what appeared to be shattered weapons.
"General!" the Major called. "General, are you…?"
Sephiroth turned slowly, deliberately to face them. In the dark, his eyes shone like emerald stars. And when he moved several steps away from the cliff's presence, into the soft argent radiance of the growing moonlight, both his hair and his blade assumed a cold, ethereal white luster.
"Shinobi, Sir?"
"I think that's pretty obvious, Cressmore," Reyburn, now standing at the blonde's side, scoffed under his breath.
Ignoring his comment, the Major jogged out to take a better look at what had happened. Reyburn cast a stern, don't-even-think-about-it glare to the troopers that had gathered and would have gladly done the same before he followed Cressmore.
"One of the Shinobi with the attacking party must have escaped," Sephiroth explained when both were near enough to hear. His eyes darted downward; he stooped to retrieve something dark…the lacquered sheath. "It appears word travels quickly among them."
Cressmore bristled. "This group…was after you, General?"
"If they'd only been sent to spy, they wouldn't have had such ready weapons." He looked back at the Shinobi and nudged one of the severed katana with the toe of his boot. "They meant to kill any of the perimeter guards who might have seen them, and infiltrate the commander's tent. And I doubt they were after either of you, because I'm sure if they had been they would have killed you a long time ago."
Sephiroth gazed down at the Shinobi a moment longer before abruptly brushing past both officers as he headed back within the camp. "Leave the bodies," he ordered over his shoulder. Deftly snapping the Masamune into its sheath, he added, "As a warning."
(I came here to fight a war, not stave off would-be assassins…no matter which side they're on.)
The Major's shoulders sagged a bit as he, too, looked over at the bodies. "This…is unreal," he murmured.
Reyburn slipped the pistol's safety back in place. "How many are there?"
"Seven, I think," the blonde answered, "but that's not what I mean." Frowning, he turned to Reyburn. "It's only been one day, and already one officer has turned coat, after trying to kill the General, no less. It looks like the Shinobi have resumed their attempts at night killing, also after the General. And then there was what happened with Sergeant Bailey…"
The First Lieutenant had gone uncharacteristically solemn, as if he already knew what his superior was getting at.
"The Shinobi…I'd expect they would be wary of any newcomers, but trying to hunt the General down already? And two attempts on his life by fellow officers in a matter of a day or two?"
Reyburn nodded. "Kinda makes you wonder what the hell he's done to earn attention like that."
"I always thought getting new blood in here was a good thing, especially when skill and strength is proven so…well…like this." The Major heaved a deep breath and started to leave. The First Lieutenant was right behind him. "Apparently, though…that's not common sentiment."
--------------------
"Two hours…the Captain has not returned…" Hottori scowled. "The camp isn't so far away that it would take him two hours to get there and find that boy…"
Whether this…child…supposedly had the Demon Sword or not, being rid of him would lay to rest any uncertainty, real or imagined. Unholy weapon, oni or not…threat or not…in death, it wouldn't matter either way.
"Great Commander!"
The same guard he'd sent earlier for Sanzo ducked inside the tent, bewilderment and moderated alarm twisting his expression into something nearly unreadable. He knelt, like he was supposed to, but the movement was…numb. He swallowed hard, visibly at a loss of what to say.
"Yes…?" the Commander urged.
Unnerved over some strange thing, the Shinobi glanced over his shoulder at the entrance, where a faintly discernable silhouette now stood. "There is someone to speak with you, Great Commander."
So Sanzo had returned at last.
Irritated, Hottori motioned the guard out. "Yes, yes…then send him in already."
"Of course, Commander." He rose, bowed, and started to back out, but before he'd gone two steps, the entrance flap was slapped aside.
Hottori blanched and sucked in a breath. "By the gods of Da-Chao…"
Sanzo had not returned. He never would. And the man who stood before him would never return to his leader, either.
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A/N: So…bearable? Honestly…nothing seemed to work out in this chapter. Ew.
I meant to make a note of this last time, but if anybody would like to be notified when this is updated, drop me an email or let me know in your review.
Comments, suggestions, questions…go ahead, throw 'em at me. I have to keep this note kinda short because my Quark homework is just sitting here on my desk and bugging the hell out of me. I haven't had much sleep in the past couple days, either, so I'd better get it done before the caffeine wears off and I slip into a coma.
Oh, and before I forget…if my semester of Japanese hasn't failed me, Akitani translates into something like "Autumn Cliff." If it HAS failed me, then I hope it at least doesn't translate into something…odd. o_O
And I can't forget this: Thank you, CG! ^_^
~GMR~