Disclaimer – I don't own FF7
The Fall
By Crimson Skies
Books of varying thicknesses were piled in haphazard fashion. Near the door a tall stack wavered precariously. The thin, green covered tome at its top tilted at an angle, poised to fall. Entire shelves had been stripped bare, their contents deposited on the floor. The dark slats of beaten wood, long devoid of any shine, sported evidence that the books they'd once held had been relocated recently. Dark streaks were visible through the lighter shade of thick dust and grime, accumulated throughout years of neglect and testament to the recent disturbance of the room. The wooden table in the center of the room groaned under the weight of recently read books.
The neatly ordered spines of the untouched volumes were the more disturbing. They stood ominous witness to everything that had transpired in this place. The titles that graced the sides were written in many different hands, typed in many different fonts, tooled in different types of leather, but all had one thing in common. They belonged here. These dark and aloof texts would have been out of place anywhere but here. It was a dreary purpose they served, and they fulfilled it well.
Despite the antique shelving and dusty atmosphere this was no archive, nor was it a library. This was a laboratory. Wedged between the shelves, up against one wall, were a pair of glass tubes. The containers were large enough to hold an adult human upright inside of them. Dark, opaque spots could be seen lining the insides. They were proof that mako had once filled these containers, for only solidified mako possessed the kind of muted glow that a trained eye could notice.
The lighting in the room was such that the mako glow was just noticeable enough. It was not natural light, for no sunlight could filter down into this hidden, underground room. Even sunlight would wither and die here. The feeble illumination came instead from old fashioned lamps and candles, outlining the stacks of books and scientific instruments with orange light. It caused colors to distort, giving them a similar, dusky shade. The highlighted objects contrasted strange with the charcoal shadows filling the crevices where the light of faint flames could not reach.
Covered by the shadows and bookshelves, it was almost possible to overlook the walls and ceiling of unforgiving stone. They were cold and unwelcoming, discouraging all who would enter the room. It was a far cry from the solid comfort of sun-warmed earth. The location of this place was appropriate. Secrets like the ones this room advertised should be dead and buried, where no sane soul would willingly venture to find them.
Even so, this place had been disturbed recently. A man stood next to a stack of books in the short hall area connecting the first, more open space, to a second, more enclosed one. The smooth lines of his face spoke of youth, but not childhood. This was a man grown, but not yet aged. On his back was strapped a sword nearly as tall as he was and at least half a foot wide. The scratches and nicks spoke of hard use. The man's shoulders and well-toned muscles spoke of a fighter in his prime. A faint scar on the side of his face agreed with the surety of knowledge gained through experience. The folds of his purple uniform did little to hide the tension in his frame. His spikes of pitch black hair strained wildly against the dampening atmosphere. There was defiance in them, a reflection of their owner. Mako-bright eyes were slightly wider than seemed natural from some rising emotion.
Directly within the sight of those startled eyes was the offshoot of the main room. In this small alcove stood a desk, piled higher with written works than the table in the previous room. Many of the shelves here had also been emptied of their contents. The glow of light was stronger here where there were more lamps, but not quite strong enough for average eyes to read by.
There was a second person, in the process of standing. One gloved hand still rested on a book just closed. The second hand was clenched tightly around the black bound hilt of a sword. The weapon was anything but ordinary. At least six feet of razor sharp metal was encased in a black sheath. It was thin and would have looked almost delicate if not for the deadly aura that surrounded it, whispering its name within the depths of one's mind - 'Masamune'. It was a silent reflection of the master who held it.
The sword's power was muted, however, in the presence of the man who held it. This man was garbed mostly in black. The trench coat he wore reached his calves, but would have dragged upon the ground if worn by most others. Heavy, metal shoulder plates gleamed eerily in the firelight. There was an invisible power evident in his limbs. It lingered around his person like clouds on a mountain, misty and intangible but most definitely there. Where the other man was a fighter, this one was death incarnate.
His sharp face was almost feminine. Thin lips were stretched into an unpleasant smirk, it's meaning evidently deeper than simple arrogance or amusement. Long silver hair fell around his face and cascaded down his back like a tame waterfall. Nothing about this man was tame however. Something in his face spoke of snapped control. It was something more than the ugly smirk or the set of his thin eyebrows. Nor was it the dark smudges under his eyelids from one too many nights without sleep.
Without a doubt, it was his eyes. Jade irises glowed with a strong intensity. The pupils were not round, but slit like a cat's. Even thought the light was dim, they were narrowed to the point where they were barely visible. They did not see other man, but looked past him. Unholy purpose lingered in their depths – to destroy.