[It doesn't take long for the walk to turn into a run, and Sephiroth can tell--even before the distance's closed between them--that the man's intent is a violent one. The flash of a sword catching against the light is proof enough, brandished as an incoming attack. He has seen it before, time and time again, though it had always been within the framework of the battlefield rather than a busy city square. Yet his instinct remains the same, even worlds away, and Sephiroth turns with his own sword gripped in his left hand. Standard-issue, twin of the other.
The crowd parts like a wave, confused and panicked. They make room for the stranger barreling forward with an unknown rage, and the performers behind Sephiroth stop mid-act and stumble away from what appears to be a collision bound to happen. The SOLDIER, of course, pays attention to none of that; his focus is just as surefire sharp as the man coming towards him, heightened by some strange connective tissue that he still cannot ignore.
He can read his attack. It's clear as day, and he's already raising his blade to meet it. (A blade that is too short, too strangely balanced, unsatisfactory, but it will have to do.) The distance shortens between them in a breadth of a moment. The world itself truncates to allow the space and consciousness of two people -- himself and who?
He knows him. With each passing millisecond, he grows more certain of it. A flash of memory squeezed in-between these two blistering moments: that same head of hair, that same facial structure, yet gone a little sharper with the passage of time. A young grunt with his helmet practically plastered to his head. How? Why?
The command comes easy despite knowing that it'll get lost in the storm. He holds his ground, ready and certain that he can take the oncoming force with a block or a parry of his own steel.]
no worries at all!
The crowd parts like a wave, confused and panicked. They make room for the stranger barreling forward with an unknown rage, and the performers behind Sephiroth stop mid-act and stumble away from what appears to be a collision bound to happen. The SOLDIER, of course, pays attention to none of that; his focus is just as surefire sharp as the man coming towards him, heightened by some strange connective tissue that he still cannot ignore.
He can read his attack. It's clear as day, and he's already raising his blade to meet it. (A blade that is too short, too strangely balanced, unsatisfactory, but it will have to do.) The distance shortens between them in a breadth of a moment. The world itself truncates to allow the space and consciousness of two people -- himself and who?
He knows him. With each passing millisecond, he grows more certain of it. A flash of memory squeezed in-between these two blistering moments: that same head of hair, that same facial structure, yet gone a little sharper with the passage of time. A young grunt with his helmet practically plastered to his head. How? Why?
The command comes easy despite knowing that it'll get lost in the storm. He holds his ground, ready and certain that he can take the oncoming force with a block or a parry of his own steel.]
Stand down!