Chapter 4
The Meaningless War
The brilliantly colored marker left a fine crimson line, accompanied by an annoying scratch-squeak. It indicated his line of march. The General of SOLDIER and Shin-ra's head military man frowned. Too many 2nd's had been delegated back to the slum uprising in Midgar. That irritated him. The prize of lush, wealthy Wutai far exceeded any suppression of the hardy lot from the lower reaches of the plates.
Foolishness. Utter foolishness. A damn inefficient way to run a war.
With an azure ink pen he circled Wutai's Upper Peninsula, near the capital of the corresponding name, and scribbled '5000 2nd's' in. Soon, that many class SOLDIERs would be reallocated to the Northern Assault. The original design involved a three-prong attack with the levels of 1st's, 2nd's, and 3rd's reconvening in the center capital. Progress for that had thus far stalled. Shin-ra kept frustrating his efforts by reassigning troops to Junon and Midgar. 'Unnecessary waste of resources' they said.
Unnecessary indeed. They know nothing of the art of war, or of its infinite strategies or battle conservation. If we came in all blades bared this would be over in a matter of weeks...not months...certainly not years...
The sheer idiocy infuriated him. Because of the mix-ups, red tape, and routine powers-that-be stupidity the entire Mission Wutai had delayed far longer than expected. How many years had the General devoted his time, energies, and very life to this project, deemed pointless by many? He found he could not recall.
General Sephiroth could not be considered pleased. Hardly, that.
Brushing aside a long bang, as silver as moonlight, he heaved a sigh and reclined in the steel chair. Without preamble, the wooden table that suspended his colorfully painted map lurched with the movement of the boat Sephiroth occupied. This inevitably sent the three bottles of green, blue, and red ink into a trio of directions. Shin-ra had arranged for a Junon ship to ferry him to the continent of Wutai and had housed a splendid cabin for the much-decorated war veteran. Unfortunately, the seas surrounding the lower landmasses were wild at best and brutal at worst. It would force them to land at the southern perimeter and make for Wutai in a walking march.
Strange. How I think all this in such short time as the fall of a vial.
Graceful as oceanic waves, the first two survived by the skillful plucking of Sephiroth, who immediately set them aside to tend their companion bottle. The third, unfortunately, seemed set for shattered doom. Masemune's wielder had fully expected to see a patch as scarlet as fresh blood pooling the cabin floor.
Instead the General was mildly relieved to witness it salvaged by a swift hand. His aquamarine eyes lifted to observe his second-in-command, the unyielding Terence, standing before him. A brief smile came to the subcommander's lips as he settled the bottle down.
After the incident at the Sleeping Forest, the two had advanced together in the ranks of SOLDIER. Shin-ra seemed impressed by both young men, promoting Sephiroth to head of the armies with Terence as his trusted right-hand man. At first, this disturbed the silver-haired warrior who didn't dismiss the old feuds of yester year. Gradually, though, he accepted Terence, if, not as a friend, as a worthy ally.
Friendships. Sephiroth was still a novice in that class. Not a significant skill in war, so why would I need it anyway?
Gesturing to the array of dyed bottles, the bronze-haired subordinate commented blandly, "Never knew you to be fond of the primary colors, Sephiroth."
"I don't," he stated coldly. Terence rarely indulged in humor, a blessed relief, and Sephiroth was not about to condone it now. His moonlight-colored eyebrow lowered in disfavor. "Take a look at this."
As the subcommander leaned forward his superior emotionlessly continued, "Shin-ra is constantly removing my infantry and sending them to Junon, Midgar, North Corel, and half a dozen other places...all in a matter of days! What's with that?"
Examining the map and its extremely detailed illustrations, Terence made analytical throaty sounds. As for his opinion, that could not be determined. Sephiroth checked his impatience. One of the most valuable virtues he learned was patience. Not that the prodigy of Midgar had much of that to mention.
Not natural...never been natural...
The General snorted derisively as Terence failed to respond. "I've resorted to hunting down available battalions to continue the siege of Wutai. How am I suppose to win a war if Shin-ra keeps frustrating my efforts?"
Terence traced a finger down the map, following his superior's supply lines. He muttered, absentminded, "I'll look into it, Sir."
"That you will," came the General's sharp reply.
A frown creased Terence's forehead. In his younger years, the Junon-born SOLDIER had presented an infinite number of behavioral difficulties. Still, they appeared to fade in his military service. Years had smoothed the friction between subcommander and superior. This did not disillusion any thoughts of self-preservation, however. Sephiroth trusted no one. His dim hope was that, with his acquisition of the legendary Masemune and his ascension to General, the need to cast an eye over his shoulder would have perished. No. Never for a man such as myself...
Tapping a finger over his pale lips, came another sigh. With a hand-flip and the esteemed leader of SOLDIER dismissed Terence. The man left respectfully, as custom, nary a word. Sephiroth craved isolation at the moment. Though he hated the silence, far better the voices crying in his discordant, dark soul than the dreadful looks of amalgamated loathing and hero-worship.
My child...hear my cries...
He flinched.
Estuans interius...Ira vehementi...
A voice...One voice...A thousand voices...Too many voices!
Sephiroth's vision flashed briefly and his breath refused to acknowledge his lungs. With a supreme effort, the young war veteran submerged the eerie sound. Hardly the first time he'd heard the voices but this time differed. This time, they spoke as a mother to a lost son...But such was not possible, for he had no mother, no kin to speak of. It chilled him to the marrow of his soul.
Voices. They'd been with him since first a green-eyed child fathomed words. All his Midgarian caretakers used to laugh off his concerns, saying it was little more than 'an imaginary friend' or he had an acidic lying tongue to procure 'unmerited' attention. A few of the more superstitious whispered ' a child unbalanced, a child demon-possessed'. None thought to quell his fears.
And so the voices persisted. Reminiscent of a youth who fears the darkness yet is not informed how harmless the shadows are, Sephiroth shuddered as the noises entered his mind. The Junon steel ship pitched again and the General didn't bother to rescue the colored bottles this time. Each smashed into shards as he rolled up the map and stowed it away within the nocturnal folds of his cloak. Masemune easily pulled from the sheath, gleaming mako-hued, as impeccable as the day the General lay claim to her.
Eskallanilna...
"You are her legacy..."
"Terror from the skies..."
"Masemune...is innocent–do not taint it!!"
"No!" he shouted harshly. "Out! Out! Out of my head!" No, nothing remotely even human, he knew. But Sephiroth would like to think that he was not so utterly removed from society that voices would haunt his daydreams!
Decisively, the ebony-caped man departed the lavish guest quarters. He hated the waste in finances; would be better spent in militaristic pursuits. The instant his imposing six-foot figure appeared above deck, the captain of 'Shin-ra's Pride' addressed him with an appropriate salute. Sephiroth disdained protocol and cut to the blunt of the blade, as he always did. "Report."
"We'll be at the southern perimeter within the hour. Rough seas, but nothing the ship can't handle. A march to the capital is still our only option unless we return–"
"No. Proceed."
Winds slapped across the deck and stirred his long hair like quicksilver as the General passed the captain and stepped up to the railing. Peering off into the distance his otherworldly eyes cast out to the beautiful sea. As a massive blue blanket with a shimmer of shredded diamond, the ocean about 'Shin-ra's Pride' crashed viciously. Sephiroth watched vacantly, as a lost soul, until an image miraculously materialized in the rippling waters. He gasped.
A most curious image, to be sure. A young woman, in the prime of her life with the most startlingly beautiful hair as silver as his own. Marble complexion and texture of flesh matched his delicately crafted facial features. And the eyes! A sheer replica–as the waters themselves, a vibrant sapphire and soft green. Just as Sephiroth's inner systems shrunk with a half-pleasing, half-painful jar, the image seemed to waver, distorted like the dilution of wine. Lovely waves of steel melted into an odd-shaped helmet; the youthful flesh faded into a deep, alien blue. Ah, but the eyes... the eyes never changed.
Jenova...
Hurriedly, the General withdrew. It more than alarmed him...it tossed his normally disciplined mind into a hellish pandemonium. If hearing voices hadn't marked him as abnormal enough, seeing alien images that resembled him would ensure his socially- dysfunctional status.
Off into the shadows of the looming landmass, the sun began its majestic descent, surrendering its domination for another night. A wild myriad of the spectrum spread among the Da-chao Mountains. And there, underneath the wild beauty of the towering peaks was ancient Wutai herself.
"Welcome to Southern Wutai, General Sephiroth."
Sephiroth acknowledged the greeting with the barest of nods. His mind was very much elsewhere, on the plan to be executed. His lieutenant trotted at the General's flank, chatting ceaselessly. It was he, Michael Chao-da, the flame-haired, farcical warrior of unknown origin, that had cajoled Sephiroth into seeing to the matter of Wutai's conquer himself. At first, the General couldn't tear himself from the numerous recruiting duties at Gongaga. He'd met a promising young man named Zack, a native of the village.
"War with Wutai will be legendary. You should be at the center of the storm." This did Michael write in every military letter, gush over every PHS conversation. With this did he lure Sephiroth. Truth be told, the General needed only the most gentle prodding. Glory. Respect. Honor. And an outlet to the murderous desire. The bloodlust burned deep within as if by the flames of the Planet. So much violence had been visited upon him–so satisfying to deliver it upon others!
Air rushed down his lungs. Away from the polluted confinement of Midgar, this wild country provided an eyeful of aesthetic delight. A vast field of lush grass flowing to the benign zephyrs, with miles of crystalline shorelines to the east. The weather relented, though the captain of "Shin-ra's Pride" indicated that a march remained necessary. That didn't disconcert the physically fit Sephiroth–in fact, a walk might prove advantageous. After all, the battle needed prime planning. Details were important. The slightest miscalculation could set Mission Wutai back another few weeks.
Unacceptable...
Flicking the streaming steel-colored bangs aside, the General glanced back at the army of SOLDIER. Thousands of 1st's, 2nd's, 3rd's and Shin-ra Guards followed in his shadow. Each level had been divided up into divisions and amalgamated with another level to ensure maximum distribution. Several Beta SOLDIERs of 2nd teamed up with Alpha SOLDIERs of 1st, as well as the merging of 3rd's of Gamma, 2nd's of Delta and so forth. There's no way to wreck a war sooner than sending in your inferior members to the front lines unaccompanied by higher ranks.
Sharp sunlight glinted off numerous blades, sabers, and scimitars, falchions and katanas. They appeared as nether-demons, clothed in midnight leathers. Here and there, a Shin-ra guard stood out, donned in a navy, but for the most part, it remained a uniformly ebony mass. Good old black, a standby and a favorite of the General. He could order them all to parade naked, had he so willed it. Master of all their destinies...
...And yet, not of my own...
Shin-ra's army marched for the remainder of the uneventful day. For several days this continued until they swallowed the distance. One night, when Sephiroth bid them to rest he briefly toyed with the idea of plowing the army on ahead, past a bridge. His two head men stood bitterly divided. His lieutenant advised against it but his subcommander urged Sephiroth to do anything but listen to Michael.
They had waited for the dawn...and with it came nothing. No attack. No ambush. Not even one single assassination attempt. So, they broke camp and headed for the last few miles before Wutai. Thousands they were, a blade of shining death. When first SOLDIER reached the bridge they'd dwelt by the army halted and informed Omega, Sephiroth's elite force of the highest 1st's. The General came forward but hardly listened to the babble by his two lead subordinates. Again, his absent-minded thoughts, stole away in curiosity of this wondrous land. My ancestry, perhaps? Answers to the questions of my elusive heritage? Shaking away such irrelevant thoughts, the Head of SOLDIER reminded himself the past was just that–past–and of no use to him.
"A bridge, sir. We must transverse to continue onto Wutai," declared Terence, snapping his leader out of remise.
Michael smiled. "Well, Terry, I've known you for a long time and you never cease to amaze me with your ability to state the obvious."
His peer frowned but did not reply.
"After me," the General smoothly cut in. As the High Commander of Shin-ra's army, Sephiroth believed he belonged at the front lines. No PHS-leading general was he. No, Sephiroth would lead with his sword, and die by his sword. Sephiroth would lead his army, and die by his army.
Terrence protested that, however. His hand halted the General. "That would be against protocol. The General does not proceed first–the risk to his health is far too grave. I'll go on ahead."
"Still trying to steal all of Sephiroth's glory, Terry?" Michael inquired with a smirk.
"I'm merely trying to safeguard the life of–"
Irritated, Sephiroth cut in again. "Enough. I will go first." His hand came up to forestall any objections. "That is an order." Thrusting on forward, the silver-haired warrior left the contingent of Omega in a state of hesitant, but immediate, pursuit. His cloak rippled behind like a river of black ice as the General swept over the decrepit bridge.
The instant he drew three steps, Sephiroth knew it was a trap.
The dawn shattered into a mass of screaming warriors of oriental origins. Hundreds burst onto the scene, a myriad of colors. Feral shrieks bent the air visibly. It was a shock to the system and it rendered Sephiroth momentarily immobile. No novice to surprise attacks (he'd countered several in his military service and even in his pre-teen training!) the General also knew that his finest stood in disarray; he, himself included...That would not do.
At the corner of his exotic emerald eyes, the master materia-wielder witnessed a Wutain bowl his sub-commander over. All else blurred as the first wave of vicious warriors crashed into SOLDIER. All thoughts of betrayal, deception, and possible attempted assassination–all of it fled as he lifted Masemune reverently and became one with the violence itself.
A scream. His scream. That of the death of Guardian itself spewed from two pale lips. The General executed a three-revolution, sideways kata with deadly precision. Deadly because his trio of opponents perished at impact. Fully bloodstained instantly–fringing the black-cloaked prodigy as he continued with the swing and decapitated another. Still more katas befell the Wutain attackers in a series of feints, parries, and final, fatal thrusts.
With ferocity, the attackers reciprocated by wielding origami, knives, boomerangs, and elegantly crafted katanas. Wutains, Sephiroth realized, identifying the shredded linen bandanas of deep green, yellows, and reds. Such a stark contrast to their opponents, the somber black and grays of SOLDIER. Nor did the rebel band come magically-unarmed. From hundreds of blades, materia of the five-colored spectrum shimmered as the Wutains cast Fire, Sleep, and Cure.
The War-larkil. 'Death's Hand'.
Watching a hacked body splatter to the ground after he electrified the warrior-woman following a vicious downward cut, Sephiroth shrugged, amused. Death's Hand? More like the hand of the dying...
As if the clashing of blades the War-larkil and SOLDIER engaged again. Morning sun rippled down upon several hundred weapons and highlighted the strings of blood. The dead, the dying. Sephiroth's elite, Omega, lead Shin-ra's army. To the General's right, three Betas collapsed under the power of a sleep spell. The young legend couldn't imagine what the rebel band hoped to accomplish–SOLDIER outnumbered them almost ten to one–but he proceeded to knit the various units into an efficient killing team...He was their leader and he would lead them to victory.
Twisting and turning, silver tresses spanning like the shattering of lightning, he advanced upon them. An additional two met cold steel in an advancing and returning slice. Near flawless but not flawless. A tall lanky Wutain gashed his upper arm with a throwing knife but shortly regretted the action when he found a hole in his chest. Masemune struck again; Masemune drank again.
Sephiroth could almost acknowledge the sheer joy. Almost, anyway. To embrace the murder...A monster. An abomination. A creature with no soul...Terror from the Skies...Where had that thought come from?
When the trumpet blare sounded Sephiroth knew it had ended. Dozens of Midgar's finest lay as broken, bloodied toys among the tall grass. But, to their credit, few of the Wutains had escaped. One could, considering the circumstances, declare this a victory. An ambush is always a disaster, however, SOLDIER expertly turned the blade of war. Any normal person would consider this a victory.
The General did not. One death to another. It was pointless–but that was the harsh reality of war. "Where are my sub-commanders?"
Michael promptly appeared but Terence could not be found. Neither could several hundred SOLDIERs of 1st's. After the body count, a fifth of the army had perished and another two-fifths remained missing without preamble. So much for a victory...That infuriated the General. Why had his subcommander fled? Why had any of them?
And who had revealed their location and thus betrayed them?
"You know," Michael added as an afterthought, "It's odd how Terence fled, unharmed, when things turned ugly..."
...Terence...jumped...but not harmed...
"Indeed," Sephiroth remarked, feathery eyebrows knit, "Suspicious indeed."
Suspicion. Deception. Assassination.
Such was the life of Sephiroth.
At long last, they had arrived.
Second in wealth and sheer volume to only the grand Midgar herself, the capital of the Western Continents, ancient Wutai, diminutized its would-be assailants. Several thousand strong, still SOLDIER seemed disastrously inadequate to wrestle this magnificent pillar of strength.
Crested in the beautiful granite Da-Chao Mountains, Wutai sprawled over the rocks with a network of glass walkways. Interspersed among the oriental symbols and ritualistic weaponry was the edifices of stone and clay. Those detailed, if a bit primitive, foundations, craved from the rock of the cliffs, suspended each walkway that also held a canopy of golden-orange lights. Currently those lights remained dim, but later they would shimmer as a string of flaxen suns.
Within the cobblestone streets individuals of all walks of life buzzed around–some rushed to the market for one last bargain shop while others drifted home for a cup of tea after a day of hard training. Sephiroth believed ignorance drove their mindless existence. Lord Godo was unlikely to inform his people of their imminent danger, cowardly as he was. They stood in the path of death, of SOLDIER.
People are stupid. They think only as individuals and that their personal needs and wants are met. To them, it's always someone else's problem until the situation is beyond even a cohesive effort. Then they are always so shocked to find themselves on the floor, defeated.
Michael had suggested that the army come in all arms bared with no forewarning. Sephiroth disdained such a dishonorable method. Hardly a saint, but Masemune's wielder adhered to a code of ethics. A flare, clear announcement of attack, stabbed in the skies. Now Wutai knew of their danger. Now Lord Godo could deny it no longer. Flourishing his multi-colored, rune-encrusted robes of state, the stout ruler of Wutai appeared on the parapets of the city's wall.
"I am Lord Godo. Absolute Master of Wutai and the Western realms. You are of Shin-ra are you not? General Sephiroth, correct?"
Michael hissed, "Don't bother with that! Attack!"
That made Sephiroth frown. Never would he conceal his identity–what little the General knew of it anyway–for fear of this rabble. Silver hair flowing as he extended his head proudly, the master warrior declared, "That is correct. I am Sephiroth, of Midgar." A ripple creased Godo's face but the war-hero ignored it. "I offer you this final opportunity to lay down your kingdom to the might of Shin-ra, acknowledge the President as your ruler and Wutai shall be spared destruction. Refuse and your beautiful kingdom will rent, never to be the same again."
Godo's eyes flared. In anger. In challenge. "You, General, have the gall to ask us to surrender? Our proud nation which has seen tranquility and outlasted graver threats than Shin-ra." His belly shook as each word clipped in amused arrogance. "I'm wrong about you Migarians. You smog-dwellers do have a sense of humor."
Many varied citizens peeked out of the clay buildings. Some seemed of the same mind as their leader–indeed, a few chuckled at his rebuttal. A select number even had the audacity, and idiocy, to call him a 'traitor to Da-Chao'. But a tension settled upon the vast majority. They could view the expanse and technological-advancement of their oppressors.
How can they not read their death in my eyes? Denial. Yes, they've known peace and prosperity for centuries. However, it is sheer stupidity to hold your hand over a foot-long gash to stem the blood-flow. Sheer stupidity to defy an army twice your size. In both, death is inevitable...though they had to know that resistance was futile, still Wutai railed against the dying of the night. He had to give them credit for that.
Not for much longer, however.
Eyes flashing like a moonlit mako pond, Sephiroth heaved himself aboard an APC (Armed Personal Carrier). The afternoon sun streamed down silver of a mane and a blade. Sweeping back the ebony cloak, in a cold, clear voice he said, "Will you laugh as your blood runs in your beloved streets? Will you laugh as your beloved city perishes in flames?" The General dipped his head briefly. "Look, laugh, and despair!"
A stunning cerulean streak exploded from Sephiroth's upraised fist. It impacted at the base of Wutai's towering gate and froze them solid. Gasps. Of horror, not humor, he noted with grim satisfaction. Godo looked positively ill as if he thought that Sephiroth might be able to shatter the entire capital with a mere fist.
Not quite, but not too far off either.
Eyes shut, Sephiroth muttered an activation word for his green materia. Several shined on the powerful Masemune, of crimson, navy, emerald, lavender and gold. Punctuating the sharp command, he punched the air and unleashed the raw mako energy.
The gate imploded. It sounded as glaciers crushing. Debris and smoke rushed up to block the view of all SOLDIERs present. Shin-ra's army screamed in joy and praise of their leader, the man, the myth, the legend in the flesh.
Sephiroth, harbinger of death and master of Masemune approached Wutai. His cloak billowed from behind as the wings of Chaos. Eskallanilna shone proudly, instrumental to the death of thousands. Blood of thousands past and thousands to come...He entered Wutai. And his troops followed in his wake.
The streets were alive.
Bodies lay everywhere, hacked limbs discarded as the fragmented blades they once carried. Crimson came the tide of life to rain the innocent blood of the heavens. All around, fires snapped and snarled, consuming Wutai.
Or maybe, not so alive.
Sephiroth could barely hear himself over the insane noise. His orders, if heard, melted away to the bloodlust. Chaos, of the lower-reaches, in its most brutal form, had seized this once beautiful city. And, he, the architect of the slaughter.
For once it is not me who suffers! Not me!
Blazing as the flames themselves, he diced and sliced a throng of Wutain warriors. Remnants of the War-larkil rose up to fight, if unsuccessfully. Leader of the assault, he needed to find and dispatch Lord Godo himself. Leader verus leader. A wonderful showdown. But Godo had vanished...and for that matter, so had Michael.
That momentarily startled the General but he was quick to recover. While expertly twisting his right hand, the complementary appendage touched a gleaming green materia. More flames burst forth from his palm, striking a red-bearded farmer in the chest. Not a military man, no, little difference did that make. To Sephiroth, everyone was a soldier once battle ensues. None are safe and certainly not this lowbred specimen as he howled and died. Several others pedestrians caught afire and his ally SOLDIERs soon realized that these foes fell well to flame.
Lightning arched past, charging the air, narrowingly missing him. Had it connected, there would be no General to speak of. Running past more orient-designed buildings he paused under an archway to catch his breath. And, to his vast relief and suspicion, the former lab rat, discovered his sub-commander Terence. At first the young war veteran refused to acknowledge the subordinate's presence, instead studying the graphic, and grim, scene of destruction.
More death. A normal man would be sickened at the sight.
But Sephiroth did not qualify for the classification of normal. Hardly, that. Bodies had already started to attract flies and all manners of unpleasant insects. Death. Pain. Suffering. He'd seen so much of that it left little impression on a numbed soul. Meaningless. All of it. Just Shin-ra's attempt to annex another country to further their financial resources.
And when the blood dries, how would I have benefited?
"Are you alright?" Sephiroth stated coldly. His inquiry was not out of concern but prompted by annoyance. Any injury concurred by Terence would require healing. Thus, a consumption of his valuable materia energy.
The dark-haired subcommander shook his head–either to indicate the negative or against the pain in his murky-cast eyes. He murmured, "Well enough, General. How about you?"
"Fine," barked Sephiroth, piercing aquamarine eyes assessing the battle. "No thanks to you."
Terence lifted an eyebrow but added no comment. Instead, he leaned close to his leader and whispered, "There's a traitor in the camp. I have long suspected but never had any identity to pin down. Now I do."
"Yourself?" came Sephiroth smooth-as-a-silken-blade reply.
To anyone else, that might have provoked a vicious denial. However, the alleged insurrectionist merely blinked twice. "No, sir. I believe it to be lieutenant Michael."
A twang cut into Sephiroth's retort. Hidden partially by a barrel, a young Wutain girl hurled a three-prong knife straight as his subcommander. Instinctively, the General snatched the weapon from its mid-air flight with his thumb and forefinger. Pursued hotly by the young war veteran, the would-be killer took off, ducking a deadly swing of Masemune. However, the bandana girl found her own knife imbedded in her left leg. She survived the encounter...and would remain maimed for life. But of what concern was that to him?
"Thank-you," breathed Terence.
With a curt wave, the silver-haired warrior dismissed the incident as inconsequential. "Dead subordinates are of no use to me." He paused noting, with only the mildest regret, how that extended to the length of their 'friendship'. "So you say Michael betrayed us by disclosing our location on the bridge to the War-larkil?"
Terence nodded. "Yes and you're the only Migarian who can say...War-larkil...with a Wutain accent."
That meant little to the General. "Very funny. Interestingly enough, you and Michael are of the same opinions of each other's loyalty–or lack thereof."
No answer seemed appropriate to that. Screams created a blank backdrop of noise. As Sephiroth intended to plunge into the maddened swirls of battle his young subcommander grabbed his arm and pressed a PHS into his gloved hand. As first, the General might have cast it to the ground. Terence persisted, closing the five digits.
"Regardless of whomever is behind the treason, General, do your duty: summon the rest of the army and lead them to war."
Then his subcommander vanished into the human barricades that sought to slaughter each other. Crisp aquamarine eyes, his, drifted down to appraise the PHS. One call. That's all it would take. One call and Wutai would be decimated; the war, finished...And of course, I'll never know why these people consider me their betraying kin. I'll have subjected a nation not for its benefit but to satisfy the avariciousness of Shin-ra. So much meaningless death...Such a meaningless war...
Attack. Fight. Kill. Don't hesitate. Don't stop. Don't even think. War is the deadly boardgame of the insane: a mere doubt and destruction could result. Hesitate–lose. Stop–lose. Think–lose. Attack, fight, kill–and win.
With a click, the device activated. Loudly Sephiroth commanded into the receiver, "General Sephiroth here. Omega A1B2D3G4. All SOLDIERs converge upon the capital. I repeat, attack Wutai. Sephiroth out." Then he stowed the PHS in a pocket on his ebony belt. With Masemune shining from the afternoon sun, the prodigy of Midgar war-screamed.
The cry rippled into the frenzied masses like the collapse of a tree into a pond. Explosive. Crashing. Devastating. Many Wutains shrieked, in challenge perhaps, or terror. Yes, definitely fear, for no sane man could face this pillar of paranormal strength. In unparalleled efficiency, the young war veteran dipped on a knee to deliver a clean slash to an opponent and whipped around to slice another Wutain in half, ultimately leaving behind a trail of blood in his wake.
Ducking a shower of shirekens that imbedded themselves to the Turtle Paradise Pub he fled past, Masemune's Wielder hauled the PHS out with his left hand and stabbed and slaughtered with the other. Using a gloved thumb the General activated an aqua switch that summoned one of Shin-ra's Helicopters: Omega A1. The screams melted in his ears as more wild masses perished by blade and flame. And cries raged within his decadent soul. The cry of madness.
Ira vehementi...ira vehementi...
His eyes flashed as the flames that surrounded him. With a supreme effort, the General regained control. As a breeze cooled his feverish brow, that same wind beat down from above like a Behemont's wings. His head snapped up. Propellers blurred in Sephiroth's sight. Omega A1 had arrived. With a hand wave, he flagged it down. Masemune continued to pierce any who dared draw near. In their slanted eyes shone loathing, but fear was a more potent emotion than hate. A rope ladder fell from the air vehicle. Gripping Eskallanilna tightly he performed an acrobatic miracle by twisting mid-air to snare the rope life-line. Rope burn...but far better that mild discomfort than the sting of an origami in his gut.
Sephiroth hopped into the helicopter and grabbed the co-pilot's seat. In the pilot's chair, a twenty-year old brunette steered the helm. Lanine Trayal, another lieutenant of his, currently heading Shin-ra's Air Force. "Glad to see you, sir!" she hollered against the wind.
His lips tightened. The socially-defunct Midgarian was unaccustomed to discourse aside from orders given and orders taken. This did not qualify as either. "Where's the whole damn air force?"
While her superior detested flying Lanine seemed at home in the skies. "Recalled to North Corel, sir!"
Sephiroth sighed.
"Where to, sir?"
Frowning, the silver-haired warrior glanced below. Omega A1 continued to soar over Wutai, affording him an opportunity to view the army's progress. His side was winning–as fully expected–but the amounting losses totaled past his tally. Wutai had been warned. By the camp-traitor presumably. Nevertheless, smoke arose from several oriental edifices. Half of Wutai had fallen to his forces. Judging from the progress, Shin-ra would seize the other half in a matter of hours.
Alpha has taken the War-larkil Tower. Excellent. Delta is advancing upon the new market. Hmm. A little behind schedule...
"Sir?" Lanine prompted.
The General then realized he'd yet to issue an order. Biting his lip thoughtfully, he began, "Return to the south-west side. Land her down by the Turtle Paradise–"As the head of SOLDIER spoke, the PHS lit up scarlet. Incoming message: Urgent. Flicking the switch, Sephiroth answered, "General Sephiroth here."
"Sir," Sephiroth instantly recognized Michael's voice. "New Wutain recruitment's are advancing from the Da-Chao Mountains. I think you'd better take a look at this."
Michael's dire tone unnerved the General. Still, Sephiroth had enough on his itinerary to deal with. "Lieutenant, handle it yourself. General out–"Before he could terminate the conversation, a stomach-wrenching scream could be heard. Sephiroth pressed the PHS closer to his ear but deciphered no other sound; his calls had no answer. Lanine looked positively ashen. Since her inappropriate approaches to her superior failed, the lieutenant had set her sights lower and taken a fancy to his subordinate.
Her soft-blue eyes pleaded.
Sephiroth sighed. "To the Da-Chao Mountains."
He never saw it coming.
Despite the inner paranoia, Sephiroth couldn't have remotely suspected another ambush. It was, after all, his own army–a one man army, at that. Shots had rung out, disabling Omega A1. Michael's rescue, immediately postponed, became sheer survival. A gasline ruptured. The helicopter caught fire instantly, sending it and its occupants plummeting to the mercilessly sharp rocks below. Lanine did not escape. The twenty-two year old war veteran remained quite fortunate as a levitation spell fortified him vertically long enough for the General to reach the Da-Chao Mountain and heave himself aboard.
Betrayed. Again.
No, not Terence. He didn't know where Terence was. Probably still within Wutai's stinking streets. Probably dead.
"I underestimated you, Sephiroth. You do run a good war. Good enough to kill your fellow man."
Utter lunacy, the silver-haired warrior thought as he straightened. I am not related to those backwards savages!
"But now the war games are over. Time for the General to fall."
As if compelled by cue, Sephiroth glanced down from the unstable ledge of the orient rockface. A tiny plume of smoke arose from the felled Omega A1. Enough said. Returning his gaze to the speaker, the General attained a clearer view. Yes, a young insolent man of twenty-something, who, for all the Wutain attire, held a Shin-ra riffle. At his side, the anti-Masemune, Murasame, stayed sheathed. As a lithe raven, he remained perched upon the 'nose' of the Da-Chao statue that made up the mountains. Winds shrieked softly as Sephiroth squinted his elegant green eyes.
His lips parted as the traitor unmasked himself. "I had thought better of you, lieutenant," the General said coldly as he clutched Masemune.
Amusement flickered over Michael's face. Disdainfully, the former subordinate tossed the gun off the cliff. It fell soundlessly, ominously. "Thinking? Ah, since you do so little of that, it wouldn't stand to reason you do it all that well...now would it?"
Sephiroth refused to spar words with him. "Before I rip out your treacherous heart," he whispered icily. "Tell me why you dared turn upon Shin-ra."
His former lieutenant watched him thoughtfully. "Because...I don't belong to Shin-ra...and neither do you."
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yes. We belong to Wutai. Ours is the blood of the god Da-Chao."
To that, the Head of SOLDIER laughed, "Ridiculous."
A smile by Michael sent involuntary shivers through the General. "Deny it as you may, your ancestry undoubtedly stems from Wutai. Your eyes are slanted as ours. Your hair is that of Da-Chao's mistress, Ky-lia: moon-silver. Blessed Wutai, Sephiroth, you even have the cheekbones of her!" A chuckle. "Your soul belongs to Da-Chao."
Thrusting his black cloak aside and whipping out Masemune, Sephiroth snarled, "My soul is my own."
At the sight of Eskallanilna, Michael leapt down from the statue to land a foot away. Wind hissed as the two former allies eyed each other. A prickling sensation alerted Sephiroth that more Mako was afoot. Before he could comment, however, his opponent's form shimmered. A golden brilliance spread from the Wutain's palms, lit by a simple crimson materia orb. It shone so fiercely, his image vanished at the center. It expanded to envelop Michael, altering his appearance. At that horrifying moment, Sephiroth realized that his defected lieutenant stood there no longer.
Da-Chao, legendary god of Wutai, had been summoned.
Screams erupted as the combatants engaged. Michael, now fused with Da-Chao, possessed unthinkable strength. He obtained the early–and perhaps only–lead by rushing his opponent, forcing their shoulders to violently collide. It shocked Sephiroth to realize his physical prowess was insufficient to maintain his balance. The ledge vanished beneath his feet.
The General would fall, quite literally, in his first round of battle.
No, come, don't let me die!
As if from a separate entity, a gloved hand burst from Sephiroth to grasp the sheer rockface. Irony could indeed be his life's theme–the stony finger that currently sustained his life also represented the creature who intended to kill him. Masemune remained firmly gripped by his other hand, humming hatefully in tune to its opposite, Murasame. All five digits stung from suspending the young veteran.
Not for much longer, however.
Michael's distorted voice could be heard amid the disquiet wind. "Amusing, don't you think, that you die within the land of your birth...traitor?"
Sephiroth didn't find it all that humorous–but then, he was the one on the dying end.
Murasame–an impeccable length of diamond-steel, it rose high to seemingly slice the sun in half in the General's most bizarre vision. He felt the air press down in a deadly descent. In desperation, Masemune's wielder lifted the blade to ward off the blow.
Masemune–another immaculate blade, the anti to Murasame, sang sharply as it deflected the attack. Painful rivulets that lightninged down his shoulder told him the parry had succeeded. Fighting two battles, and losing both fast, Sephiroth gradually weakened from the ordeal. With a twist of his wrist, the warrior released the blades at the hilt. Michael almost pitched forward, though caught himself at the crucial moment. In a paranormal effort, the General dragged himself onto the ledge.
The ledge buckled not a heartbeat later and Da-Chao lost its index finger.
Breathe. Regain strength. Attack. Gripping Eskallanilna, Sephiroth accomplished all three in a breath. He dove in, scoring an eight-inch gash to 'Michael's' leg. Their screams melted as one: his, of triumph; Michael's, of tragedy. Da-Chao countered with a massive downward cut, then a forward-back-forward kata. Sparks flew at each impact. Masemune to Murasame. The eyes of Wutai's god clashed with those of Midgar's war hero.
And, beneath the mountain's shadow, Wutai burned.
"You have a tainted legacy of terror, Sephiroth. You shame the land of your ancestors. In honor of Wutai I will unmake you!"
Sephiroth's lips twitched. The shock was of the colliding blades all over again; as sharp as lightning and as intense as flames. He, General Sephiroth. Master of Masemune. Head of SOLDIER. Legendary war hero, expert materia-wielder...Inside, the battle-hardened, powerful leader of the strongest force on the Planet, a quiet green-eyed boy screamed.
Taint. Legacy. Terror.
Those words. Always those words. What did they mean? Would he ever be free of them?
Sors Immannius. Et Imanis.
In the black recess of the mind, a voice, soft and loving, "You are my legacy, my son...Sephiroth."
That scream intensified tenfold. Emerald eyes flashed, wild and erratic. Da-Chao slammed the blades as one, knocking his victim to his knees. A perfect capitalization on his adversary's distraction. Pressure, as such Sephiroth couldn't resist, immobilized the General. From the force of the two powerfully clashing opponents, the ground shuddered, threatening to collapse altogether. Sweat poured down the porcelain face, now covered with mountain dust. Before him, the Wutain god loomed, a moment away from crushing 'the traitor of the tainted legacy'.
No!
No!
No!
He would not die. He could not die. He served no purpose in life yet the desire to live is strong. Unbeknownst to himself, the General began muttering, as if in delirium, the sacred language of the Guardian and the Ancients. "Veni, veni, venias!" came his wild shriek.
A prayer of the dying. A cry to the higher powers.
"No me mori facias!"
A prayer of the living. A cry to his mother.
The image...of the face in the water...haunted his mind's eye.
"Ira vehementi!"
Glistening golden light rained from the heavens. It halloed the General's statue as his right hand twirled above his head. Flames columned from his palms. Explosive heat engulfed Michael-as-Da-Chao, hurling him backwards and crashing into the ground with enough force to inspire another mini-quake. The pressure mercifully vanquished, Sephiroth crumpled. Tremors seized his muscles. The strength of Wutai's god, that of which can crush bones, might have provoked the exhaustion...but it could just have easily been prompted by the shock of the unnatural power he'd employed.
Not natural. Never been natural.
Trudging to his weary feet, Sephiroth cast a glance at Wutai. Decimated. Smoke continued heavenward from the highest edifices, but, for the majority, the siege was over. As he expected, Shin-ra had begun its occupation process. He lifted a dirty hand to his throbbing forehead.
Son! Sephiroth!
Son! Sephiroth!
Again, the twin voices. Both women. Both spoke with loving concern. The silver-haired warrior spun on his heel. Murasame sliced through the air, sailing straight at him. Sephiroth whirled to evade the weapon. Murasame flew off the mountain, out of sight.
Agony electrifying his systems to near shutdown, Sephiroth staggered to his former subordinate. Deadly Eskallanilna balanced in a sweaty palm. Beneath the bitter allies-turned-adversaries Wutai choked in a sea of smoke, a sea of bodies. The old ways would be vanquished. The new ways would be embraced.
And all it took was the death of thousands.
"Do...not...forget...the legacy..."
"To hell with the legacy! To hell with Wutai!" And with that, the General unleashed the remaining energy in his emerald-hued materia on Masemune. Pure as natal essence a blue-white bolt speared down to incinerate Michael/Da-Chao. Only dust remained.
The chopping of air advised Sephiroth that he was not alone. A helicopter with a Shin-ra insignia hovered by the broken ledge. Its whipping, caused by the propellers, fluttered his lovely quicksilver hair and his cloak breathed as shadow. The dust didn't stand a chance. Bound by the force of the air, it coiled his blade thrice then disappeared into the afternoon sky.
"General!"
Sephiroth glanced at the cockpit of the helicopter. As evidenced by his presence, Terence did not perish, commanding Omega B1. With Wutai already captured the airforce was now useless. Whoever had sent them clearly knew nothing of timing. At least it would spare the General of the discomfort, and danger, of climbing down the Da-Chao Mountains.
Safely in the helicopter, the Head of SOLDIER surveyed his victory. Proud Wutai...at long last under the iron heel of Shin-ra. Midgar would profit. Wutai would be sucked dry and tossed aside as a juicy melon. And all it took was the death of thousands. All it took was one soul.
With a flick of his hand, Sephiroth tossed the map to the streets below.
And they called it the Meaningless War.
"Indeed, meaningless, for the resources Shin-ra gained from the rape of Wutai were ultimately not enough to justify the manpower used to take her," Vincent drawled, his blood-red eyes seething on the pages as if burn right through them. "Attempting to rationalize with those higher up, though, is a waste of time. Sephiroth clearly realized that."
Luke uttered a squawk, the sort chocobos give when all flustered. "Yes, well, Shin-ra was quite...evil..."
When the former-Turk turned those eyes on Luke, the scientist blanched. "Evil hardly begins to describe it. Wutai did nothing to provoke the attack. I know her people. For over three hundred years they have merely lived their lives, harming no one. They are benevolent, gentle...a people that didn't earn that which Shin-ra inflicted upon her."
"You seem to know quite a bit about Wutai."
"I should. It's my ancestral homeland. Sephiroth's as well."
At that proclamation Luke's bright blue eyes nearly popped. "Really? Fascinating...And how, might I ask, did you draw that conclusion..." His pen hovered over a pad of paper, his expression eager.
Vincent chuckled, his voice sounding like bells in a fouled church. "All in due time, my friend. All in due time."