Birds of a Feather
Everyone down in the Radiant Garden was gushing about how the town was coming back to normal, but Donald thought they had all gone mental from the pixie dust or whateverthehell it was that had fallen from the sky when Tron made his technical breakthrough into Ansem's pain of a computer. In his opinion, they wouldn't recognize hulking mountains and rusting metal castles that could still be brimming with evil and darkness if it was staring them smack in the face.
"And whose job is it to make sure that there aren't any more heartless or villains scampering around up here?" Donald asked himself as he waddled through the rough terrain. "Not Sora, noooo, he's too busy sending text messages to Tron and bouncing around asking, 'How can I help? What can I do? You need help lifting that board, Cid? You want me to hammer those nails, Aerith? Can I polish your gunblade, Leon? Can I alphabetize your books, Merlin?' Sheesh.
"And what about my pal Goofy, is he looking out for the safety of the town? Noooooo, he's gone and hired himself out as person taste-tester for my uncle's shoddy ice cream stand! And when he's done with that he's going to work on building a playground! A playground! Of all the things he could be doing to restore this world to its former glory he's building a playground! That doofus can't even build his own home gym set without setting fire to his apartment and blowing the snot out of his neighbor's walls! How does he think he's going to build a playground?"
"My, my, there goes the neighborhood."
Donald was in the air like a shot, flailing from the shock of having come across another living being he was not expecting in the mountains. He whipped his staff out and pointed at a tall figure dressed in black sitting slumped on a rock.
"Sephiroth!" Donald shouted accusingly.
"Yes, it's me," Sephiroth said, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Where's your tiny fighter and his little sword?"
"It's called a keyblade, you palooka," Donald explained impatiently. "It looks like a key and it's sharp. How hard is that to understand?"
Sephiroth stood up and drew his sword, Donald stepping back to give him some room. "Tell me, what kind of self-respecting magician allies himself with such a ridiculous weapon?"
"Gee let me think," Donald said sarcastically. "The ridiculous weapon that you wanted to be the master of!"
"That was before I realized this so-called 'sword of destiny' utilized a honey pot keychain like a child's toy. It's ridiculous."
"Look whose talking, buster, you can't even sheath that thing because it's so long."
"At least it looks sharp enough. And what is that ornament on top of your weapon, some kind of toy?"
"A black magician, thanks."
"Humph. At least it matches your outfit."
"I'm not the one with wings coming out of his hips," Donald gyrated his own just to emphasize his point.
"At least mine are real and don't do things like try to pretend to be hands."
"You call those things real? Hah! I bet you can't even fly."
A pause. Sephiroth was standing quite still, like he wasn't sure how to respond to that. Donald couldn't believe his eyes. He burst into his quacking laughter and started beating his knee.
"You can't, can you!"
Sephiroth was growing very red in the face.
"The one-winged angel with his own theme song and traveling Latin choir can't even fly with his stupid wings! WAhahahahahahahahaha-"
"Well neither can you."
There was a long, awkward pause.
"Don't be stupid, my body's not built the right way."
"I only have one wing that actually works, it's not my fault."
Donald rubbed the back of his head. Sephiroth shifted his weight.
"Well, uh, I guess I should be moving on," Donald said awkwardly.
"I have…very important matters to attend to," Sephiroth said lamely.
"Right, well, see ya."
Donald waddled away as fast as he could and Sephiroth showed equal effort moving in the opposite direction. Both quickly resolved to never speak of the matter ever again.