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[miniroth]

"Out of ambit currently."
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action > at some point tbh

[moseyin]

[Okay. Enough avoiding it; he can't just keep hiding at Zack's spare home, hoping that their paths never cross. He can't stay away from Aerith forever, terrified that something's going to happen. She'll never forgive him for it.

After days of observing, Cloud plans his approach. Sephiroth seems to have a schedule of sorts; he's been heading to one of the schools every morning, and a stretch of his path heads off the main roads and is largely unoccupied, except for him. That's the best time to confront him, just in case- well. Just in case.

And if Cloud 'borrows' Aerith's Restore and Zack's weird burning sword materia, that's also just in case.

Just the sight of that silver hair, even if it's so much shorter than he remembers, makes Cloud's heart thud hard against his ribs. His empty hands itch, Monarch is like a vibrating plate of metal against his back. He needs to be armed. He can't do this without a sword in his hands, it's stupid.

He's a kid. Relax.

Cloud takes a pair of breaths, then steps out from the underbrush behind Sephiroth.]

Stop.

This got long. Accursed phone notepad!

[miniroth]

[Just a kid, doing normal kid things.

Like going to Kuma Lisa, and dealing with the annoyance of discovering just how many gaps there are in his education if he's serious about trying to pursue space engineering. Taking the long route back and forth and staying on the ground the entire time gave him more time to think about the remedial lessons needed, what might be done next in class, just how likely it really is that he's going to need calculus in order to get into space. Very likely, come to find out.

It gave time too, to see if the person lurking unseen might come out.

That's not happened yet. It would be much faster to fly, stretch his wings a bit and get a better cardio workout than these strolls did, but not knowing would be a constant aggravating lure to land anyway and see if whoever (or whatever) it was might announce themselves.

He's unarmed, unlike Cloud. No weapon, no materia, just another teen with no cares in the world with the exception of pop quizzes and bad grades. He still wears black from head to toe; he'd keep the same basic outfit for years, even as an adult. That he draws to a stop when someone suddenly speaks up from behind, without any visible shock or surprise, that's normal too, right?]

I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever come out.

[The pitch of Sephiroth's voice is different, this young. The overall tone though, that's somehow still the same, just as quiet and confident as ever. He pivots on one foot, the little jolt of excitement at FINALLY being able to put a face to that lingering sense of being watched not dimming at all upon noticing the stranger is armed and he is not. Except... Average people can't use swords like that, can they?

Cloud's a stranger, and seems .... on edge. Not a good combination, with the weapon and obvious strength to use it. Some of his curiosity dims to visible wariness.]

Do you need something?

THAT WAS A PHONE TAG????? your power terrifies me

[moseyin]

[Cloud tries not to let it show but his cheek twitches. Of course. Even as a kid, Sephiroth's senses were razor sharp. But had he noticed Cloud because of the sound, because of smell or sight- had Cloud given himself away, or had Sephiroth felt pieces of himself (or of Jenova) nearby and just knew?

There's no way to ask that. Not without handing over way too much control.]

...I'm a friend of Zack's, [Cloud settles on finally.] I want to clarify some things with you.

They get out of hand easier :<

[miniroth]

Oh?

[Zack was nice. A little strange, but nice, though he's pretty sure his compass on what was and wasn't odd was misaligned.

But if Cloud was a friend of his then there wasn't anything to worry about, armed or not. It does put Cloud under more scrutiny though. There was something... different, the longer he studied the blond man the more sure of it he was. What could-

... Oh. Mako, the gleam of it obvious now that he's looking.

Zack hasn't mentioned another SOLDIER being here; the uncertainty flickers back up.]

Is this about the drink?

Log for Vincent; trigger warnings: canon typical violence, blood, gore??, death??

[miniroth]

The long endless-seeming dunes are distant hills, faint tawny arches on the horizon giving way to stone cliffs, jagged tumbles of rocks and determined struggling brush and cacti. The rising spike of the lone mountain casts a long, dark shadow over the hard-packed earth, but the light touched it first hours ago as it crept over those same distant dune-hills, turning the weathered stone golden. The long ribbons of pale clouds have long since turned from violet of sunrise to the fluffy white of expected daylight, dawn having given way to brighter, harsher and hotter.

This close to the mountain, the rocks are jagged and unforgiving, sloughing off from the slopes in landslides and breakaways but creating an endless warren of nesting locations for countless species seeking refuge from the heat. If there's safety to be found, if there's moisture hidden somewhere in dark recesses, it'll be there. Scrubby, determined plantlife marks somewhat moister places than others, but finding anything like a pool is impossible.

Hopefully Vincent brought water.

Halfway up the mountain is no more merciful save that elevation gives some brief respite from the relentless heat; even that won't last long. Once the sun rose high enough even these rocks will scorch like frying pans. The breeze struggling off the distant line of bright blue ocean has long since turned hot and dry, a relentless lonely whistle through the stones - no relief there as well. But there's plenty of places to hide. As evidenced by how many creeping monsters might need to be cleared out to make his own little hiding spot out of the glare of the sun.

Sephiroth is no stranger to Cruel Summer, turning up and leaving again like clockwork. He's learned to stay as high as he can tolerate, and make use of the cold at altitude instead of the relentless suffocating heat until he found a likely perch for which to scout for trouble. Now is no different. He's been aloft and distant for a while, the far-off speck of dark and pale a thing not made for gliding but doing his best anyway, taking advantage of the hot rising thermals without the ease of any eagle or vulture. He's not suited for it, but he has time. It's a long distance for him to travel, and he's carrying supplies as well, unsure if Vincent was going to take the brutality of the desert as seriously as he should. But as time clicks closer towards eight AM, the shadows shortening by degrees, his path drifts closer.

Enough that it's obvious why he struggles with the thermals the average hawk makes a mockery of; scalloped and shorter wings are meant for agility, not long sustained flights, brilliant white and barred dotted with black, a flash of green depending on how the light hits, distinct from both clouds and orbiting actual birds.

Mountains are damnably large. It's going to take a few passes for even someone like him to spot a splotch of crimson among wind-worn gray and tan, rising again with heavy wingbeats into higher altitudes for refuge when the heat's too much. Then gradually back down in slow, searching arcs.

No monsters are moving, at least. None he's concerned about anyway, an idle cactuar posing and flexing on a boulder some distance away noted but not a danger. The big ones won't come out until later, once the heat has sufficiently warmed them.

opposite problem here, my phone tags are like "he roled him eye" send

[moseyin]

Drink? [That kind of stumbles him a little bit. It's- weird. Hearing Sephiroth talk like a normal person, so much so that Cloud stalls for a moment trying to figure out if it's some kind of riddle he's supposed to figure out.]

-no. [Move on. Don't let him sidetrack you. He's not going to, he's a kid. He doesn't know anything yet.] I want to tell you that if you...sense something weird... Something that you can...reach, or move, that isn't your own body, that you leave it alone. [There's an 'or else' in there, implied, but he's trying not to threaten. Not just yet. Or you're still afraid of him. He's not. He's not afraid of Sephiroth anymore, not for him. Just...what Sephiroth could make Cloud do to other people.]

I abuse a tiny notepad program, and it has no sense of scale.

[miniroth]

[Apparently the dismissal of the drink is, for some reason, a visible relief.

Well probably if Cloud knew Zack he was going to see the pictures sooner or later. Better later, when Sephiroth isn't around to ask niggling, silly and pointless questions like 'what was in that' and 'why did it set fire to the table'.

It's followed up with something that doesn't make a lick of sense to the teen. It's obvious for a moment that he has absolutely no idea whatsoever what Cloud's even talking about, moving things that aren't himself? Except it's so specific, so directed as if it was something he's expected to be capable of that the slow creep of thoughtfulness really isn't a good sign.]

Is that something the Fox gives people?

[It absolutely is not.

But Cloud's introduced the idea and now he's terribly curious about it. Ordinarily things like doing his job would interfere with idle speculation, but he has no job here. No tasks to keep him focused.]

I'll do my best, of course, if you're a friend of Zack's. I don't suppose you can describe it better, so I know what to try to avoid?

[His acquiescence is much too quick.]

[coffinturk]

In three day's time, morning and halfway up the mountain. It was a polite, reasonable duration that allowed for travel and to take care of any business that might need be handled before meeting in such an out of the way and dangerous place.

For Vincent Valentine, that had been the business of preparing the location as well as for the journey.

He had arrived more than a day before the appointed time. Though he would have had little difficulty in scaling the mountain terrain without doing so, the ascent is spotted with blended, graceful shifts between man and black chocobo as though he had possessed the Fox's gift his entire life. Of course he had not; but shapeshifting had become second nature long before Thirteen's touch and this was but one other form with far more merit than loss.

But the climb isn't without incident any more than the destination. The day rings out with periodic gunfire, the roar of monsters... and unnatural silence as the normal calls of beast and monster die down. Some have died. Others.... wisely quieting as if sensing the natural order is changing, however temporarily.

But the prevailing winds from the ocean will clear away the blood scent and the silence will be replaced as those that survive the day and night settle in to the new hierarchy. Eventually the void the gunman's ascent made will be filled as it always is in Cruel Summer even if he were to stay around. But for a time, there's a small stretch halfway up the mountain that may effectively called his territory.

Vincent had brought water. Whatever he was capable of surviving or being indifferent to or simply had the mental capacity to endure, he still would have brought it. This was not a mission in which he should test his limits. It may also be needed simply to replace the ammunition used to clear this small patch. His quarry is not simply a monster consumed with base instinct, but one that possesses as much intelligence and capacity for planning and foresight as himself.

And in all of Gaia, there were precious few that could claim to know what an intelligent monster could do better than Vincent Valentine; whether or not they looked human.

By the eve of the meeting time, he had finished. Vincent had found everything he needed. Wanted? That... was another matter. The night would be dark and cold; no fire lit. And the man cloaked in black and red would blend into the shadows, indifferent to the lack. Closer to the dawning light, Vincent stirs and drifts out of the darkness long enough to hang his cloak in another shadowed nook. Drafts from in and without cause the edges to flutter outward to catch and lure the eye.

But Vincent does not stay with it. He returns to where he was and turns ruby eyes to continuously scan the gradually lightening sky.

The first shot rings out; and the bullet reaches the skyborne SOLDIER at the same time as the sound.

More will follow where the only pause is how fast the action of the gun allows. And this gun was, while still just a pistol, modified as much as time and lore allowed. Not much. But subtly better.

Each shot fired is precise. Torso, heart, lung.... wing joints. These are the intended targets, though the moment there is any success in crippling the teenager's flight, the assailant seems to know and switches everything to the core of his target without evident mercy.

They seemed from behind the red flutter of cloth. And... close. But there was a problem; losing the use of his wings would not let Sephiroth glide (inasmuch as their design allows) to the side of the mountain. It would be a straight drop into a terrible fall toward a gorge nearer the base of the mountainside. One filled with a sprawl of sharp and unforgiving rocks.

[miniroth]

There is a cruel logic in it. Allowing a hatchling to grow into a dragon only meant there was now an adult dragon, instead of a comparatively easier to be rid of whelp. How much worse than a hatchling dragon, a boy that would eventually threaten the entire planet? He's young now, small now - but that would change, and likely within a scant handful of years. The more time passed, the harder it would be to stop a nascent threat before it learned the full breadth of what it was capable of. Or why it could do those things to begin with.

Unfortunately no such cold calculation rules, at least not for the teenager aloft. His concerns are far more emotionally driven; a Turk is certainly not his responsibility, they're generally better trained than he is at this point and one would surely know how to handle the desert, and yet he can't shake the thought that this one might underestimate the brutality of Cruel Summer and find himself far from shelter and water by the time the sun settled scorching and merciless directly overhead in the endless blue sky. Might have underestimated it already, for that's no light casual climb to reach halfway up a mountain, and amongst the worn brown and grays of the barren ground he can spot a flutter of red cloak, positioned in such a way that it might be used to block a cave entrance or flag for notice. Or both.

A potential problem. He can't hover easily or well so he doesn't bother to try, instead slowing as best he can and looking for a better spot to land than some rocky outcrop that might not accommodate his lack of real skill, the rapid beat of backwinging efforts almost soundless as he finally picks his spot. The crack of gunfire interrupts, and the pack of supplies he carried drops from shocked fingers.

It's obvious immediately that at least some of the unexpected flurry of bullets hit their target by the explosion of feathers and the way the slim figure jerks to a sudden stop midair, the controlled half-glide turned into a disorganized tumble in an erratic snap of his Fox-granted wings, even at a distance crimson smearing across white on the right and failing repeatedly to properly extend in even the span of a couple of seconds. In another fifteen years getting by with a single wing is effortless. Not so much now. How many others of Vincent's shots hit their target is impossible to tell, distance and a tendency towards black clothing hiding much. But the red on the drifting, falling feathers is clear as day, as is Sephiroth's inability to stay aloft. All he does manage, through design or instinct, is to steer the disorganized fall further away. Even a few feet that high up will translate to significant distance by the time he reaches the base of the mountain, so far below.

There's never a sound.

No scream, no shout, nothing but the resounding echo of gunfire as the teen tumbles from view.

It's a long way down. And there's a trail to follow, in the gentle waft of black-barred white feathers, a rarer one with a vividly green eye-spot here or there, in the speckle of red caught by wind and splashed against stones. In time, finding where Vincent's target had actually struck ground isn't terribly difficult, by the wide swath of sanguine smear down the side of one of those jagged stones in an area peppered with them, a wide and sticky pool of blood at its base, more feathers and some strands of silver easily picked out amongst the desolate browns. Already smaller monsters are investigating the site, small jackal-like things with scales and rattlesnake tails, sniffing and tongue-flicking with interest at the ruin. They'll flee when approached, small and obviously outmatched by anything even the size of a dog, never mind the size of a man, hissing and hooting and rattling their alarm.

No luck on a relatively merciful kill, it seems; there's a trail leading away, red marking where there's no dust to outline footsteps. Further into the sheltering rocks and their long, dark shadows, too deliberately winding and looping across unstable terrain to be a blind, accidental stumble. Obfuscation. Not only did Vincent fail to kill his target immediately, his target is still alert enough to leave false trails. A normal, unaugmented human wouldn't have long, with the amount of crimson staining the ground, but a SOLDIER is not a normal human. And Sephiroth is beyond even them.

[coffinturk]

The bullets only stop when Sephiroth falls below the gunman's field of fire. Even if he had to load another clip, there seemed no pause, no hesitation and every milisecond his target was in sight was used to full advantage.

And without delay, Vincent steps out of his shadowy hide of makeshift crevasse and arranged rocks. His pistol reloaded again and holstered, the cape plucked up and wrapped around him with practiced ease, he then bounds off the side of the flat edge and begins picking, jumping and sliding his way down the mountain.

This time he spends most of the time as a man, for the chocobo, while made for this terrain, would not stand up to Sephiroth. Neither old or young, even wounded. So the silver-haired teen has time to make good on his bid to gain a lead and there are more than enough scavengers to be found at the impact site.

Vincent ignores these beasts, letting them scatter out of his way. The only time he would have done more is to prevent the dropped pack from being dragged away with the feeling beasts; his keen gaze picking its fall and noting it for retrieval. Supplies of food and water. Nothing out of place for a desert environment.

Right now, it is not a kid or a person the retired Turk is hunting. There is a target, someone grievously injured by the fall but not dead. And not blind to the risks of leaving an easy trail either. It's to be a chase, then. Hide and seek with the only winner marked by who survives the day.

Crouching to touch the blood and get the impression of how long it's been since Sephiroth was able to drag himself away- fresh and puddled and wet in the rising desert heat would only mean that it's been moments after all- Vincent sets his mind to the process of tracking the deceptive trail. He too is quick to disappear amongst the shadows of rocks, letting the scavengers have their moment. With luck, such creatures as to be found further on will unwittingly aid him in his search.

[miniroth]

It's been long enough. Enough for the edges to begin to dry, for the color to tinge from vividly bright oxygenated to a sicklier brown. Enough where it takes a bit to find brighter, fresher specks on the ground, half obscured by a deliberate sweep.

He's not afraid. He's been assured he doesn't feel fear, that his training has long since eliminated it, and the thunder of his heartbeat and unsteady hands and roiling stomach was the eagerness of a racing chocobo at the starting gate, nothing more than adrenaline and anticipation. But, as he ties the straps of his belt's harness around his badly damaged wing and pulls it close against his body so it won't drag in the dirt and do more harm or leave more of a trail, his fingers clumsy with a draining weakness and cold that belied the heat of the sun every time he stepped from the shadows, he thought maybe it was what fear was supposed to be like. He had fully intended to test whether or not death stuck, but not like this, not when the only thing he owned that mattered lay in his pocket, easily devoured or destroyed by whatever monster happened upon him. Controlled circumstances.

This is not a controlled circumstance. This is testing with fractured hands each of a dozen or more bullet wounds, taking a breath and holding it to listen to the bubbling in his chest and then carefully trying to bind that one as well, the bitter bile-taste of the blood from the lower wounds suggesting more damage to comparatively fragile insides. Bullets, or ruptured from hitting the rocks?

The impact hadn't helped if it was the bullets, left him stunned and disoriented on the ground for much too long, bleeding into the dust.

It won't kill him, that he's sure of. If he has time to rest. A few hours, a couple of days.. long enough for the worst of it to mend itself, and then seek a hospital or a healer or something for the remainder. The trail he left would hopefully befuddle whatever idiotic hunter shot him down to begin with, long enough for the thrill of pursuit to dull and he could properly chastise them for shooting an unknown target. That's what it was. What it had to be.

The memory of a red cloak flutters in his mind.

There's a certain distance the jackal-snakes seem to think is acceptably safe, somewhere in the realm of twenty or thirty feet before they begin circling back and creeping with renewed interest, grabbing up a feather and giving it a tug between a pair of them before it's discarded as uninteresting, a fleck of blood licked at. They know where Vincent's at, no shadow hid from the heat-sensitive pits across their snouts, and they're not going to get too close. But their efforts at following a potential food trail isn't going to be easy or swift, not with the gunman skulking nearby; leading him to their food was thoroughly unacceptable! Their hisses and barks aren't quite communication, but it's some level of coordination, slinking through the stones and scrubby brush with forked tongues flicking, claws clicking like the dogs they almost look like.

It's marked, in the frequent places where he lingered longer. The dripped trail bigger, for a while, evidence of a steady bleed and rest taken. But two or three of such spots in, the small puddles are getting smaller, either running out of blood to bleed or, more likely, beginning to clot. The more time he has, the easier he'll be able to deal with potential trouble. A rustle of brush, and the squeal of one of the canine creatures immediately after, thrashing and snapping at the loop of twisted plant matter around its neck. Not enough to hold it long at all, but enough to give it a scare as it scrambles for safety. It's not the only such trap, hastily thrown together along a somewhat fresher path marked by those spots of rest, but meant for now for the potential scavengers, snares and loops and irritating thorns.

[coffinturk]

Memory of a fluttering red cloak. A man who had a pistol which is just a SILLY weapon to use at any distance much less on SOLDIER, but... BUT.

Possibilities may be relevant, but they won't help. Someone had shot. Whether it was a familiar someone or a stranger, it still put Sephiroth in the same place.

Knowing, by the wary sounds of scavengers, that something else was out there. Maybe they would be quieter if it was just the wounded prey. But the more distant pack, the ones that had still been at the impact site when Vincent reached it, those were clearly stirred up by something. Someone.

Maybe the foolish idiot of a hunter.

Vincent could tell he was further behind than he would like to be. The sound of the beasts around him are... unfamiliar. He's listening, getting an idea of the meaning behind their sounds and patterns, but it's not to be completely relied on. The trail and tracks and the signs of what is hidden and what is not are going to be far more useful in the end.

...And the surprised yelping that echoes the high boulders gives him reason to believe there's traps, not just a quick death, for the unwary. Vincent brushes the sand and blood from his hand. The cry had come from far enough in the lead even with the echoes. It would not hurt to move faster for a little bit of time. His own supplies plus those that survived the fall from height, allow for such luxury.

Yips and snarls and blood bring more than just those waiting for death. And the dry air may be warming, but in these shadowed places where puddles of water which were ice overnight stay longer, where arable dirt and plant can collect and not get heat-scorched to death by the sun, here is where you will find an ecology trying to live on these desert scraps. It's nowhere near an oasis. Maybe, maybe there is one further on. But where there's smaller animals, there will be those that hunt them. And on and on upward; the more cunning getting drawn in by the sound of scavengers' interests.

From a direction that is not where he had been fleeing from, rocks clatter down from a higher ledge. There are heavy footfalls in the dirt and sand closer to the ground. Whatever these two are may have not found where Sephiroth has tucked himself yet. But they're close.

[miniroth]

It also restricted who he might try to call for help. He didn't have so much pride that he'd refuse to do so, not when it was more convenient to see if someone could send over a jeep or something and pick him up and spare him a miserable and long walk to Agrona Academy, but the number of people he thought might have access to such things and knew him well enough were slim. More likely, an Academy rescue party, but that too could and would be tolerated. Or would have, if he hadn't carefully packed relic and spoon amongst the supplies he'd brought instead of keeping them somewhere on his person. They'd be safe! Undamaged! Out of the way!

At least until he dropped them down a mountain.

What shade he can make use of will do while recovering what he can of his strength; once he stopped leaving a bloody trail everywhere he went he could spend more time looking for better shelter and wait for nightfall, where it would be significantly cooler. Outright freezing, but that was better than burning.

The little jackal creatures were no real concern. They're not bold enough to outright attack him even if they were venomous, and he at least did have his Esuna. It wouldn't matter if they bit anyway. But little scavengers tended to lure in bigger ones, and a couple of small thrown rocks chase them away for a short time with yelps and stung flanks. They're not dangerous enough to waste energy on trying to catch. But there's a stink on the air like rancid meat and filth, sinking down from above like a foul blanket.

Harpies are not a problem on Gaia, but he'd encountered them before in Cruel Summer. Not an immediate problem, though they would be once they had the numbers to be bold, which sometimes only took three or four.

In the quiet of his most recent resting spot, the young SOLDIER listens and watches with narrowed eyes, waiting.

By the time Vincent reaches that place, lured by the trail of crimson speckles, the scavengers have something new to work on, tugging with extreme interest and enthusiasm at the cooling corpse of a creature that looks like a strange, dry-scaled cross between an armadillo and a crocodile if either had a scorpion's tail, wedged about fifteen feet up between two sharp jagged stones. It's hard for them to actually reach that high, with jumping and scrabbling on the stone, getting teeth on their prize and wiggling back and forth like piranha trying to work free a bite, but they are if nothing else, happy to keep trying. The impact that had caved in its skull was likely a quick and reasonably clean death, there's little sign of thrashing against the stones that pin it up. There's a scent on the air like decay and rot, but it's not coming from the dead monster or the little scavengers, fading by degrees on the wind, bringing hot, but clean desert smell with it instead. While there's evidence of some sort of flying predator here and there, a different set of filthy, brown and black feathers and claw marks, there's no dead birds waiting. Just a heavier trail of blood for a while, thick and dark, before it gradually lightens and makes finding a path much, much harder.

In the heat of the sun it's only been an hour or two, not long enough for rigor mortis to set in or for the dead thing to begin to smell beyond viscera and blood.

There's another of the armored crocodilians about twenty minutes away amongst the broken mountain stone, perhaps the first's mate, this one half buried beneath a sizeable boulder and equally dead, only noteworthy perhaps by its more colorful hide, a crest of frills, a mouthful of black-barred white feathers clenched in its teeth and the fact that the end of its tail has been torn off and is entirely missing. What blood there is seems to be from the beast and not the prey Vincent's tracking, though. If it weren't for the feathers, one might think it was an unfortunate victim of a rock fall.

Which. Well, it was, just intentionally.

There's no further trail that ordinary senses could hope to pick up on. One the beasts certainly would, scent is harder to hide than visual sign, but humans relied on vision.

[coffinturk]

And there is precious little shade near the point of midday. High boulders, pillars, the mountain itself; these will make direct sunlight a relatively short stint in this region. But it will be long enough to leech away most of the standing water sources. They made be shade again, but the afternoon will not be kind. And there will be plenty of creatures looking to feast on raw flesh to supplement that resource's loss.

Vincent reaches the site of the first crocodilian's demise. It's here he realizes that the scavengers are unlikely to be further help. Some may still be following the injured man, but it is in the nature of such beasts to go for the easier option. And in this case, scrabbling more than a dozen feet up is far better than the traps and death and wait. The gunman chooses not to approach this first corpse and had paused only a moment; barely enough for the night stalkers to appreciably change the sounds of their calls to alert of the outsider's presence.

Something filthy and living lingered in the air. And while these signs that Sephiroth is being slowed may prove beneficial to Vincent's hunt, it is not... ideal. He is doing what he feels he must, but that does not mean he desires this to be cruel. It had meant to be a mercy in its own way. But he had miscalculated and that was on him to resolve.

Of course his target isn't going to make that easy.

The gunman pauses near the second corpse. This one has fewer scavengers gathered, though that means little with another corpse occupying the masses. Birds here, far more easily scattered and allowing Vincent to inspect the creature. A convenient rockfall on a similar beast to one so blatantly killed in a fight? No. Even without the handful of white-black feathers, this would be suspect. The spray of feathers are retrieved and inspected for signs that they were torn from the wing over intentionally removed and used as bait for the beast.

The trail had gone cold. Signs of a bird- a large one and likely not a Legend, not with the stench in the air- might suggest that Sephiroth had somehow been carried away by some sort of airborne monster. Vincent would have seen that, wouldn't he? Maybe. But now the stench of the feathered monsters, the blood and viscera of corpses and Sephiroth's own skill are making it impossible for the gunman to keep up.

And that made it time. Vincent reaches inside himself and harnessed the monster within.


What leaps to the top of a tall boulder is no man. Violet fur, a scarlet mane, long dark horns. The resemblance to a behemoth is uncanny; but it is far smaller and its conformation is... wrong. Its haunches are digitigrade but the forearms do not; it is a creature built to stand on two feet instead of four. It is... something akin to holding a live wire to make a connection between instinct and human intent. The beast's muzzle tilts upward. To find a scent, one in particular that had disappeared beyond beyond the capacity of his human form to discern.

Blood and mako and yes, perhaps Jenova. The feathers, left behind whether by accident or design, are all too helpful in being certain which of the wind's many scents are the one he wants. Vincent had been largely indifferent to the desert heat but the beast was moreso and dropped back to the ground to move with swift intent toward the source of the freshest trail.

It won't be very long. But the beast is faster, more... vicious. Other beasts would either flee it or engage and face the consequences. Sephiroth might hear this, even if he did not catch a glimpse. The roars of monsters in combat... and the flash and sound of air combusting into orbs of fire.

And it is certainly closer for all there may be distance yet.

[miniroth]

By bits of skin and flesh, and the way the feathers are a bit squashed, they'd likely been the victim of some predatory snap, not enough to do more than catch nutritionless fluff instead of delicious prey. And then summarily was on the receiving end of a vicious beating in return for its efforts. Not with the unruffled ease he might enjoy in another fifteen years, but more than a fourteen year old should ever be capable of. By all rights he should have been dead from the gunshot wounds, or the fall, long before now. Not hours later, with the sun baking the rocks to uncomfortable heat.

The nightstalkers are content, for the most part, to keep an ear or eye on Vincent but otherwise work on achieving their prize. They're thoroughly distracted. Easy present meat beat hunting down smaller meat, and though there's a few hissing alarm-barks when a man becomes something far closer to the other creatures prowling these wastes, a monster true just like they are. THIS they knew better how to deal with, forming a defensive ring around their food, rattling tails high, long fangs bared.

There is a scent, beyond the stink of viscera and dirty bird, of adolescent human(?), blood, bitter mako and the acrid aftersmell of bile. Not on the ground at all, where humans look, humans hunt - most mammals, in fact. Few things ever think to look up. And it's up that marks the trail now instead of on the ground, faint spots of red here and there, up on top of the jagged stones that marked his fall to begin with. It's not an easy path, not with as much harm as he's surely sustained, but it leaves no easy trail from the ground, picking a slow and painfully cautious path towards rising canyon walls, the striations of rock as multicolored as the rest had til now been barren and hostile. There would be longer shadows there.

But what the stench of filthy bird is becomes almost immediately clear to senses better than human, skulking twisted shapes lurking high above, their coloring mottled browns and dirt making them almost impossible to pick out until they move, grimy wings spreading wide, a handful of creatures that could only be described as grotesque women with vulture bodies. One takes wing, to flutter down to follow the purple creature, shrieking something rather unflattering about the not-behemoth's likely heritage, cackling at her own jokes. Vincent is not likely of a mindset to think in words enough for any of that translates, is he?

As Galian lopes away, following the trail of small prey, the jackal-creatures cavort happily, sure they must have scared off their bigger, more dangerous rival.

At what had once been a comfortable distance, the young SOLDIER had settled beneath a quiet outcropping of rock and glaring lethal promise at the harpy dancing right outside his range, shaking her filthy tailfeathers at him in blatant taunt. She knew a wounded hunter when she found it, and knew he wasn't going to be able to reach her without a lot more effort than he's capable of, and he's already had to endure her ribald guesses at his lineage that would give him proper harpy wings but those hideous fat legs and why doesn't he find himself a real hen--

They both fall quiet and still at the distant sound of other harpies' shrieking laughter and taunts, and slowly, carefully he uncoils, unwilling or unable to move too quickly, levering himself out of the comfortable shadow and into the light in time to watch an almost-familiar purple shape drop back below easy sight. A behemoth if he had to guess by color and most of its shape, but small. A cub?

Cubs meant attentive parents.

While the harpy is distracted listening to her kin harass something else, Sephiroth strikes with the torn-free stinger of the beast left behind, and the monster screams, kicking and flailing, toppling from the safety and shade to fall thrashing to the ground, her words slurring, becoming insensible, and then stopping entirely.

He moves on as quickly as he dares, hunting some secure location a behemoth and its potential company might struggle to reach.

Hasty traps dot his path, precariously balanced rocks likely to tip at the first provocation, shards of black desert glass left broken and tempting along his trail to catch on unwary toepads. The incredibly cautious path straight through the lair of a sleeping blue-skinned troll, its head resting on its knees as it waits for nightfall.

[coffinturk]

The behemoth-like galian snarled back but did not engage the nightstalkers. They were not his target, his prey and thus he disappeared beyond the rocks that marked this feeding ground. Nor did Vincent let himself try to focus on what the harpies were saying, though he heard tone and inflection and knew them to be biting insults of some kind. To understand the filthy creatures would be to risk old wounds; where he is more.... something like acceptance of himself, far more so than the day he woke up to find what had been done to his body, Vincent all too easily understands it would be easy to give into anger and thus get diverted from his hunt to chase the things currently more present.

The harpies that follow might find themselves lashed out toward on occasion or even at the trailing edge of heat from a feather curling Flare, but they are clever and learn quickly and are gleeful that even this much seems to agitate the man-beast-thing after some fashion.

But it is quickly determined that the wounded teenager is no longer on this level. Had ascended higher in a gamble for more shade and if not better resources, than more of that human-level trickery. What was tracking below may lose the trail or see that the territory above is not worth the risk of fighting what holds it- the harpies in packs are formidable, the giant things nesting until evening. Not a threat in sunlight, but the shadows could be long enough...

Up and up. The galian is swift but he is not as cautious as the manform. Reckless is an apt word and while triggered boulders seem to be nimbly avoided, the glass was a painful lesson. He knew to stop and dig it out, hidden near a crevasse, callously shedding some blood that he knew would heal. Time was nearly up--

A massive hand reached out and wrapped around the bipedal beast, yanking back into the dark safety of the cave. Trolls liked midnight snacks just as much as the next person. And anything unwary enough to stop in a shadow near a troll cave might as well have been a delicious sandwich front in glorious display on the center shelf of the refridgerator.

This turn of events absolutely delights the harpies who land nearby and wisely in the sun and indulge in rolling laughter and chortles. There were sounds from the cave, flares of fire that suggested the troll was not having an easy time with his meal and then utter silence. The harpies hooped and hollared; whatever had won was a boon for them, right?

The crack of gunfire rang out, a sound which had become surreal and out of place as the day dragged on and monsters took the stage. It's a reminder of how it all began.

"You're too loud," the gunman utters, his left hand braced against a nearby rock for stability. He had not escaped the cave unscathed, but his choice of clothing made it difficult to see just how much injury had carried over from his metamorphosis. Blood stained the side of his face but would be unlikely to get in his eyes with the headwrap soaking anything from temple to hairline. And his motions are stiffer than before but this is something he refuses to show to the flock.

His words were not for the harpy he had shot, who had stiffened and dropped from her perch with the addition of a smoking hole right between her now-lifeless eyes. But her companion sisters that might have followed at what they thought was beyond the beast's range.

There are shrieks of outrage for the downed sister but they are underlined with fear. When one tensed as though thinking of leading an attack upon Vincent, the weapon was instantly trained on the harpy. She let out one last cry of fury but took to wing and fled back to the nest, the remaining survivors following suit.

Maybe they would come back in droves and he would have to take care of it then but this is better than worrying about it now. By and large he wouldn't have a flock of creatures screaming insults and jeers over his head. Still, it is one more thing to keep track of; he best move on. He had the direction and... a trail he could follow again. One that was not so old.

And while it was likely going to be necessary to call on the beast again, it was something he should save and try to get out of troll country before committing to.

[miniroth]

It's impossible to relax knowing behemoths are lurking. Harpies are new and strange, he's not used to monsters that can talk, but monsters they absolutely are, filthy and foul in more ways than one, but the rest seemed to be fairly ordinary beast-types he's familiar with. And he knows a lot about behemoths. Enough where when the scent of burnt catches on the wind, burnt flesh, burnt hair, scorched rock, it's not a surprise but it is an incentive to be elsewhere. But he's not getting as far as he'd like before he's forced to stop again by weakness that's getting harder to just shove aside.

This isn't exactly what he was trained for. But circumstances were similar enough; injury, persistence in spite of it, contending with pain often enough that it's more of an annoyance than a hindrance, but there's no scientists waiting with a cure materia in case their prized experiment got a little too close to death's door.

Sephiroth knows what it means, the dizziness, the waves of disorientation, the growing weight of simply having to carry himself from place to place.

The commotion with the harpies further away at least is drawing attention away from him, and he remains where he is for a while, listening and watching. He was going to have to find a place to try to make some kind of barrier so he could recover in safety for a couple of days, until the draining lethargy passed and he could seek civilization again. Hopefully the creatures on his trail will be slowed a while by the things left behind, from troll to obsidian, and spare him a little time to breathe, to try to clear his head.

It's more obvious now that while he can still hide his path pretty well, Vincent's target is slowing. The strength needed to crush a buffalo-sized monster beneath a rock was out of reach, the traps more subtle and sparser, designed for a questing horned creature and not a man. He had, apparently, seen the familiar-strange form of Galian, as the snags and snares and irritating things are meant for not humans but things with paw pads and horns and short purple fur, sensitive noses and beast's instincts. Clumsier, but workable, damnably workable for someone who should by all rights have been dead hours ago. But he's faltering, failing. It's not traps and snares that have the power to kill anymore, not in one blow. The harpies are still watching but now they're staying out of range, or at least what they think is out of range.

At the base of one tumble of rocks, several have been cleared aside, but the small cavern beneath is much too small even for a boy to creep into. Nothing seems to have been done there, should Vincent peek in. No animals lurk within, just quiet, tiny cool shade enough to perhaps keep a dog in if a dog were so inclined. What was the point?

For non-native life, adapted to the desert, the heat is rapidly rising towards unbearable. It shimmers, where the sun lingers for long unbroken by shade, heat waves ripping in the air.

[coffinturk]

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.

[miniroth]

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.

[coffinturk]

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.

[miniroth]

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..

A final, deadly trap.

[coffinturk]

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.

[miniroth]

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?

cw addon: human experimentation

[coffinturk]

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.

[miniroth]

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.