Chapter Text
The Lifestream is cloying—far less an acidic, virulent substance like it is close to Gaia’s surface and more like a metaphysical weight. With every inch of resistance, the soul splinters; with every gasp of air, lungs seize.
It is a sharp and unyielding pain, but one that, in time, fades into background noise.
Sephiroth’s consciousness has had nothing but time. His body, too, has become fortified against the planet's offensives in the years following his initial contact with Mother. Memories of his old life can no longer drag him beneath the current, trying to poison him with the last vestiges of his forsaken humanity.
After suffering a third defeat at the hands of his cherished puppet—and oh, how the word 'cherished' withers in the back of his mind—resurfacing becomes easier. It is begrudging muscle memory, something he wishes he was not intimately acquainted with, but every time his soul plunges into the planet's depths, his rage compounds. For this, at least, his transient deaths have long-term value.
Time flows differently in the Lifestream—neither backwards nor forwards, but more akin to a swirling pool—and he is not sure where or when exactly he will emerge. If his internal clock is correct based on prior experiences, it has been about a year since his and Cloud's battle above the ruins of Shinra Tower.
More than enough time for his puppet to regain his strength. He is looking forward to an actual challenge this time rather than the typical luck-and-speed-based maneuvers Cloud relies on so heavily.
The veil between himself and the planet’s surface hovers close. With determination, he rises toward it.
The hiss of water from a nozzle is the first thing to greet him. His surroundings are over-bright and the water flowing from above is scalding. He blinks a few times, taking in his surroundings.
He is standing on black and white herringbone tilework. His hair is a neck-cramping weight at his back, not yet wrung out. To his left is a frosted glass door, and when he presses a hand against it, it pops open, its hinges rattling.
Magnetized. Easily-dirtied as well, he muses. It already bears his fingerprints.
The water smells faintly of rotten eggs, and in sharp contrast, the runoff swirling around his feet has a strong floral scent. His eyes rove over a number of bottles that sit on a ledge to his right. Nearly all of them are the size of his forearm, but the one that shows signs of use has some sort of small, neon paper adhered over its brand name. ‘20 gil’ is scrawled beside a number that has been struck from the paper in a tangled web of innumerable pen marks.
Curious. Violent as well, though Sephiroth supposes neon orange is a rather offensive color.
A loud wham! shakes the building’s foundation. Raucous laughter follows a moment later, accompanied by a voice.
“Sorry, Seph!” The voice is gratingly jovial. Does he know the poor creature it belongs to? It continues, “Just a little mishap with the remote! Nobody broke anything, I swear!”
The apparent proximity of humans in this space makes his skin crawl. He locates the temperature dial above the faucet and turns it to the far left, bristling when the nozzle begins spitting ice, before slamming his fist against it.
The water abruptly finishes its punishingly cold descent. Once again, the entire building seems to shake from the force of a minor blow.
Bypassing the carefully-folded clothes on the counter, Sephiroth slings a towel around his waist and throws the door open. There is no door jamb, so the handle leaves a dent in the wall. Sephiroth wonders if at any point throughout the course of his life, he would have cared.
The only sound in the room is the steady stream of water dripping from his improperly-dried hair onto the carpet. Two sets of eyes stare at him, their owners stunned into silence.
“Seph, are you actually—?” comes the same grating voice from before. The creature’s sleek black hair and wide, unassuming eyes strike him as vaguely familiar. The other creature in his presence is smaller, having climbed halfway up the black-haired one’s body, legs locked around the small of its back and still unable to reach the object in its opponent’s hand.
Blond hair. Blue eyes, untouched by mako.
“You…!” My nemesis. My everything.
The towel falls from Sephiroth's hips. Cloud Strife lasts five seconds longer, crashing to the ground in a sprawl of willowy limbs and plexiglass.