[Sephiroth gives off the impression of severity on a good day, a man whose aloof temperament usually staves off most unwanted company. And in a mood that is less-than-ideal, he’s banking on it now — a tick of irritation is permanently carved into his brow, his features practically made of hard stone, and he isn’t inclined to spark new conversation with any he might come across.

After all, while there’s a cold dose of irony in being pulled from one world to another yet still existing within a militaristic structure, that’s about where the similarities—and familiarities—end. He has been cut off mid-mission and expected to readjust at a ridiculous rate, expected to be understanding of an unwarranted reassignment and allow his irritation to be cowed by smiling, grateful faces. He feels like a ship unmoored and he dislikes it. Greatly.

All that to say that he makes for terrible company within the confines of the barracks, currently bending over to open the trunk at the foot of a bed, silver hair slipping over his shoulders, and very pointedly ignoring anyone else in the room. The sign of the Tower is visible on his garb, but he does not even bother to question anyone else’s sign, or their names, or what they think of the situation at hand.

Prospects for a warm, friendly barrack-mate? Looking low.]

[It’s easy to lose himself in training. The habit’s been long hammered into his bones, and it’s no surprise when Sephiroth gravitates towards the training grounds itself, already having picked up a practice sword (the balance feels all wrong, the reach far too short) and fallen into exercises so familiar it comes to him as naturally as breathing.

But even the familiar rhythm of practice has lost its ease today. He can feel it in every atom of every cell — he’s weaker than usual, slower than usual, not nearly as reactive, as though his limbs were moving through molasses rather than air. And there’s minimal comfort in being told that his strength would return in time, not when one is a SOLDIER, when usefulness was equated to ability and strength, and frustration bubbles up quickly.

And it turns into impatience, for however little it shows — just a shadow of a thing, the downturn of his lips as he turns to face another in the vicinity. And in likely the first attempt to wholeheartedly interact with anyone else since his arrival, he speaks.]

You. Put your guard up.

[He needs to test himself against a live opponent, and whether or not the other person agrees is irrelevant. The way his stance shifts, the way he springs forward should be a fair indication of that.]

[Despite whatever fuss might’ve been kicked up at the training grounds, Sephiroth does not end his day with sweat or grime still plastered to his person. He’s always been influenced by fastidious, cat-like tendencies of cleanliness, and within the communal bathing room, this much becomes clear.

He sits in one of the tubs, filled with water so warm it steams, the curtain for privacy only half-pulled. Privacy is a laughable notion in a full barracks of any kind, and though he had long earned the prestige of personal space back on Gaia, he does not expect the same here. Pretending it exists is a waste of time, and he doesn’t seem to care if anyone else is looking his way.

There’s a bigger issue, anyhow.

His silver hair, so long that it seems to fill the surface of the tub itself, has a knot. He’s located the offending strand, has isolated it and caught his fingers against it, and stares at it as though it is the most objectionable thing he has ever seen. Blame the events of the day, blame the water and soaps of another world, blame what must be a confluence of terrible luck, blame anything, it doesn’t matter. Sephiroth’s focus is singular, his fingers trying to work deftly to undo the twisting strands.

It’s unsure whether help or advice would be welcome or appreciated, but since when has that ever stopped anyone?]