Cry: Prologue
Jul. 8th, 2011 01:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
primum_mobile Fandom: Final Fantasy VII Compilation
Characters (this chapter): Lucrecia (Star), Genesis
Warnings: Violence
Author's Notes: Result of too many late night conversations, too many hours spent dwelling on a minor fictional character, spending too much time with Dante and his pompous poetry (you're not the only one, Gen, are you happy?), and a lot of lovely influences who probably know precisely who they are. The typist takes no responsibility for the words contained herein--though she promises future chapters will be less angsty. Sometimes. She's... not sure what else you expected, really. If you wanted something fluffy.. she has a pink genetically engineered fuzzy wumpkins for you? Otherwise, you truly are SOL, my friend.
Eternal rest. Uneasy peace in sleepless dreams. Flashes of memory, faces of the dead and should be, meadows and trees, and what Lucrecia loved most? When her soul went flying free, away from the lingering agony of her sorrows and soared among the endless stars. It had been Vincent’s last visit that allowed her that luxury, his reassurance that Chaos and Omega slept well, and the Planet was ready to stand for millennia more. He had…forgiven her. She… didn’t deserve it, but he had anyway. Thanked her.
Now just to wait until the end of the world—CRASH.
So let's be done with this.
You said "I want you, I don't want another, I want a girl who knows how to suffer."
Crash! Smash! Shatter! Bash! Lucrecia could feel the blows as a sound miner’s hammer was pounding into her cavern home. Over and over—like the shattering of glass, but heavier. The low vibrational buzz the protomateria made increased its pitch, the primordial substance almost shrieking as someone destroyed its order.
She had barely time to muse on who it was before one massive blow sent her tumbling to the cave’s floor. Pain jolted, jangling little used nerves into a state of sodium-potassium gated electric panic. Lucrecia opened her mouth to scream before she heard a seething, masculine voice, “You remorseless, prideful little bitch.” She was yanked up by her hair and flung, first into one wall, then into another. Blue-white bruises cracked over the surface of her preternaturally pale skin in shatter patterns
Chalk down my hands, I need to work the bars dry. So now you're in the middle of someone terrible and you're carrying a tiny crucible.
“Why didn’t you just let him go?” Her head was yanked up, tears stinging her eyes, lungs being frantically nudged by an overactive diaphragm that begged for oxygen for her newly breathing body. She hung suspended in the air once more, this time dangling by her hair instead of encased in crystal. She heard the sound of a blade and waited, eyelids shut tight, tensed for the strike to her neck. Decapitation: ending it all. The sweet, blessed release of true death so long denied her.
There was hesitation. Then she dropped again, head bouncing on the floor, throbbing with tangible and intangible pain. Her being was still humming at her, the protomateria still set off by more than their own trauma: WEAPON. She squinted her eyes open, seeing what was once her ponytail laying strewn some feet away. Darting her gaze around, she spied black boots, once of which soon found her face. She whimpered, and the man snorted. “Save your empty, lying tears: you’ll have plenty more to cry about when I’m through with you—that was just for Vincent.”
Every raw boy wants relief. You tough guys with the glass jaws, your pins, your backstage laws, your French positions, your stripper damage. It's more than you can hide, more than you can manage.
He grabbed the pearls around her neck, bead by bead closing in to strangle her. Unsatisfied with this end, he dragged her by them to a nearby pool of water. Now, she could pick up on his muttering beneath the tonal white noise. Recitations. Of crimes. Of… passages of something passingly familiar, on the edge of broken memories.
She smashed into the rocks again, then flipped on her way into the pool, scrambling to grab the sleeves of his red coat. Red. Coat. Red hair. Red, red everywhere as the blood from her nose flowed out in rivulets, framing his face above the water. Gloved hands stayed on her neck, her chest. Water rushed in where air should be, filling her in a way the antimatter of solidifying makou never did—it had an unnatural finality to it. There was no promise, no mystery, no meaning. Just cold, hard—“There is nothing more shameful than a mother committing crimes against her child. This is for Sephiroth.”
“Each and every little visit I make will be for Sephiroth. We have ever so much time, you see, for me to hand you your due judgment.”
Then it was all kind blackness.
I'm done with the dark boys,
through with the dark boys,
done with the dark boys,
I swear you'll be the last one.
When she came to, he was gone. She was still in the pool, face down now. Lucrecia rolled away, gasping and shaking. What…was that? What… the… the… what the hell was that? Guilt and sorrow, well minced with pain, were crystallizing in her heart, her being. Why would… How dare…? What, had the Planet finally hired a genuine avenging angel? Would the bastard really be back, like he said?
Was she simply going to lay around and wait for him? Did she have a choice?
I'm done with the dark boys,
through with the dark boys,
done with the black cotton mafia.
She… did. More of a choice now than ever. She had no ties to this jerk—whatever connections he might somehow have with those from her old life. Judgment? Her entire life had been a judgment of some kind or another: her morality, her intelligence, her work ethic, her clothing, her looks, her gender—every thing she had done and was. And she had been a self-fulfilling prophecy, bowing well to others’ pronouncements, living up to their worst expectations.
You dream of a girl with silver skin, you dream of a girl cooled and thinned. She's gone a bit blue around the edges. You want a girl who sucks her thumb when she comes, you're just looking for a clean sleep. She doesn't want to see you, she wants to be seen by the cameras, the crews and the soft machines. You want a girl who could suck the chrome.
But that was over, wasn’t it? Done. She had died for her sins—once, twice. So even if she were not cleansed and free, at the very least, she should have at least gained entrance to the gates of Hell, discovered the purgatorial path to the celestial realms. Lucrecia lifted herself up on trembling arms, working her way up to standing. She took inventory: most of her body was covered in the odd blue, lightly glowing bruises; every bone ached, every muscle twitched; pearls from her broken necklaces rained down with her every movement; her clothes were ripped and torn; she was barefoot; and… those gashes…
She turned over her arms, dropping to her knees again as she ran fingers over old, self-inflicted wounds, remembering how it felt to drag a scalpel through her own flesh. Remembering the desperation, sudden determination. The odd sense of relief she find in watching the first ruby wells. She had… control. Escape. The beauty of rebelling against all efforts to preserve her in her hollowed shell state, to keep her in the cage she belonged.
Life doesn't mean telling lies, it means enduring what you despise.
Maybe it hadn’t been to punish herself after all. And maybe… maybe neither had been the insisting everyone forget. Tears flooded her face once more, blurring her vision. Her complexities had been oversimplified. Knotted and looped and turned upon itself, unto utter destruction of not just herself, but all she had loved.
But that could be over now. Just one more great descent. Than an even greater climb…
I'm done with the dark boys,
through with the dark boys,
done with the dark boys,
I swear you'll be the last one.
I'm done, I'm through.
She ripped at her skirt, pulling off strips to wrap around her arms and bare feet. Better late than never? Maybe she would leave that for her Virgil to decide. ... Maybe she should take the hammer in case she doesn't like what her Virgil decides.
Characters (this chapter): Lucrecia (Star), Genesis
Warnings: Violence
Author's Notes: Result of too many late night conversations, too many hours spent dwelling on a minor fictional character, spending too much time with Dante and his pompous poetry (you're not the only one, Gen, are you happy?), and a lot of lovely influences who probably know precisely who they are. The typist takes no responsibility for the words contained herein--though she promises future chapters will be less angsty. Sometimes. She's... not sure what else you expected, really. If you wanted something fluffy.. she has a pink genetically engineered fuzzy wumpkins for you? Otherwise, you truly are SOL, my friend.
Eternal rest. Uneasy peace in sleepless dreams. Flashes of memory, faces of the dead and should be, meadows and trees, and what Lucrecia loved most? When her soul went flying free, away from the lingering agony of her sorrows and soared among the endless stars. It had been Vincent’s last visit that allowed her that luxury, his reassurance that Chaos and Omega slept well, and the Planet was ready to stand for millennia more. He had…forgiven her. She… didn’t deserve it, but he had anyway. Thanked her.
Now just to wait until the end of the world—CRASH.
So let's be done with this.
You said "I want you, I don't want another, I want a girl who knows how to suffer."
Crash! Smash! Shatter! Bash! Lucrecia could feel the blows as a sound miner’s hammer was pounding into her cavern home. Over and over—like the shattering of glass, but heavier. The low vibrational buzz the protomateria made increased its pitch, the primordial substance almost shrieking as someone destroyed its order.
She had barely time to muse on who it was before one massive blow sent her tumbling to the cave’s floor. Pain jolted, jangling little used nerves into a state of sodium-potassium gated electric panic. Lucrecia opened her mouth to scream before she heard a seething, masculine voice, “You remorseless, prideful little bitch.” She was yanked up by her hair and flung, first into one wall, then into another. Blue-white bruises cracked over the surface of her preternaturally pale skin in shatter patterns
Chalk down my hands, I need to work the bars dry. So now you're in the middle of someone terrible and you're carrying a tiny crucible.
“Why didn’t you just let him go?” Her head was yanked up, tears stinging her eyes, lungs being frantically nudged by an overactive diaphragm that begged for oxygen for her newly breathing body. She hung suspended in the air once more, this time dangling by her hair instead of encased in crystal. She heard the sound of a blade and waited, eyelids shut tight, tensed for the strike to her neck. Decapitation: ending it all. The sweet, blessed release of true death so long denied her.
There was hesitation. Then she dropped again, head bouncing on the floor, throbbing with tangible and intangible pain. Her being was still humming at her, the protomateria still set off by more than their own trauma: WEAPON. She squinted her eyes open, seeing what was once her ponytail laying strewn some feet away. Darting her gaze around, she spied black boots, once of which soon found her face. She whimpered, and the man snorted. “Save your empty, lying tears: you’ll have plenty more to cry about when I’m through with you—that was just for Vincent.”
Every raw boy wants relief. You tough guys with the glass jaws, your pins, your backstage laws, your French positions, your stripper damage. It's more than you can hide, more than you can manage.
He grabbed the pearls around her neck, bead by bead closing in to strangle her. Unsatisfied with this end, he dragged her by them to a nearby pool of water. Now, she could pick up on his muttering beneath the tonal white noise. Recitations. Of crimes. Of… passages of something passingly familiar, on the edge of broken memories.
She smashed into the rocks again, then flipped on her way into the pool, scrambling to grab the sleeves of his red coat. Red. Coat. Red hair. Red, red everywhere as the blood from her nose flowed out in rivulets, framing his face above the water. Gloved hands stayed on her neck, her chest. Water rushed in where air should be, filling her in a way the antimatter of solidifying makou never did—it had an unnatural finality to it. There was no promise, no mystery, no meaning. Just cold, hard—“There is nothing more shameful than a mother committing crimes against her child. This is for Sephiroth.”
“Each and every little visit I make will be for Sephiroth. We have ever so much time, you see, for me to hand you your due judgment.”
Then it was all kind blackness.
I'm done with the dark boys,
through with the dark boys,
done with the dark boys,
I swear you'll be the last one.
When she came to, he was gone. She was still in the pool, face down now. Lucrecia rolled away, gasping and shaking. What…was that? What… the… the… what the hell was that? Guilt and sorrow, well minced with pain, were crystallizing in her heart, her being. Why would… How dare…? What, had the Planet finally hired a genuine avenging angel? Would the bastard really be back, like he said?
Was she simply going to lay around and wait for him? Did she have a choice?
I'm done with the dark boys,
through with the dark boys,
done with the black cotton mafia.
She… did. More of a choice now than ever. She had no ties to this jerk—whatever connections he might somehow have with those from her old life. Judgment? Her entire life had been a judgment of some kind or another: her morality, her intelligence, her work ethic, her clothing, her looks, her gender—every thing she had done and was. And she had been a self-fulfilling prophecy, bowing well to others’ pronouncements, living up to their worst expectations.
You dream of a girl with silver skin, you dream of a girl cooled and thinned. She's gone a bit blue around the edges. You want a girl who sucks her thumb when she comes, you're just looking for a clean sleep. She doesn't want to see you, she wants to be seen by the cameras, the crews and the soft machines. You want a girl who could suck the chrome.
But that was over, wasn’t it? Done. She had died for her sins—once, twice. So even if she were not cleansed and free, at the very least, she should have at least gained entrance to the gates of Hell, discovered the purgatorial path to the celestial realms. Lucrecia lifted herself up on trembling arms, working her way up to standing. She took inventory: most of her body was covered in the odd blue, lightly glowing bruises; every bone ached, every muscle twitched; pearls from her broken necklaces rained down with her every movement; her clothes were ripped and torn; she was barefoot; and… those gashes…
She turned over her arms, dropping to her knees again as she ran fingers over old, self-inflicted wounds, remembering how it felt to drag a scalpel through her own flesh. Remembering the desperation, sudden determination. The odd sense of relief she find in watching the first ruby wells. She had… control. Escape. The beauty of rebelling against all efforts to preserve her in her hollowed shell state, to keep her in the cage she belonged.
Life doesn't mean telling lies, it means enduring what you despise.
Maybe it hadn’t been to punish herself after all. And maybe… maybe neither had been the insisting everyone forget. Tears flooded her face once more, blurring her vision. Her complexities had been oversimplified. Knotted and looped and turned upon itself, unto utter destruction of not just herself, but all she had loved.
But that could be over now. Just one more great descent. Than an even greater climb…
I'm done with the dark boys,
through with the dark boys,
done with the dark boys,
I swear you'll be the last one.
I'm done, I'm through.
She ripped at her skirt, pulling off strips to wrap around her arms and bare feet. Better late than never? Maybe she would leave that for her Virgil to decide. ... Maybe she should take the hammer in case she doesn't like what her Virgil decides.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-09 10:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-10 12:15 am (UTC)One of mine, too. :3
Though this totally wasn't the way I meant to start this? My writing is taking on a mind of its own. >_>;;
I really kind of want to get to Tiferet. Except I kind of also would like to write her out of the whole story and use her elsewhere. But she won't be gone. Alas.