Author's Note: I've been going through a rough time - in and out of hospital because of my platelet problem. But anyhow, this is spur of the moment stuff I needed to write to get back into the mode of writing. Idea - I just don't get it! What happens when Genesis comes back? There is no order on the planet and I doubt he feels need for redemption. I also criticise Cloud's actions - Goddess he is dumb...(yes, this is canon). If you don't like it, press the big 'X' button on the top right-hand side of the window. But even in saying so, think before you review, like seriously use a brain (I don't care where you find it) and think. Also, this is unplanned, unedited and I have pretty much just gone with the flow in writing this. ENJOY! :D
Note: minuscule amount of Seph/Gen.
It was flame.
It sparked his curiosity and ignited his thoughts in the most passionate of perceptions. How was it that flickering, amber tongues provoked such sensation in his very person? He had been told the strangest oracle, that he would defy all and end all in a hopeless battle and with him he carried like a religious man the book which predicted the fate of mankind. And how he became so very attached to it, near worshiped the poem inked into those velum white pages in the most carefully drawn calligraphy. Even so, he was still very much attracted to fire - to those autumn hues which burned his village all those years ago while he lay in wait for the call.
And how he waited.
For so long.
There had come no call.
It was by some distant messenger, a boy with a much forgotten name. (Had it been a boy, or was it a man?) He was neither black nor white, or was he black or white. Nero or Weiss? He could not register. But how there was love in the ends of those words he did speak before the body fell down into a bundle of bone and spent flesh, before the skin took on a silvery sheen beneath the glow of the moon to mask its slow decay into a muddy yellow.
And then he was awoken. The gates pried apart and a surge of pure blue burst forth from the source and he made himself known to Gaia once more. And for what purpose? That he should know - how he spent those years deep in thought. Submerged into a subconscious state that lived, but did not live - that saw, but could not act. How he did feel the ache in the world, the fresh scent of blood that was very much like his own - those metallic notes and bittersweet undertones.
Then he had himself soar into the sky and loom above the earth like a bird of death - a crow, a raven; with eyes that were just as carnivorous. But for something so much different.
How he saw that world.
Could these citizens fail to see that their own actions worsened their situation? How silly were they - defeating the one powerful company which held the strings of all the nations, lands and people of the world together. And thus Minerva's land was left in complete disarray. Without hope, without order - a world without rule is a world without purpose. And there was Gaia - a hopeless world asking to be destroyed.
And he laughed. Asking to be destroyed? Why take up the effort and waste one's time if it is already destroying itself?This was what Minerva wanted him to see, the reason why she preserved his life? It was mockery, absolute mockery.
But with time, his arrogance had faded and rather that he see the world as a result of it having not sooner realise how terrible it allowed itself be used, he pitied the people. Their blindness, their ignorance...their desire to have no powerful ruler to maintain order. What is there now is the next question. Who is in charge of keeping the streets clean and the society crime-free? One yellow haired child on a motorcycle with his justice league?
Laughable. Truly laughable.
Because they are heroes. He told himself. Heroes can protect the whole of the world, no matter which threat comes their way. Which is why Gaia's sky is luminous blue, and the children can feel sun against their cheeks and why advancements in medicine had been lost and science was replaced by a faith that cannot be explained.
Or at least so they thought.
And he had been there, he had seen life on the other side. How truly compassionate Minerva was. And he himself was blind to truth at one stage - Minerva was a Goddess, yet she allowed this world be troubled by Jenova. That deadly, horrible virus.
He no longer felt much hatred towards it. It was a thing of nature. Nature was not always beauteous, neither was it meant to be. And Jenova was Minerva's gift to the world - a quick, painless death so as to save it from the centuries of turmoil that will follow.
And he was just a product of that turmoil. He and his dearest friend.
For the time being, Gaia was slowly collapsing inwards on itself. Poverty sprouted from every corner and there was that yellow haired child sitting in the church all to his own vices, crying to a dead woman to make the problem which he created to go away. To stop the poison of his ignorance, of his illogical actions to infect the people. These people would not have been suffering had he not been so stupid as to end Geostigma and repel Sephiroth back into his own Lifestream.
Though the issue did not end there. There were little funds to revert the old mako mines into coal mines for he so blindlyfilled the shafts with explosives.
And the casualties...and the sick in the hospitals...
They were all the weight on his shoulders. How the radiation...the gases...the poison of the reactors seeped into the atmosphere because he had decided to destroy reactors which should not be destroyed and thus people became sicker and sicker, how people became deformed and children stillborn. And they were his fault.
And he wanted to defeat him and Sephiroth?
My... he thought, we offer your world redemption. Salvation from agony and pain - to take you to a new world, one which you must venture.
Even in saying so - this yellow haired child would dare to argue that he had done what he would have done. Instead it was so wrong, so very different. Where this child had given the world disorder by removing a great power (and its assets) entirely, he would have thrown off the figure heads and dictate his way with his red army. Still maintain an order without destroying the world, but this child would not have seen that. He felt threatened by him, thought and followed orders blindly like sheep and now, in this world without hierarchy and power, it remained placid, defenceless and dependent upon a band of drunken, hollow-headed imbeciles.
And that world was crying. It howled silently for death - and even so, it looked very much like a dying land. However the people, so full of faith in a Goddess who did not prevent harm to inflict the deep wounds upon the world, who did not stop the Calamity, but instead bid it entrance. Were they just Her experiment much like he had been one of ShinRa?
For what purpose, though? A greater good perhaps, or no good at all because frankly good and bad were matters of perception and what Gaia needed now was the aid of he and his resting friend.
But of course.
He was not named Genesis for no reason at all. And he will raise Gaia to its new beginning.As a body of Lifestream, even if that is the most ideal, it did not matter. Beginnings and endings were human things - they were viewed much differently in his eyes. What marks the end of this physical body of the planet, can merely raise the start of another, elsewhere in the cosmos. So his name will be lived up to so entirely, and no one would dare to stop him, not even the yellow haired child.
He meant no harm. Truly.
He was just doing his part for Gaia, for the better of Gaia.
Somewhere far off he could sense him drawing nearer, rousing from his contemplative rest. And those black gloved fingers did intertwine with his own and together they knew the fate of the planet. With a raise of swords they plummeted to the earth and assaulted the cities, the towns, the deepest valleys and the highest summits. And that yellow haired child could do naught but raise his unsuspecting head, his dull, dust filled head and have it severed from his wasteful body, tumbling across the creaking, wooden floor of the church in a brilliant spray of red. Like flames they shot out of his neck, spurting like a volcano - hot and thick like magma it scorched his flesh, dying that pale headless neck a vibrant crimson, seeping scarlet tones into his clothes.
And without their hero, their silly, brainless hero, Gaia fell to pieces.
The people lost all hope. And in this moment of grief they came to realise their blindness, their mistakes and held flaming torches and sharpened pitchforks, rallying down the streets like a revolutionary pact. They spat out Marxist idealism, brandished his prized poem believing they knew the truth behind those words.
And how silly they were.
And how convenient they were.
To line up ready to shake hands with death and have their bodies stripped of life fluid. Together they painted the towns red.
Together they ignited the world in a horrific frenzy of spraying blood and slow death. The disease still lingered in the air - the one that yellow haired child infected the planet with and the one which Sephiroth demand Jenova inflict upon these people.
How he could have them be his servants, but instead he much preferred watching them slowly decay, watching them kill each other in feeble attempts to survive. Because humanity was just so curious, just so blind, just so hypocritical, just so contradictory he could not help, but watch as people who preached that murder was a terrible sin killed to get a loaf of bread.
Could they not see that they were to die anyway?
Such selfish beings.
"We must give it to them." did Genesis say, "They are a resilient bunch. Only, they have too much faith in their own people."
"Or rather they have faith."
And Genesis did smile and feel so much more. So much better.
"Have you, Genesis, thought of redemption?"
The question did startle him, but he smirked and laughed softly. "Redemption? My friend, I have spent years fighting for a dying world." he paused only to inhale the rich scent of cinders drifting in the breeze, "This is my redemption."
And he was satisfied with that answer. That the both of them could create their own watercolour world, with a new race of humanity, or not a human one at all. One which together they could dictate and be two never dying rulers who saw all and would keep seeing. Who could create that perfect world for this one was far too lost, far too pathetic to be worth their rule.
Those colours wrapped around the stark, empty planet. The last of humanity having called for this fabulous end themselves, and he rejoiced in the beauteous aura drowning the world in which they lived, yet never were a part of. Those autumn hues, how the flames quivered like leaves shaking in the cool wind, how they lapped the grey buildings like some vast ocean dyed by a thousand men's blood. And it shimmered so brilliantly, so vividly - and the cries of the people in the scorching heat. It all mattered naught to him.
Flame was a cruel beast. It consumed all with a hunger which could not be sated, taking everything in its path - a path of destruction - and only leaving once it had stripped everything away.
The flames did clear and they had each other in a most strange and passionate way. In a most odd and disconnected way, that they were one, but two. That they have done this planet a favour and with such a marvellous display. It warmed his heart, even brought a tear to his eyes from the brilliance of the fire.
And where his passion did lead him - from the company of a book to the understanding of human nature there was simply one thing which would best define his being.
It was flames.
Something different, yes? Not quite like my normal writing and that sort of irritates me. Anyway, your words mean plenty. I like opinions. :)