Behemoths are lurking but only 'one' is ever heard or spotted for any given time. If there are watchful parents, not even the loudest of the fights seemed to incite them to action. But maybe that is just the nature of the behemoth to teach their cubs how cruel the world is.
Maybe it is just the cub alone, drawn into the Fox's realm while its parents search and wreak havoc on whatever world it had been drawn from.
Vincent has an extreme advantage. Not just the supplies he brought with him but also Sephiroth's. Water, rations... first aid. And a bowl to create with lore what might be needed for emergencies. Using the cave of the now-dead troll to his advantage, the gunman had paused to tend to his injuries. He knows his body will mend over time. It always does. But what precious few minutes he spends now is going to be returned with interest later. To.... perhaps cause guilt, later, for letting the boy suffer more than he should.
Five, ten... fifteen minutes. Injuries cared for, water and and a small amount of food imbibed. Then it's time to hunt again.
The harpies are lingering. They heard the morning's events, witnessed one following the other. They knew the score and it was going to be a delight to see what happened. And the feast they were given; the nightstalkers aren't the only scavengers rejoicing today. And maybe, just maybe the two will mutually assure the other's destruction leaving the harpies with a front row seat of how it plays out.
Worth being a little more silent than customary, no?
But even they take turns, stay in shade, filch some of the dead monster meat from the nightstalkers, and otherwise get to have breaks. As the afternoon bleeds on, mirages become distracting and the ground seems as hot as the sun above. For a very long time, there is no sound of the behemoth-like monster crashing around. There is only the sound of monsters having a scrumble over the choice meals left in the wake of Sephiroth's journey and an occasional harpy's racous laugh. The prey, the predators, they are saving their energy in the extremes of the day.
But all that means is the shade and shadows and resting places are going to be occupied Prey tends to burrow here; or reside in cracks too small for the predators to reach. The predators are the ones lying in wait in places that might be suited for a wounded human to occupy.
There is also a non-zero chance that even were Sephiroth to find somewhere empty, the harpies would try something to make sure the game continues and the audience of themselves will not grow bored.
Hours pass and far beyond the clever traps meant to stall it, near where the strange dugout was discovered- had it been heat sickness? hallucination? a desperate attempt to try and find water?-, the sound of the 'behemoth' roars to life again for a time. He was past the trolls and the trail, while clear, was telling Vincent he had gotten closer. ... Close enough to scent again and make certain that he was not blindly walking into Sephiroth's sights.
One of the perks of metamorphosis is how his body heals; another reason to have used such a volatile 'gift' sparingly. Vincent smells the beasts, the death and the decay that's slowly been seeping into the desert wind as the day wore on along the trail of carnage. But these were not what he sought. Only one thing, not really a monster, yet not truly a human being.
Even if they didn't kill each other, surely in the resulting scramble the survivor would be easier to pick off! The harpies are predators in their own rights when they chose to be, and a crippled victim is an easy victim, usually. The times when it's not is probably why they haven't gone for a brazen frontal assault yet. Even if nobody else dies at all, there's food around now!
It doesn't mean the dirty birds wouldn't happily watch the unfolding show. They already know how it's going to go, with one prey with food and supplies and precious water, and the other distinctly not.
For a while there's something.. like peace and quiet. It won't last, it can't last, but Sephiroth takes advantage while he can, wings fanned out to dump as much heat as possible, finding deeper recesses to settle in as noon drags into afternoon and begins casting long dark shadows again across the ground, carefully dug out prizes wrapped in his hole-pocked shirt by his side. The jacket alone would do for a while, he knew better than to discard either with the cold of night pending. Occasionally the black bundle shifts and wriggles. He ignores it save to make sure nothing creeps out of any of those holes, watching instead the settling harpies content to wait him and Vincent out. Perhaps the purple-furred predator had gotten bored and moved on, or decided to feast on an easier, more available kill of the many creatures left fordead. The harpies are not agreeable to this peace and quiet, cursing and kicking down rocks and insults, settling only a few meters out of reach to taunt.
Up until the teen proves he's far more lively than they're ready to deal with, the low muttered oath the only warning even they get before the bloody figure pounces with unearthly speed to drag one screaming to the ground, crushing bones in the impact but not killing her.
She's left alive to thrash broken in the sun and dust, and the others withdraw further; he was going to have to find better cover.
It's a waste of valuable time, the unpleasant stickiness of blood drying to uncomfortable crusts, but at least that didn't leave a steady trail. Longer rests between moving on, stillness allowing a little bit of the dizziness to clear. A little. SOLDIERs all healed fast, but what the bullets and fall hadn't done, dehydration and heat stroke were trying to. The roar that echoes across the desert marks the return of the behemoth, and the harpies giggle and bounce on their chosen perches, eager for blood not their own to be spilled.
Sephiroth has spent too long in one small area. To sensitive noses, he's easy to pick out, sweat and worse on the hot dry wind. He's also aware of it, freezing in place for a long moment, calculating as best he can through sluggish thoughts before unbinding the damaged wing and snatching up the tied-off shirt off the ground, which writhes in his grip. The small, oddly-shaped behemoth's prey doesn't smell distant, it smells close. Very close. Fresh and new and panting in the heat, heartbeat loud in his own ears. Close enough that for a moment, a precious breath or two, it seems as if Vincent's finally run down his quarry. Once white wings, now stained with dust and drying blood, spread in a wide arc, the gleams of sun through the long shadows and rocks flashing across the countless slitted, malevolent eyes that dot the primaries in lurid green and an almost tangible violent intent. A five foot gangly teen becomes a fifteen foot unknown monster in one wide stretch. Big, startling, intended to be frightening to unthinking beasts that tended to react poorly to being confronted unexpectedly by something MUCH larger than themselves.
It hurts, intensely, searingly, when he abandons the ground and the safety of sheltering rocks and blurs skyward straight over the head of the misshapen behemoth, the buffet of the first powerful downbeat barely stirring the sand and dust in his wake. His wing still isn't working as it should, but it doesn't need to for long, any delicate mending his body had made to the terrible injuries visited upon it shattering in the process of only a handful of rapid beats.
As fast as he'd been found, he's gone again, harpies scattering with shrill screams of surprise.
There's no choice now. He's going to have to find somewhere more defensible than the open, before the adrenaline crashed and so did he, the burst of effort coming with its own bitter price. He's running out of time. Any further fighting, and...
His scent, once so sharp and alien/human, fades on the evening wind, enveloped by the stench of cooked monster. Discernible still to keen enough senses. Back the way they'd come.
The harpies had become a secondary problem. Given they were predisposed to be an audience and only participate if the opportunity allows, they were worth keeping an eye on but not so much as to pay less attention to other dangerous. Traps and more aggressive beasts and the ordinary, mundane dangers of a desert environment. Heat and injury quicksands.
At least there's been no giant antlions.
Metamorphosis came swiftly but it was always the most dangerous as it settled on whether he was going to be more beast or man. It had always been better to have a target before him to focus the aggressive tendencies upon. A clear, solid and very violent goal. This time it was very passive; to scent and figure out the next direction this chase was going to take him. But it was a sore miscalculation; everything around him said the prey-target was close, very close. There is a rustle of sound- the sudden movement of air brought by the downward sweep of a massive wingspan- and the sun caught green spots against bloody, dirty white and black feathers.
For precious seconds, Vincent's control slips as his human mind is subsumed by the galian beast's base instincts. The red-maned beast immediately gives way to the huge, multi-eye 'monster' that emerged from hiding, though it was more the urge to avoid a surprise attack and not fear that drove him. No, the galian beast clings to the side of a boulder, massive claws gripping outcropping and sometimes sinking into the surface as he readies to launch again and a defiant roar of challenge sings in the air.
Yes, he is swift and launches quickly from that point but the seconds needed to jump clear of any 'attack' was more than ample for Sephiroth to launch himself forward and disappear, leaving the behemoth-like creature to pounce and miss even so much as a trailing feather. There are sounds of fury, not least because his human consciousness is gaining ground again to rein the instincts back in, the transformation itself back in, wasted if nothing else until there's only the man in black and red crouched in the sand, breathing heavily.
The teenager bought time and got away. And though Vincent has the direction, it will take him a moment to steady himself. It will provide a nice lead, though this one the man can close with relative ease. Vincent knows that now; the memory of the wounded SOLDIER's blood scent, sweat and fear-not-fear remained both in his head and burning in his nostrils. Though never once did he literally do so, the gunman feels like he can taste it.
Sephiroth is dying or is in danger of it. Freshly reopened wounds. Fleeing instead of seeking to crush the monster.
Guilt will be sorely felt later. For now, Vincent Valentine had a job to do and he pushed himself to his feet in order to go accomplish it. Scanning above gives no clues to indicate Sephiroth did more than fly straight back the way they came. No mid-flight switchback and he has likely gone to ground again. Who would want to be a massive flying target in these circumstances? Not to a beast, not to the mysterious 'hunter' who first shot him down.
But that way also lay what Vincent had come to think of as... somewhere you do not want to be when the sun goes down- troll country- and it was getting close to dusk. So what purpose would it serve...
Ah, of course. One place where a beast might be cautious but a man trying to out think one... Vincent sets off, taking his time, giving Sephiroth a bit more time but ultimately arriving at the most likely place to wait out a night, as sounds of trolls stirring in other caves preparing to go out now that the accursed sun is sinking can be heard. Except in one cave, silent as a grave.
"Sephiroth."
The voice at the entrance is familiar. But is it truly unsurprising? Perhaps, in that he arrived first. The question that should be truly asked in this moment is what, if any, response there might be.
But even if there is no answer, Vincent will eventually step in. The loaded gun is in his right hand but it is not yet held at ready. Sephiroth has seen how fast he can move though and the journey through the day seems to have left him dusty with traces of dried blood, but looking none the worse for wear. Traps are foremost on his mind and darkness doesn't appear to bother him, whether or not the ambient light of the glowing mushrooms remain.
In the dark, there's a scattering of yellow mushrooms that shine with their own light. With enough time for eyes to adjust to their dim glow, it's easy to pick out the hulking corpse of the dead troll, the scorch marks, the signs of damage. And the contentedly growing mushrooms, now freshly fertilized with blood, their faint radiance also illuminating the skeleton of some hapless other adventurer.. or mostly human-seeming monster, tossed carelessly to one side. It's quiet, it's cool, and in the furthest recesses, of all things humid. Maybe that's what the mushrooms were doing; they didn't grow well in deserts normally after all.
And in those furthest recesses,Sephiroth's tucked himself up carefully in order to provide what pressure he could to the worst of the troublesome wounds he's collected, still stubbornly and persistently not dead. His flight had come at considerable cost, and the minutes or more he'd gained to evade the behemoth may well be the last thing he does for quite some time.
He's done his best to ensure that the behemoth cub would be joining him.
There to wait, either dozing or flirting with unconsciousness in the quiet. One way or another he wasn't going anywhere under his own power for a while. Few hunters would be interested in leaving the feast at the cave's upper parts to hunt down something else further in, if they dared troll territory after dark at all.
Vincent's encroaching upon the troll's ex-lair is for now unnoticed by any other skulking trolls considering leaving their own dens nearby, and for a minute or so, after he speaks up, there's no answer. It's too much to hope, of course, that perhaps his target had finally faltered and surrendered to the inevitable.
In the dark, past the glow of mushrooms, there is the brief gleam of green eyes, mako bright, like a cat's unearthly reflection at the barest hint of any light. The silence stretches on, as Sephiroth thinks about a fluttering cloak left obviously spotted on a mountain side, a lure. The points of green go out as he comes to his own conclusion and closes his eyes.
"Be careful of the snakes." He's audible, for better or worse, coherent enough to think, to speak.
It would have been kinder if the fall killed him. But what snakes?
By the dim light of the mushrooms, fat serpentine shapes are creeping about here and there, short bodies and wedge shaped heads, dug out long ago from their lair under stones. He'd dug them out and kept them, and now they were free to explore. One's stayed close to the heat source that is Sephiroth; without him moving, he's not a threat. Vincent on the other hand..
Here in the dark there might be more signs that Vincent had always been more than an ordinary human... or ordinary Turk. A gleam in ruby eyes. The lack of any sign of discomfort despite how he's dressed and had spent the day toiling through the desert. Adequate food and water isn't going to explain that away.
These were to his advantage of course. What Turk would be so insane as to think they could take out Sephiroth, even a young one, with an pistol with iron sights and a long fall?
The sound of clothes rustling as he moves emphasizes the lack of footfalls. Grit and stones should rattle and grind under Vincent's boots but for a time this is lacking. It.... was determined in his best interest to be cautious with the sounds of approach. To step with preternatural lightness for the sake of silence and traps.
Until he's sure Sephiroth is here. When the teen warns him of the venomous serpents, Vincent stills. It isn't as if he hadn't noticed the shadowy movement that was not the target. But now he is looking for their presence and marking them.
The nearest hiss a warning when this time, a purposeful step forward causes the expected grate of contact with the floor of the cave. A sudden strike does not reach the gunman, but it affords him an idea of the angle which the snakes will aim.
Reason enough to be cautious, but it seems this is a day to be thankful for eccentric and fully plated footwear.
"Seems I won't be sitting down."
It can be taken for humor. But while a dryly delivered murmur, the mood is far too somber to suggest he is trying to lighten the atmosphere.
He finds a place against a wall. It's near to the back with Sephiroth; he will certainly benefit from the limited sanctuary of the cave as well by not lingering closer to the entrance than the hidden shadows. Mindful of the vipers' movements and mood, he settles and stills. His arms are crossed, the gun still held in his right hand, but... nothing right away. In part it is caution; for who better to know that a cornered, injured beast is always at its most dangerous? Half-closing his eyes, Vincent listens to the wheeze and rattle of air escaping from lungs from places it was never meant to leave.
"I want to apologize. For miscalculating." Not for what he intended, what he still seems to intend. "Wanted this to be quick."
He's sorry it had to drag out like this. It's not as if Vincent blames Sephiroth for trying to survive. Just that he didn't want the boy to suffer.
It would have been enough to deal with the behemoth cub, they're not immune to venom.Someone with metal greaves however, didn't really have much to fear from long serpent's fangs unless they got down. He hadn't meant the trap to be anything to inconvenience another human. Another presumable human. But that's awfully quiet for a human to be walking, with such gear on. Normal people's eyes don't shine in the dark like his do, but he had mako and countless 'treatments' to thank for it, for his quiet, for his speed.
He remains where he is; caution is certainly warranted with how long it's taken to drive him to bay, and the fact that he probably could still move if he absolutely had to in spite of injuries that would kill even most SOLDIERs. Sephiroth was not, even at his young age, most SOLDIERs. But it's hard to think, through the dizziness and disorientation, and so he takes his time. Fighting back effectively, or even ineffectively, wasn't going to work at this point. Not for hours at best.
Wanted this to be quick.
Eyes slit back open, a ring of mako fire around wide pupils, gaze steady, measuring. It takes time to work one thought into another, but he had all night now. "You could have just asked." For all that it's a dry rasp, he sounds .. indignant. Maybe he misunderstands what Vincent's telling him? ... No. He wanted to test dying out anyway. But in more controlled circumstances, where everything might not get devoured by random monsters and put them beyond his reach forever. And ideally, a method much less uncomfortable than this. Turks don't really shoot people down just to see what might happen, Vincent's ... apparent bloodyminded intention would fit with orders, as would this apparent calm, it didn't register as a vendetta. So why, really?
Maybe it would be more clear when he could think without his mind being wrapped in cotton.
When he moves, it's with the uncoordination of someone who can't really feel what they're doing, like a puppetmaster pulling at strings instead of smooth motion, but there's no effort to rise, or even uncoil beyond what is absolutely necessary to roll a gleaming materia from his pocket and let it bounce harmlessly against the canyon floor. Picking it up wouldn't work for a few hours yet. And then, with trembling effort, withdraw a gold chain and pendant, dark with blood, half-open. This one is more worth the effort, more important, far more important than anything else. The motion disturbs the viper which had been using him as a heat rock and though it hisses and coils, its strike bounces off the locket harmlessly.
"Then." Miscalculation. Did the Turks want to know exactly how tough a SOLDIER was? Surely not, this was too reckless. "Hold onto these. Finish what you started." He's going to want them back, when speaking wasn't an effort of forcing sound past dry throat, out wounded lungs. Should it be taken he's content to let his arm drop back down, nerveless, closing his eyes again to the faint yellow light of the mushrooms when his vision blurs suspiciously. Left alone, by nightfall tomorrow he'd possibly be able to seek Agrona Academy. If left alone. He doesn't think he'll have that opportunity, and it's strange and twistingly uncomfortable how intense the regret is, that he hadn't been able to properly document any of it. "I miscalculated too."
"Didn't know skinchangers were real." How could he have planned for that?
Would it be safe to bet mako had played its role in Hojo's experiment on Vincent's body? Probably. Maybe that explains the way the gunman's eyes are. Or it could have been the other byproduct of the Lifestream. The natural, terrible darkness of life's sins and terror and fear.
He could have... asked? This seems to startle Vincent, causing his eyes to crease in a manner of confusion. Though with Sephiroth's condition, it's possible the words are nonsensical because the teenager's mental state is diminished. ...For now it is not worth remarking for fear of sounding as though he were mocking Sephiroth's plight. He might wonder about it... and later understand it to his chagrin.
But no one said the aftermath was going to be easy for the gunman. He wasn't even deluding himself.
"..." For a second, Vincent's gaze trails after the rolling Esuna sphere. 'Hold on to them.' Like this was going to be a temporary thing. Back on Gaia maybe Sephiroth had come to believe that. Scientists would repair him, send him back out even if he was shot to death. It was not something he would put past Hojo to try. But here? At least he could give the boy a peaceful burial. Burn the body. Salt the ashes. Leave nothing behind. And pray if there's a Lifestream here, his essence doesn't persist.
It is the locket that Vincent finally chooses to move for the sake of. He doesn't know what it is or what's in it that's so important to Sephiroth, but the teenager's effort to hold it up and hold onto it so it doesn't hit the ground as the materia had is worthy of noting.
If it's a trap, which Vincent hesitated to consider for a moment, he chooses to take the bait. The viper's strike reminds him of a presence near the collapsed boy. Thus as he reaches for the locket, it is for more than the right being occupied with his gun that he uses his left hand. The fangs clash with the brass plates harmlessly while the locket is claimed and safely cupped.
Familiars are... common here. And Vincent could, even if he had already mentioned the black chocobo, have easily claimed it was just another beast shape granted by the Fox. It would have made a lot of sense if he had kept it hidden.
"As far as I know, I'm unique." It won't be denied. "Not unlike yourself."
A product of the scientists of Gaia who chose to play with the natural order to try and create a superior being.
Vincent begins to stand again. A study of his gun is made; something he had made sure was already loaded, but... habit. But to check the clip would mean needing to empty his left and he intends to do just that, a brief, cursory look at the half open...
The dim light is enough. Painfully enough. Would Sephiroth be cognizant enough to recognize how Vincent doesn't just still, he freezes? And then opens the locket further. He shouldn't have.
He really shouldn't have. Vincent's gaze snaps up to focus on the dying(?) teen.
"Where did you get this?!" Emotion, something he feels but so rarely openly expressed on a raw level, fills his question.
There had only been the one, final trap, and Vincent, garbed as he was, was frustratingly well protected versus vipers. Especially with an Esuna rolling around. It hadn't been meant for him, but the unprotected behemoth, likely to have died in the cave with the teen who'd spent time digging them out, wrapping them up and taking them with him. Now, out of energy and out of strength, Sephiroth has no further tricks planned. Those required effort.
Even the huff of a faint, wheezing laugh takes effort. Unique. He isn't - he's just one of the prototypes. There would be others, many others. Hundreds. He'd say so if he felt capable of it, but that was sliding away. Even now, even all of THIS, it wouldn't kill him, but a couple more shots this close, this unlikely to miss would see to that anyway. He better focus while he can. Remember. It feels like..
Like a vast, suffocating weight, pain bleeding into numbness, his (not fear, he'd been trained out of fear--) anxiousness melting away to calm by degrees even as the ringing in his ears grows louder; he knows what that is at least. Reflexively, the sound of movement draws his attention, gaze a bit unfocused, the gun noted and dismissed. It shouldn't hurt much, one clean shot. The way the Turk freezes is unexpected, but the lack of focus grows visibly worse as Vincent demands where he got it from.
What a stupid question. He got it from an annoying unethical asshole that passed as his caregiver.
But if he wanted to answer, it fails. As does his ability to cling to wakefulness. There'll be no answers to that question, not aloud.
It feels exactly like passing out, routine and ordinary. He'll be disappointed when he wakes up later.
As upset as Vincent clearly gotten, the locket is still held with a cradled, protective care that would ensure it came to no harm. He is not angry at Sephiroth. Angry at... anyone? No, this is shock, distress over the stunning belonging that the teen cared so much for as to hand it over to his potential killer with such care.
It was impossible for Sephiroth to have known him that this was a trap. But wasn't it also supposed to be impossible that he had known her? Rather than a response to his question, all Vincent receives is a wheezed huff that might have been amusement and... silence.
And he only has himself to blame for this.
In the end it... really shouldn't matter. Ultimately, Sephiroth had always been her son. Vincent had been well aware of that fact, just as he knew the reason he'd decided to do this was about inescapable truths and personal reasons both.
It... was inescapable, right? But he could almost hear her voice, gentle and teasing like it was before.
"...Lucrecia."
Vincent raises his firearm, aims and fires. Gunshots ring out and the cavern fills with flashes of light. Once the echoes fade, the floor has stopped moving. At least enough that Vincent feels safe to pick up the Esuna. It's melded to the gun which is then holstered before he strides to the unconscious SOLDIER. The cloak is removed once again, supplies taken out. He doesn't expect to stabilize Sephiroth; there's too much internal damage. But what he can do is tourniquets, wing bindings and then wrapping the whole of the youth into the scarlet cloak.
He knows he has only a little bit of time before something comes to investigate the sound of the gunshots in the night so he's swift. The wrapped body is lifted as easily as a feather.
If anything lurks in way, they may have to be surprised at the red and black blur that bursts from the opening of the troll cave and nearly straight up, intent on spring-boarding his way to a dubiously safer ledge. Later he will cross the mountain to the other side where Agrona rests on the talons of a chocobo.
He may not know what he's doing right now or exactly why he didn't kill Sephiroth as a final mercy.
Vincent does know why. He isn't permitting himself the opportunity to think about it right now.
But it's not just the selfishness of wanting to find the answer of why Sephiroth had a locket with Lucrecia's picture in it. He... isn't sure he deserves to learn the answer. Vincent is saving the teen because of the creeping, consuming thought that he has made a terrible mistake. Nothing will erase it any more than most of his sins. But he can at least leave the boy his life.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2024-05-01 11:07 pm (UTC)Maybe it is just the cub alone, drawn into the Fox's realm while its parents search and wreak havoc on whatever world it had been drawn from.
Vincent has an extreme advantage. Not just the supplies he brought with him but also Sephiroth's. Water, rations... first aid. And a bowl to create with lore what might be needed for emergencies. Using the cave of the now-dead troll to his advantage, the gunman had paused to tend to his injuries. He knows his body will mend over time. It always does. But what precious few minutes he spends now is going to be returned with interest later. To.... perhaps cause guilt, later, for letting the boy suffer more than he should.
Five, ten... fifteen minutes. Injuries cared for, water and and a small amount of food imbibed. Then it's time to hunt again.
The harpies are lingering. They heard the morning's events, witnessed one following the other. They knew the score and it was going to be a delight to see what happened. And the feast they were given; the nightstalkers aren't the only scavengers rejoicing today. And maybe, just maybe the two will mutually assure the other's destruction leaving the harpies with a front row seat of how it plays out.
Worth being a little more silent than customary, no?
But even they take turns, stay in shade, filch some of the dead monster meat from the nightstalkers, and otherwise get to have breaks. As the afternoon bleeds on, mirages become distracting and the ground seems as hot as the sun above. For a very long time, there is no sound of the behemoth-like monster crashing around. There is only the sound of monsters having a scrumble over the choice meals left in the wake of Sephiroth's journey and an occasional harpy's racous laugh. The prey, the predators, they are saving their energy in the extremes of the day.
But all that means is the shade and shadows and resting places are going to be occupied Prey tends to burrow here; or reside in cracks too small for the predators to reach. The predators are the ones lying in wait in places that might be suited for a wounded human to occupy.
There is also a non-zero chance that even were Sephiroth to find somewhere empty, the harpies would try something to make sure the game continues and the audience of themselves will not grow bored.
Hours pass and far beyond the clever traps meant to stall it, near where the strange dugout was discovered- had it been heat sickness? hallucination? a desperate attempt to try and find water?-, the sound of the 'behemoth' roars to life again for a time. He was past the trolls and the trail, while clear, was telling Vincent he had gotten closer. ... Close enough to scent again and make certain that he was not blindly walking into Sephiroth's sights.
One of the perks of metamorphosis is how his body heals; another reason to have used such a volatile 'gift' sparingly. Vincent smells the beasts, the death and the decay that's slowly been seeping into the desert wind as the day wore on along the trail of carnage. But these were not what he sought. Only one thing, not really a monster, yet not truly a human being.
no subject
Date: 2024-05-02 12:13 am (UTC)It doesn't mean the dirty birds wouldn't happily watch the unfolding show. They already know how it's going to go, with one prey with food and supplies and precious water, and the other distinctly not.
For a while there's something.. like peace and quiet. It won't last, it can't last, but Sephiroth takes advantage while he can, wings fanned out to dump as much heat as possible, finding deeper recesses to settle in as noon drags into afternoon and begins casting long dark shadows again across the ground, carefully dug out prizes wrapped in his hole-pocked shirt by his side. The jacket alone would do for a while, he knew better than to discard either with the cold of night pending. Occasionally the black bundle shifts and wriggles. He ignores it save to make sure nothing creeps out of any of those holes, watching instead the settling harpies content to wait him and Vincent out. Perhaps the purple-furred predator had gotten bored and moved on, or decided to feast on an easier, more available kill of the many creatures left fordead. The harpies are not agreeable to this peace and quiet, cursing and kicking down rocks and insults, settling only a few meters out of reach to taunt.
Up until the teen proves he's far more lively than they're ready to deal with, the low muttered oath the only warning even they get before the bloody figure pounces with unearthly speed to drag one screaming to the ground, crushing bones in the impact but not killing her.
She's left alive to thrash broken in the sun and dust, and the others withdraw further; he was going to have to find better cover.
It's a waste of valuable time, the unpleasant stickiness of blood drying to uncomfortable crusts, but at least that didn't leave a steady trail. Longer rests between moving on, stillness allowing a little bit of the dizziness to clear. A little. SOLDIERs all healed fast, but what the bullets and fall hadn't done, dehydration and heat stroke were trying to. The roar that echoes across the desert marks the return of the behemoth, and the harpies giggle and bounce on their chosen perches, eager for blood not their own to be spilled.
Sephiroth has spent too long in one small area. To sensitive noses, he's easy to pick out, sweat and worse on the hot dry wind. He's also aware of it, freezing in place for a long moment, calculating as best he can through sluggish thoughts before unbinding the damaged wing and snatching up the tied-off shirt off the ground, which writhes in his grip. The small, oddly-shaped behemoth's prey doesn't smell distant, it smells close. Very close. Fresh and new and panting in the heat, heartbeat loud in his own ears. Close enough that for a moment, a precious breath or two, it seems as if Vincent's finally run down his quarry. Once white wings, now stained with dust and drying blood, spread in a wide arc, the gleams of sun through the long shadows and rocks flashing across the countless slitted, malevolent eyes that dot the primaries in lurid green and an almost tangible violent intent. A five foot gangly teen becomes a fifteen foot unknown monster in one wide stretch. Big, startling, intended to be frightening to unthinking beasts that tended to react poorly to being confronted unexpectedly by something MUCH larger than themselves.
It hurts, intensely, searingly, when he abandons the ground and the safety of sheltering rocks and blurs skyward straight over the head of the misshapen behemoth, the buffet of the first powerful downbeat barely stirring the sand and dust in his wake. His wing still isn't working as it should, but it doesn't need to for long, any delicate mending his body had made to the terrible injuries visited upon it shattering in the process of only a handful of rapid beats.
As fast as he'd been found, he's gone again, harpies scattering with shrill screams of surprise.
There's no choice now. He's going to have to find somewhere more defensible than the open, before the adrenaline crashed and so did he, the burst of effort coming with its own bitter price. He's running out of time. Any further fighting, and...
His scent, once so sharp and alien/human, fades on the evening wind, enveloped by the stench of cooked monster. Discernible still to keen enough senses. Back the way they'd come.
no subject
Date: 2024-05-02 03:30 pm (UTC)At least there's been no giant antlions.
Metamorphosis came swiftly but it was always the most dangerous as it settled on whether he was going to be more beast or man. It had always been better to have a target before him to focus the aggressive tendencies upon. A clear, solid and very violent goal. This time it was very passive; to scent and figure out the next direction this chase was going to take him. But it was a sore miscalculation; everything around him said the prey-target was close, very close. There is a rustle of sound- the sudden movement of air brought by the downward sweep of a massive wingspan- and the sun caught green spots against bloody, dirty white and black feathers.
For precious seconds, Vincent's control slips as his human mind is subsumed by the galian beast's base instincts. The red-maned beast immediately gives way to the huge, multi-eye 'monster' that emerged from hiding, though it was more the urge to avoid a surprise attack and not fear that drove him. No, the galian beast clings to the side of a boulder, massive claws gripping outcropping and sometimes sinking into the surface as he readies to launch again and a defiant roar of challenge sings in the air.
Yes, he is swift and launches quickly from that point but the seconds needed to jump clear of any 'attack' was more than ample for Sephiroth to launch himself forward and disappear, leaving the behemoth-like creature to pounce and miss even so much as a trailing feather. There are sounds of fury, not least because his human consciousness is gaining ground again to rein the instincts back in, the transformation itself back in, wasted if nothing else until there's only the man in black and red crouched in the sand, breathing heavily.
The teenager bought time and got away. And though Vincent has the direction, it will take him a moment to steady himself. It will provide a nice lead, though this one the man can close with relative ease. Vincent knows that now; the memory of the wounded SOLDIER's blood scent, sweat and fear-not-fear remained both in his head and burning in his nostrils. Though never once did he literally do so, the gunman feels like he can taste it.
Sephiroth is dying or is in danger of it. Freshly reopened wounds. Fleeing instead of seeking to crush the monster.
Guilt will be sorely felt later. For now, Vincent Valentine had a job to do and he pushed himself to his feet in order to go accomplish it. Scanning above gives no clues to indicate Sephiroth did more than fly straight back the way they came. No mid-flight switchback and he has likely gone to ground again. Who would want to be a massive flying target in these circumstances? Not to a beast, not to the mysterious 'hunter' who first shot him down.
But that way also lay what Vincent had come to think of as... somewhere you do not want to be when the sun goes down- troll country- and it was getting close to dusk. So what purpose would it serve...
Ah, of course. One place where a beast might be cautious but a man trying to out think one... Vincent sets off, taking his time, giving Sephiroth a bit more time but ultimately arriving at the most likely place to wait out a night, as sounds of trolls stirring in other caves preparing to go out now that the accursed sun is sinking can be heard. Except in one cave, silent as a grave.
"Sephiroth."
The voice at the entrance is familiar. But is it truly unsurprising? Perhaps, in that he arrived first. The question that should be truly asked in this moment is what, if any, response there might be.
But even if there is no answer, Vincent will eventually step in. The loaded gun is in his right hand but it is not yet held at ready. Sephiroth has seen how fast he can move though and the journey through the day seems to have left him dusty with traces of dried blood, but looking none the worse for wear. Traps are foremost on his mind and darkness doesn't appear to bother him, whether or not the ambient light of the glowing mushrooms remain.
no subject
Date: 2024-05-02 07:44 pm (UTC)And in those furthest recesses,Sephiroth's tucked himself up carefully in order to provide what pressure he could to the worst of the troublesome wounds he's collected, still stubbornly and persistently not dead. His flight had come at considerable cost, and the minutes or more he'd gained to evade the behemoth may well be the last thing he does for quite some time.
He's done his best to ensure that the behemoth cub would be joining him.
There to wait, either dozing or flirting with unconsciousness in the quiet. One way or another he wasn't going anywhere under his own power for a while. Few hunters would be interested in leaving the feast at the cave's upper parts to hunt down something else further in, if they dared troll territory after dark at all.
Vincent's encroaching upon the troll's ex-lair is for now unnoticed by any other skulking trolls considering leaving their own dens nearby, and for a minute or so, after he speaks up, there's no answer. It's too much to hope, of course, that perhaps his target had finally faltered and surrendered to the inevitable.
In the dark, past the glow of mushrooms, there is the brief gleam of green eyes, mako bright, like a cat's unearthly reflection at the barest hint of any light. The silence stretches on, as Sephiroth thinks about a fluttering cloak left obviously spotted on a mountain side, a lure. The points of green go out as he comes to his own conclusion and closes his eyes.
"Be careful of the snakes." He's audible, for better or worse, coherent enough to think, to speak.
It would have been kinder if the fall killed him. But what snakes?
By the dim light of the mushrooms, fat serpentine shapes are creeping about here and there, short bodies and wedge shaped heads, dug out long ago from their lair under stones. He'd dug them out and kept them, and now they were free to explore. One's stayed close to the heat source that is Sephiroth; without him moving, he's not a threat. Vincent on the other hand..
A final, deadly trap.
no subject
Date: 2024-05-02 08:41 pm (UTC)These were to his advantage of course. What Turk would be so insane as to think they could take out Sephiroth, even a young one, with an pistol with iron sights and a long fall?
The sound of clothes rustling as he moves emphasizes the lack of footfalls. Grit and stones should rattle and grind under Vincent's boots but for a time this is lacking. It.... was determined in his best interest to be cautious with the sounds of approach. To step with preternatural lightness for the sake of silence and traps.
Until he's sure Sephiroth is here. When the teen warns him of the venomous serpents, Vincent stills. It isn't as if he hadn't noticed the shadowy movement that was not the target. But now he is looking for their presence and marking them.
The nearest hiss a warning when this time, a purposeful step forward causes the expected grate of contact with the floor of the cave. A sudden strike does not reach the gunman, but it affords him an idea of the angle which the snakes will aim.
Reason enough to be cautious, but it seems this is a day to be thankful for eccentric and fully plated footwear.
"Seems I won't be sitting down."
It can be taken for humor. But while a dryly delivered murmur, the mood is far too somber to suggest he is trying to lighten the atmosphere.
He finds a place against a wall. It's near to the back with Sephiroth; he will certainly benefit from the limited sanctuary of the cave as well by not lingering closer to the entrance than the hidden shadows. Mindful of the vipers' movements and mood, he settles and stills. His arms are crossed, the gun still held in his right hand, but... nothing right away. In part it is caution; for who better to know that a cornered, injured beast is always at its most dangerous? Half-closing his eyes, Vincent listens to the wheeze and rattle of air escaping from lungs from places it was never meant to leave.
"I want to apologize. For miscalculating." Not for what he intended, what he still seems to intend. "Wanted this to be quick."
He's sorry it had to drag out like this. It's not as if Vincent blames Sephiroth for trying to survive. Just that he didn't want the boy to suffer.
no subject
Date: 2024-05-02 09:13 pm (UTC)He remains where he is; caution is certainly warranted with how long it's taken to drive him to bay, and the fact that he probably could still move if he absolutely had to in spite of injuries that would kill even most SOLDIERs. Sephiroth was not, even at his young age, most SOLDIERs. But it's hard to think, through the dizziness and disorientation, and so he takes his time. Fighting back effectively, or even ineffectively, wasn't going to work at this point. Not for hours at best.
Wanted this to be quick.
Eyes slit back open, a ring of mako fire around wide pupils, gaze steady, measuring. It takes time to work one thought into another, but he had all night now. "You could have just asked." For all that it's a dry rasp, he sounds .. indignant. Maybe he misunderstands what Vincent's telling him? ... No. He wanted to test dying out anyway. But in more controlled circumstances, where everything might not get devoured by random monsters and put them beyond his reach forever. And ideally, a method much less uncomfortable than this. Turks don't really shoot people down just to see what might happen, Vincent's ... apparent bloodyminded intention would fit with orders, as would this apparent calm, it didn't register as a vendetta. So why, really?
Maybe it would be more clear when he could think without his mind being wrapped in cotton.
When he moves, it's with the uncoordination of someone who can't really feel what they're doing, like a puppetmaster pulling at strings instead of smooth motion, but there's no effort to rise, or even uncoil beyond what is absolutely necessary to roll a gleaming materia from his pocket and let it bounce harmlessly against the canyon floor. Picking it up wouldn't work for a few hours yet. And then, with trembling effort, withdraw a gold chain and pendant, dark with blood, half-open. This one is more worth the effort, more important, far more important than anything else. The motion disturbs the viper which had been using him as a heat rock and though it hisses and coils, its strike bounces off the locket harmlessly.
"Then." Miscalculation. Did the Turks want to know exactly how tough a SOLDIER was? Surely not, this was too reckless. "Hold onto these. Finish what you started." He's going to want them back, when speaking wasn't an effort of forcing sound past dry throat, out wounded lungs. Should it be taken he's content to let his arm drop back down, nerveless, closing his eyes again to the faint yellow light of the mushrooms when his vision blurs suspiciously. Left alone, by nightfall tomorrow he'd possibly be able to seek Agrona Academy. If left alone. He doesn't think he'll have that opportunity, and it's strange and twistingly uncomfortable how intense the regret is, that he hadn't been able to properly document any of it. "I miscalculated too."
"Didn't know skinchangers were real." How could he have planned for that?
cw addon: human experimentation
Date: 2024-05-02 10:34 pm (UTC)He could have... asked? This seems to startle Vincent, causing his eyes to crease in a manner of confusion. Though with Sephiroth's condition, it's possible the words are nonsensical because the teenager's mental state is diminished. ...For now it is not worth remarking for fear of sounding as though he were mocking Sephiroth's plight. He might wonder about it... and later understand it to his chagrin.
But no one said the aftermath was going to be easy for the gunman. He wasn't even deluding himself.
"..." For a second, Vincent's gaze trails after the rolling Esuna sphere. 'Hold on to them.' Like this was going to be a temporary thing. Back on Gaia maybe Sephiroth had come to believe that. Scientists would repair him, send him back out even if he was shot to death. It was not something he would put past Hojo to try. But here? At least he could give the boy a peaceful burial. Burn the body. Salt the ashes. Leave nothing behind. And pray if there's a Lifestream here, his essence doesn't persist.
It is the locket that Vincent finally chooses to move for the sake of. He doesn't know what it is or what's in it that's so important to Sephiroth, but the teenager's effort to hold it up and hold onto it so it doesn't hit the ground as the materia had is worthy of noting.
If it's a trap, which Vincent hesitated to consider for a moment, he chooses to take the bait. The viper's strike reminds him of a presence near the collapsed boy. Thus as he reaches for the locket, it is for more than the right being occupied with his gun that he uses his left hand. The fangs clash with the brass plates harmlessly while the locket is claimed and safely cupped.
Familiars are... common here. And Vincent could, even if he had already mentioned the black chocobo, have easily claimed it was just another beast shape granted by the Fox. It would have made a lot of sense if he had kept it hidden.
"As far as I know, I'm unique." It won't be denied. "Not unlike yourself."
A product of the scientists of Gaia who chose to play with the natural order to try and create a superior being.
Vincent begins to stand again. A study of his gun is made; something he had made sure was already loaded, but... habit. But to check the clip would mean needing to empty his left and he intends to do just that, a brief, cursory look at the half open...
The dim light is enough. Painfully enough. Would Sephiroth be cognizant enough to recognize how Vincent doesn't just still, he freezes? And then opens the locket further. He shouldn't have.
He really shouldn't have. Vincent's gaze snaps up to focus on the dying(?) teen.
"Where did you get this?!" Emotion, something he feels but so rarely openly expressed on a raw level, fills his question.
no subject
Date: 2024-05-02 10:55 pm (UTC)Even the huff of a faint, wheezing laugh takes effort. Unique. He isn't - he's just one of the prototypes. There would be others, many others. Hundreds. He'd say so if he felt capable of it, but that was sliding away. Even now, even all of THIS, it wouldn't kill him, but a couple more shots this close, this unlikely to miss would see to that anyway. He better focus while he can. Remember. It feels like..
Like a vast, suffocating weight, pain bleeding into numbness, his (not fear, he'd been trained out of fear--) anxiousness melting away to calm by degrees even as the ringing in his ears grows louder; he knows what that is at least. Reflexively, the sound of movement draws his attention, gaze a bit unfocused, the gun noted and dismissed. It shouldn't hurt much, one clean shot. The way the Turk freezes is unexpected, but the lack of focus grows visibly worse as Vincent demands where he got it from.
What a stupid question. He got it from an annoying unethical asshole that passed as his caregiver.
But if he wanted to answer, it fails. As does his ability to cling to wakefulness. There'll be no answers to that question, not aloud.
It feels exactly like passing out, routine and ordinary. He'll be disappointed when he wakes up later.
no subject
Date: 2024-05-03 12:13 am (UTC)It was impossible for Sephiroth to have known him that this was a trap. But wasn't it also supposed to be impossible that he had known her? Rather than a response to his question, all Vincent receives is a wheezed huff that might have been amusement and... silence.
And he only has himself to blame for this.
In the end it... really shouldn't matter. Ultimately, Sephiroth had always been her son. Vincent had been well aware of that fact, just as he knew the reason he'd decided to do this was about inescapable truths and personal reasons both.
It... was inescapable, right? But he could almost hear her voice, gentle and teasing like it was before.
"...Lucrecia."
Vincent raises his firearm, aims and fires. Gunshots ring out and the cavern fills with flashes of light. Once the echoes fade, the floor has stopped moving. At least enough that Vincent feels safe to pick up the Esuna. It's melded to the gun which is then holstered before he strides to the unconscious SOLDIER. The cloak is removed once again, supplies taken out. He doesn't expect to stabilize Sephiroth; there's too much internal damage. But what he can do is tourniquets, wing bindings and then wrapping the whole of the youth into the scarlet cloak.
He knows he has only a little bit of time before something comes to investigate the sound of the gunshots in the night so he's swift. The wrapped body is lifted as easily as a feather.
If anything lurks in way, they may have to be surprised at the red and black blur that bursts from the opening of the troll cave and nearly straight up, intent on spring-boarding his way to a dubiously safer ledge. Later he will cross the mountain to the other side where Agrona rests on the talons of a chocobo.
He may not know what he's doing right now or exactly why he didn't kill Sephiroth as a final mercy.
Vincent does know why. He isn't permitting himself the opportunity to think about it right now.
But it's not just the selfishness of wanting to find the answer of why Sephiroth had a locket with Lucrecia's picture in it. He... isn't sure he deserves to learn the answer. Vincent is saving the teen because of the creeping, consuming thought that he has made a terrible mistake. Nothing will erase it any more than most of his sins. But he can at least leave the boy his life.