[ He's always been told that fear is something useful: that the absence of fear, in a truly terrifying moment, is simply idiocy, but even knowing that, there's something frustrating about the way that his shoulders lock when faced with that blade. Perhaps it's just the memory that his body has: a ghost of the pain that lanced up inside of him, once, tangled him into a rage hard enough to fling Sephiroth into the depths of the reactor, or maybe it's knowing that there's literally nothing else he could do in that moment other than stare death down. A slow breath escapes between his lips, but he doesn't move: by the time that Masamune dissolves away, he feels like his knees might start shaking.
It doesn't matter. Nothing seems to matter. Sephiroth won't gut him here in the streets, at least not without a few more pointless riddles; he won't get rid of him so quickly when there's still time to play games.
His eyes move with the gesture, jerked back to the forges: at least it seems as though those who had sought to intervene have thought better of it now. He lets out another slow breath of relief. ]
It's none of your business. [ Which is true: he doesn't have to admit anything. His boots slide slightly in the dirt, as though ready to turn away. ] Whatever you have them make won't help you anyway. We're done here.
no subject
It doesn't matter. Nothing seems to matter. Sephiroth won't gut him here in the streets, at least not without a few more pointless riddles; he won't get rid of him so quickly when there's still time to play games.
His eyes move with the gesture, jerked back to the forges: at least it seems as though those who had sought to intervene have thought better of it now. He lets out another slow breath of relief. ]
It's none of your business. [ Which is true: he doesn't have to admit anything. His boots slide slightly in the dirt, as though ready to turn away. ] Whatever you have them make won't help you anyway. We're done here.