I awoke the moment before the alarm rang, one hand moving fast as lightning to shut off the switch that would cause the clock to shrill demands at me to cast off the veil of sleep.
I sat on the edge of the narrow bed, fully awake, collecting my thoughts, before standing and going to the tiny bathroom to relieve myself and have a short shower before the day really begins. Four in the bloody morning, I get up. Even Hojo doesn't get up this early.
I don't even need the sleep, not anymore.
The sound of the toilet flushing echoes loudly in the small metal-walled room, and I stand before the mirror and brush my teeth. The toothpaste is bitter, too minty to be called 'refreshing', and the toothbrush is stiff and hurts my gums. Damned corner-cutting. You'd think that they would spend more money on their prize project, their General, their 'precious specimen'. I wince at the harshness of the overly alcoholic mouthwash and quickly spit it out into the sink. No, of course not. Not while the President wallows in decadent luxury at the top of the Tower, a parasite upon the taxpayers below. He probably has Wutese harlots to wipe his rear for him with thousand-gil bills, while the man who wins him his great battles uses dental products a crack whore would turn her nose up at. Typical.
The shower, at least, is satisfactory, although the soap is cheap and burns my eyes when I wash my face, and burns in certain other places as I wash there. The water is extremely hot, as I like it, and the little stall quickly fills with steam. I reach out for the shampoo-bottle and hold it up to the light, admiring it like a fine wine. Now here is where I force them to spend money. Twenty gil a bottle from the finest hairdresser on the Plate, and worth it. I flip the top and sniff the contents, sighing. Sandalwood.
Dumping some in my hand, I work it into my hair and revel in the luxury. No, they will not cut corners when it comes to my hair. Scissors have never touched it and never will. At first it was childish stubbornness, and now they view it as yet another tool than can be used in the aura of terror that goes with me on the battlefield. Look, they reason, General Sephiroth is feared already. Everyone knows that he's the best. He's like Samson, or something along those lines. If he has his long, beautiful hair, it indicates that he has the leisure time to care for it, even on the field of battle, which will cause our enemies to think that he'll be able to deal with them swiftly. It makes him look feminine; and you know how the Wutese take masculine pride too far.
So in the end it became a tool, just like me, but I don't care. I wear my hair long because I have to, regardless of what they think or feel.
The conditioner, too, is scented of sandalwood and soon the bathroom smells like a Wutese temple.
I shut off the water and reach for a towel. It, at least, isn't threadbare and rotting. I wrap it around my waist and step into the main room of my 'cozy' little apartment, then start to wipe water off my skin. then rub at my hair vigorously, whispering a spell. It steams a little, floats in the air for a moment from the magic, then falls straight and dry to my knees. I step towards the mirror above the dresser and examine my reflection. A beautiful demon looks back at me.
Like Olivia, I take stock of my features - lips, moderate red; nose, slightly curved; teeth, strong, white, and even; skin, pale and flawless; eyebrows, silver, and delicately arched into a permanent expression of faint sarcasm, eyes, with lids to them -
Disturbing eyes. Wide, expressive, vaguely Wutese, limned with the colour of raw Mako and possessing pupils like those of a cat. Colour shifting from green to turquoise at random. No, not really green. Beryl, possibly, or viridian, or emerald. Not green. Green is much too commonplace.
I dress in the usual black denim trousers, black leather boots, black leather trenchcoat, and fasten the straps across my chest. I put on the heavy belt and buckle it, leaving the enormous shoulder-guards and my beloved Masamune on their rack. I won't be doing anything where I need them today. The cunningly-made black gloves make their way into my hands and I stop before the mirror once again to ensure that all is according to regulation.
Hair, tidy, check. Beard, nonexistent as always, check (but what if I were able to grow one...how would that look?). Teeth, clean, check.
Eyes that burn like green coals. Like emeralds, like beryl...
No. Transparency does not give such a strong colour.
Green like malachite. Yes. The stone of the sorceror, of unbridled power, that protects its owner from all mishaps and can go wild with strength with no warning.
I shut off the lights and leave the apartment, heading for the elevator.
Eyes like malachite.
Just another day at the office.

Author's Notes:
Well.....yes. I don't know. Have you ever seen a decent piece of malachite? It possesses an incredibly rich and deep green colour (it contains copper arsenate) that can be more pleasing than emerald and comes in much larger pieces. In the right light, it looks green-blue to deepest green. Much like the eyes of our beloved General.

~Lucifer's Seraphim~ Oh please review...