[He knows that his strength is gone, that his speed has been watered down similarly — Sephiroth knows that when this familiar man comes at him with that sword, he will not be able to reply in the way he’s used to. Cutting down any chance at retaliation. Halting someone’s intentions to attack him usually before they can even fathom how.
So it shouldn’t be surprising that his apparent opponent’s strikes affect him, shifting his center of mass when it used to be unmovable, made of stone. But the force behind it, even if they weren’t bolstered by rage, is like being struck by a moving vehicle. It staggers him this way and that despite Sephiroth’s precision-quick parries, technique and experience keeping him from outright being cut in two. How? As another swing is blocked at his side, shaking every bone in his arm, he has to take a two-handed stance to bolster his steel and balance both. This isn’t the strength of an infantryman; this cannot be the same man he knows—Strife, that was his name—who never showed so much fire. This is the strength of a SOLDIER, and a SOLDIER he was not.
But in the flurry, he catches a closer look at the expression he wears. Twisted with the haze of anger; and those eyes.
It isn’t possible. Maybe he made a mistake. Maybe this isn’t the man he thought it was.]
You’re talking nonsense.
[During a fight, where his focus leans heavily into keeping pace with the other, he cannot bother to yell, only to speak in a cold, commanding tone, which may be all the more frustrating. Wires have been crossed. Identities have been mistaken. He hasn’t killed “everyone” unless that “everyone” encompassed those who fought against him in the Wutai War years ago, and why would that—
Thoughts do not have time to connect. The crowd has chiefly given them a wide berth, but a few stragglers remain confused by the two men with steel ringing out between them, and run wherever their feet take them. A terrified man gets too close to a sword swing, and he lashes out an arm and pushes him away. Cloud’s gotten in far too tight as a result, and Sephiroth opts to whip around with his elbow, to buy him interruption and time.]
no subject
So it shouldn’t be surprising that his apparent opponent’s strikes affect him, shifting his center of mass when it used to be unmovable, made of stone. But the force behind it, even if they weren’t bolstered by rage, is like being struck by a moving vehicle. It staggers him this way and that despite Sephiroth’s precision-quick parries, technique and experience keeping him from outright being cut in two. How? As another swing is blocked at his side, shaking every bone in his arm, he has to take a two-handed stance to bolster his steel and balance both. This isn’t the strength of an infantryman; this cannot be the same man he knows—Strife, that was his name—who never showed so much fire. This is the strength of a SOLDIER, and a SOLDIER he was not.
But in the flurry, he catches a closer look at the expression he wears. Twisted with the haze of anger; and those eyes.
It isn’t possible. Maybe he made a mistake. Maybe this isn’t the man he thought it was.]
You’re talking nonsense.
[During a fight, where his focus leans heavily into keeping pace with the other, he cannot bother to yell, only to speak in a cold, commanding tone, which may be all the more frustrating. Wires have been crossed. Identities have been mistaken. He hasn’t killed “everyone” unless that “everyone” encompassed those who fought against him in the Wutai War years ago, and why would that—
Thoughts do not have time to connect. The crowd has chiefly given them a wide berth, but a few stragglers remain confused by the two men with steel ringing out between them, and run wherever their feet take them. A terrified man gets too close to a sword swing, and he lashes out an arm and pushes him away. Cloud’s gotten in far too tight as a result, and Sephiroth opts to whip around with his elbow, to buy him interruption and time.]