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songs for the dusk: v (oc)

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Who: Sephiroth, OTA
What: Dealing with the nagging compulsion to 1. Hunt things 2. Eat something that doesn't disgust his more civilized morals. A whole-ass Chimera transformation complicates things.
When: Post Moon-Warp; 'now'?
Where: Still that miserable hot scorchy desert, oases, etc.
Warnings: May contain one or more of the following: Violence, bloodshed, gore, trauma, aggression, hierarchy scuffles, predator behavior, monster-connected trauma, and FF7 typical angst. Tiny kaiju battle in the parking lot.

Gone Hunting

The concern of an entire Convoy to feed is a good excuse to leave once it's parked for the night, and Sephiroth's made no secret of his excursions to find what he can that looks or smells edible, and hasn't yet bothered much with company. So far he's been as successful as anyone can hope to be, bringing back more strange creatures than plants that might be edible, but he hasn't touched any of them himself for meals.

Or much of anything else for that matter. While he does try now and again at mealtimes, nothing ordinary seems satisfactory, or sits like tasteless lead in his stomach. The creatures he kills for the convoy are as tempting now as they were with the Tower intact, though he doesn't eat them.

It hasn't affected him much so far by all appearances, as evening arrives and he prepares to head out again, exchanging his long black jacket for a more ordinary shirt and a sturdy pack to bring things back in. A small array of knives, no sign of the longsword he fights with, the key to his truck and a bottle of water are plenty to bring.. right? Except this time he's asked for another set of hands, intending to try to catch something more sizeable. Something that would struggle, and bleed, and be all the tastier for it--

Maybe you've volunteered. Maybe you got conscripted because you looked reasonably good at hunting or cleaning up the results of hunts. Either way.

"Ready to go?" He sounds and looks distracted.

Sometimes, you wake up as a monster.

More often than not, Sephiroth sleeps in the back of his truck. It's not comfortable by most people's standards, but it's his, and generally he's not bothered there so it's an ideal refuge to withdraw to when the convoy and its people are too much. The longer he delayed in dealing with his own changes, the more he ignored what struck him as unnatural instinct, the harder it grows to brush off, and it's ... easier, in solitude. That he doesn't turn up in the morning after a stop isn't too much to worry about, the vehicles all have autopilot and his truck's placidly followed anyway.

He also doesn't turn up during the scorching heat of the day, and as the convoy once more parks at sunset, only then does he stir from the covered back of the truck, irritated, restless and hungry.

There's a large, feather-covered dinosaur in camp, on the wrong side of the shield; monsters aren't supposed to be able to get in. A dinosaur or a wingless bipedal dragon, a not-quite seamless blend of bird, mammal and reptile, disturbingly silent on huge clawed feet for all that it's the size of a large horse. Black feathers, silver scales, patches of tawny fluff that might be fur,eyes that glow faintly green in the dark, and rounded ears half-hidden in a lionlike mane of thicker, longer feathers. For those who have sharp enough noses and familiarity, the scent is still the same, for all that appearance has radically changed - that's the long-haired SOLDIER. Maybe he shouldn't have waited so long, but it seems ... so, so difficult to focus on anything other than the gnawing itch to hunt and NOT bother to bring it back this time for everyone else.

And he's prowling the convoy and its parked cars instead of out in the parched landscape, sniffing like a beast between vehicles, poking into open windows, following any alluring scent of bloody red.

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Countless enemies would have loved to be the ones to leave a mark on him, but it was picky bushes and one determined behemothlet instead of the best other countries had to offer.

Go figure. "If it is it can join the others."

Sephiroth's been shot before. Occasionally he even allowed them to be dug out, but often it just wasn't necessary. His own resilience and healing would work them out eventually, or they'd just stay there as a perpetual annoyance to any x-rays he had to endure.

He doesn't relax, that's difficult around almost anyone, but he does turn most of his attention to cleaning claw slashes and bite wounds instead of waiting for another attack that might never come. "It takes more than a bullet or two to be anything other than a mild inconvenience." Years after his guess at the date, Zack proves this by becoming a human colander. "..But you may want a higher caliber if I attack again."

"Before today, would have said the same." Just leave the bullet in. Doesn't matter. It'll work its way out. Add to the sideshow attraction that would come of x-raying Vincent Valentine.

The world's now become more than a mild inconvenience.

"...I'm not SOLDIER. But my body's not normal. I'm not recovering like I should. Doesn't look like you are either. The way we were brought here might be the cause of it. Or these changes we're undergoing."

He then huffs out another sigh that might have been amused. Of course he wasn't trying to kill the theropod and went with what he had. On the other hand?

"Noted."

...It's taken at least half seriously. Perhaps moreso.

Edited 2025-04-30 23:30 (UTC)

It was strange that he would be left his power and speed but not his durability. What could affect things so precisely as to select only part of his enhancements? ...And did he still actually have a bullet lodged in him? "..What do you mean by not normal?"

Surely he means the monster changes, but perhaps not, because the way they were summoned here implied previously having some kind of enhancements.

SOLDIER weren't, of course, the only enhanced people on the planet. It's possible Vincent was from some other branch, or even some other government. Deepground was a possibility, Wutai was unlikely but not impossible..

Well Vincent. You said as much. Not like you shouldn't have expected that question. He looks up.

"Just another in a long line of discarded experiments from Shinra scientists." The voice sounds tired and as distant as ever. Though in a way it's a clue where the indifference may have come from. His eyes slide in a glance at Sephiroth. Vincent blinks slowly, mouth hidden by the cloak.

"I stopped aging. And I couldn't die." Among other things. "Now though? Who knows."

He hadn't, until the pain kept refusing to go away. Even for non-fatal wounds, that was unusual. He supposes he should be happy that his body isn't tearing itself in half despite all that.

But what did that mean for his future?

He can't really judge someone else for not being utterly mundane. He's never been like other people himself, no matter how much he'd wished otherwise. The metallic cast to his hair and anomalous pupils saw to that even if he didn't have the rest going on.

But another one of Hojo's playthings, likely - that resonated a little different.

There had been countless other experiments alongside his own. Usually they were disposed of. But if Vincent truly couldn't die, stopped aging...

Sephiroth leans back, bloody cotton ball in hand, thoughtful. Immortality would be a very tempting prize for the entire board; Vincent might be a more valuable specimen than he was. "Discarded, when the fountain of youth was finally found ... or created?"

He couldn't imagine the self-centered bastard that ran the company would let THAT pass by unremarked upon. "It's a wonder. You are something I could see the board being willing to sacrifice thousands to replicate."

Another huff of air. Dark humor touches the beginning of Vincent's answer.

"I was deemed a failure. And there are side effects. The beast you saw is my other form. Not something this planet's saddled me with."

There is obviously a big blank spot he is leaving out of this narrative. But Vincent does fill something carefully in.

"I can't say for sure. But I don't think the executives were informed." Something grim, almost amused came over Vincent. "If the president knew, then they never found a way to replicate the procedure."

At least not safely. And there was a good deal that suggested that Vincent stayed buried for a long while.

If the President wasn't informed, and Hojo had no use for immortality, then such a project could certainly be thrown out. Why refine it when it isn't personally useful? Any ... 'side effects' surely would be refined over time.

Though Sephiroth himself had been a subject of many experiments, at least he was still human.

... Had been, still human. Now? "I've not seen or heard any .. similar transformations or immortality," he says reluctantly. "Though I avoid the scientists as I am able to these days." Since he was old enough to realize he could simply say no, that they had no control over him no matter what they wanted.. "Nor is it part of anything SOLDIER deals with."

Not yet. Deepground would see to that.

In the future, Vincent would have learned that Deepground certainly seemed to be trying to replicate... certain facets of what went into him. But that would have been three years from now and he's... here.

"Mn." He acknowledges the statement with a nod. Both the information and Sephiroth's own preference to avoid Shinra's scientists. "That's... good." Can either of them say there truly was nothing? Of course not. But between the two time periods they must surely come from, nothing had been made public.

For a few moments, Vincent falls silent. For a while it's simply because he doesn't speak. But as the quiet stretches, he'll be caught watching Sephiroth.

"...How bad is it? The injuries." He tilts his head. "I don't see any burns."

He half expected them to be present. Even if he had some glimpses, he couldn't expect himself to remember all he did. Only blood had a tendency to remain in the air, on his hands and in his mouth.

'Good' is a relative term when it comes to Hojo. There could be much going on that he simply didn't know about and didn't want to know about.

In the meantime, there's wounds to be cleaned, with all the autopilot familiarity of one who's done it countless times. Other people didn't see to his injuries, he did - other people didn't see him injured if he could help it. Nothing needed stitching, and would over time heal just fine, but anything like debris or bacteria needed to be dealt with. He might be incredibly resistant to problems normally, but who knew what a strange world would bear? His immune system knew nothing of other planets' diseases and germs.

"..Burns?" The echo is puzzled for a moment, then he shakes his head. "You weren't close enough to do much with powder burns, and if you had been, I imagine scales and feathers would have absorbed it." That's.. what Vincent means, right? "These are no hindrance. It will be stiff for a day or two, but not much else."

It's not bravado, he'll simply ignore them. Pain had long since stopped mattering, Hojo had seen to that. "I'm fairly sure I struck bone at least once on you, perhaps you should be concerned of your own injuries?" In anyone else it might be scorn, but there's something closer to consideration, however badly put, from the man.

Vincent hesitates for just a moment; part because it's simply habit not to speak of a trump card so openly but also... he doesn't really speak of his monstrous nature. Not to near strangers. Arguably an enemy.

"My... other form," he finally states. "...has an affinity for fire." Vincent's gaze seems to grow distant in thought before he continues. "During the storm of bird monsters when I first arrived, I saw no signs of it either."

A close range fight for dominance with Sephiroth may make sense, but the advantage of range and having no signs of fire attacks in the aftermath is now making him wonder if it was just the circumstance.

He snaps out of the thoughts as Sephiroth brings attention to the matter of his own injuries. And... frowns.

"I... took care of the worst." One of the precious 'potions' he'd taken away from their journey through the desert's thorny brambles are gone, now. But he couldn't afford the deeper injuries and even then some pain and wounds remain. "Bound the rest."

He doesn't mind having it pointed out. "...Shouldn't have needed to though." It might not have healed instantly, but it all should have.... righted itself. Not felt so... well, painful.

"Based on casual observation, we didn't come through the summoning entirely intact. Each of us seems to be missing some things." Such as perhaps, fire affinity of tiny behemoths. Or his own durability. He was as strong as he expects to be, as quick ... but much more easily exhausted, and injury actually caused problems, whether or not he was well used to ignoring them.

What else was missing? Did he really have to worry about infections or illness now after all?

What should and should not be was no longer relevant. "..Good." Taken care of was better than being left open. Weakness would get them killed. "For all that it's not ideal, focusing on what.. should not be necessary seems a waste."

It in no way prevented him from worrying about it, himself. Or the changes going on. The fact that his teeth never changed back, or that he'd felt the need to start a fight of all things over something so utterly unnecessary as who had the right to push around who.

Things he'd never felt necessary before.

"What.. was I?" The follow up question is quiet. What sort of thing was he becoming?

"Hm, that would explain things," Vincent answers; it's accepted with the level of resignation one might expect from a level-headed individual. Perhaps one that had already had the answer sitting subconsciously in his mind.

And he's no fool. Waiting in vain hope that his regeneration was just 'taking some time' was damn foolish, particularly on this journey. So Vincent did what was necessary, to the degree he felt was most sensible. Turks did not survive by being stingy or find it noble to suffer.

The man looks up from his private musings and studies Sephiroth momentarily. It's clear the transformation didn't fully reverse and it's not something he holds hope for disappearing again over time. He's all too familiar now when the constant lethargic state he's prone toward during the day.

"...Something... else. Like a chimera. It didn't seem like any individual monster, but." ...A combination of features. There's a shuffling sound; the man is reaching under his cloak and finally draws out a piece of charcoal; a thin 'stick' salvaged from a camp fire. And a rumpled 'sheet' or brown paper also collected and repurposed. Bracing it against the top of one of the crates as a makeshift surface, he begins to make broad strokes.

"Some reptilian. Forearms like a levrikon. Feathers... mane." He'll shortly have something roughed out. If Sephiroth hasn't gotten up to look at it, he'll hand it over.

He doesn't get up to look at it, busying himself instead with the remains of cleaned wounds before setting the rest of the kit aside carefully. He's running out of other things to focus on, which left only ... this.

Sephiroth's good at masking his emotions. He looks astonishingly neutral given the circumstances when he reaches to take the bit of brown paper that may have once belonged to an ordinary brown lunch bag or something. Perfectly calm every day circumstances.

He is anything but. The turmoil beneath the even facade hadn't stopped, not since arriving here. Not since the first changes.

The creature Vincent has roughly sketched looked little like things he'd seen before, unlike Vincent's behemoth-like other form. If a levirkon were given a heavier neck, a dragon's muzzle and tail.. maybe. But that didn't explain the ears, or the mane. Chimeras were misbegotten things, pieces of creatures instead of a healthy unified whole.

Like the things in the desert. "Nothing human at all."

Nothing human at all. I'm becoming less human.

Vincent hears his own thoughts echo in Sephiroth's observation. His right hand closes, glove leather subtly creaking with the tension. He expels his breath slowly, forcing calm to return. Then he straightens; casting off from his makeshift support as if reluctant to let the stiffness of his injuries settle in.

"...It's a hard thing to accept." Statement. "Do you think you can?"

The question is asked; but it... isn't an interrogation. Vincent's tone holds an air of neutrality; if it were possible to believe, perhaps even no judgement. Well, he's as much admitted that he's had a long while to try and find the answer to that question himself. Vincent probably would be the last to blame someone who couldn't deal.

"Does it matter?" Whether or not he was okay with it, whether or not he could accept it, there wasn't anything as yet to be done about it. If there was, some of the others, those who'd been here longest.. they'd have found something, wouldn't they?

Maybe in time something would be found to reverse the process, but he didn't think he'd forget the taste of raw meat. Or the way the smell of blood made his stomach twist uncomfortably with hunger.

Or the way his dreams blurred with feral savagery, the joy of a hunt, a glee for killing he simply lacked his entire life. "It's a shared affliction. We'll all get through it, or we won't. What we can and can't accept is irrelevant."

"Sometimes," comes the answer. Vincent's walking now. The drawing will be left in Sephiroth's care. It's clear the man is leaving as abruptly as he turned up and made himself... well, mostly at home.

He draws the flap back but before he passes through it, pauses. There's a tilt of his head as if he almost looks over his shoulder.

"Having others going through the same thing. I suppose that changes things."

Then like a ghost, he vanishes through the opening. The flaps fall closed again but he seems to be departing.

Doesn't even zip up the canvas on the way out.

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