Empty Reason

Empty Reason

A/N: A rather abstract piece from my end. Kinda flashfic, and deliberatly left open ended and undone. I used it as a character building exercise for some of the executives in Shinra. Since I'm done with Equilibrium I thought I'd publish it as an aside.

"Ambition is a sacrifice born of reasons. To strive, to sacrifice, no one goes through loss willingly without a reason." Tseng of the Turks.

Walking home, heels clicking upon man-made stone, she dreams of destruction. The scent of fire, of soot, is the sweetest perfume. Rarely indulged, yet savored all the more for its scarcity. Taking a deep breath of what the short sighted call filth she makes here way home, a tool of destruction resting in one hand, the scent of death teasing her nostrils.

Homeā€¦ is detained for one. He lingers -as always- over panels and symbols. Falling from his lips, lingering in his mind like a miasma of chemicals, are words so complex that it bends the mind to comprehend them. His mind is bent, distorted, a contortionists dream come true. Mako fueled lights paint his pasty white face a sickly green, his heavy eyelids slid shut under the silent lullaby offered by that familiar light. He takes comfort from the glow as if it were a blanket draped over his frame by a loving hand.

First to come and first to go, such rigidity is one of the few marks of his militant upbringing. Oblivious of his state of grossness, he descents as he ascended years ago; with a scowl on his features and malice in his gaze. The few who get in his way are shoved aside, stepped upon. The tread of his footfall, like the shoes that encompass his mammoth feet, are of the military order. First class.

For some, going is the same as comming. Every step is dogged by duty, and to that realization he sighs. Such a cruel thing is duty that it has wrung a sly, slippery, intellect dry. Unaware of his loss he imagines himself at his peak, his form perfect. The fires of his passion and rage run as one, consuming the base of comerance even as he draws deep upon the fumes of depredation and opulance.

His ideals of home are alien, not forgotten nor forsaken as a few below him beleive. But it is alien, to it's core. A thing of openness, denied oppulance, and starkness. He takes comfort from the lack of comfort, and is innocent of the dicatomy of his "home". He starts the path away, polished boots clicking on an echoing earthen path. But like the dark that mars the sky his duty lingers, a celestial made mantle. Light, but not forgotten, and impossible to forsake.