[ he had closed his eyes to the brilliant white light he'd stepped into, only to open them and... ]
[ blink owlishly at the bench across from him, uncomprehending. the phone in his gloved hand vibrates; he answers the questions on rote confusion. the door yawns open and he waits for someone to step in, and then waits a little longer. when nothing happens, nothing moves, no one breathes... he steps out of the train car, glancing this way and then that. one might not think of it from a big city even as empty as this one, but compared to Midgar, it smells like a garden. the air isn't a thick gloom, the stringent chemical odor of mako cloying. a breeze waves through the vacant, hollow cement halls of the train station and carries Cloud out to the deck. ]
[ a look left. a look right. his hands perch on his hips as he observes and ruminates, and then one goes over his shoulder — to grasp at nothing. he even looks at his empty hand perplexed, as though it betrays him. ]
Hey. You seen a sword around? About this wide— [ his two hands held apart in measurement, this is... as broad as his waist. ] —this big? [ and here, his hand marks the height: just shy of his eyebrows from the ground. who needs a sword this big. who. ]
bubblegum.
[ well, first things first: look for everyone else. his scouting brings him to the ice cream shop, drawn by the proclivity of his party (or a sharp nose, or penchant for mischief). he doesn't himself order anything, but the shop seems to be keen to serve him anyway: two big scoops in a cone, one a peppy pink and the second a chunk-chocked chocolate. a rankled brow and insistent frown accompany his visible train of thought... before he reluctantly snatches it off of the stand and heads out the door, as though some invisible person had been standing there, smiling, expectant. ]
[ it's a dairy and sugar rush as he laps at saccharine pink with his tongue, pulling of tablets of chewy pink gum and smacking them between his teeth as his boots thump heavy on the sidewalk. ]
It's not below par, [ he announces to no one in particular, ] But I've had better in Midgar.
[ ...what just came out of his mouth? ]
rocky road.
I like your shirt.
[ this man, nursing a half-eaten waffle cone with mostly chocolate left but some residual pink, has just walked up to a complete stranger and complimented their clothing. this wouldn't be unusual if it were anyone other than Cloud fucking Strife, whose very name quivers the hearts of extroverts everywhere. aside from that, he has no personal stake in fashion; his looks are just pragmatic, refashioned pieces of uniform. might as well be wearing the ugliest shirt known to man.]
[ sllllrrrrppp. and yet he had said yet, and continues to lick his ice cream, with such an inscrutable expression that it's hard to gauge his tone or intent. after another bite of cone, he adds: ]
I think you can take me in a fight.
[ there's a sticky river of chocolate in his glove that he can't quite feel through the fabric, dripping onto his corded shirt between the straps of an empty weapon holster. summer has taken a toll on frozen desserts. ]
network. @ c.strife
I'm looking for some people.
1. Long silver hair guy, really long sword 2. Big guy with a big gun arm and even bigger mouth 3. Brawler girl with red eyes. She's probably made it to the bars by now 4. Red talking dog(?) with tail on fire. Not sure how he'd use a phone, to be honest 5. Girl who likes flowers but don't let that fool you
I'm also avoiding some people.
1. Snotty blond guy with a shotgun and evil cat 2. Skinny redhead guy with ugly tattoos 3. Bald guy with glasses, punches hard
Contact me. Or don't.
other.
[ feel free to wildcard anywhere in the city, i'm flexible. PM this journal as needed. ]
cloud strife, ff7r
[ he had closed his eyes to the brilliant white light he'd stepped into, only to open them and... ]
[ blink owlishly at the bench across from him, uncomprehending. the phone in his gloved hand vibrates; he answers the questions on rote confusion. the door yawns open and he waits for someone to step in, and then waits a little longer. when nothing happens, nothing moves, no one breathes... he steps out of the train car, glancing this way and then that. one might not think of it from a big city even as empty as this one, but compared to Midgar, it smells like a garden. the air isn't a thick gloom, the stringent chemical odor of mako cloying. a breeze waves through the vacant, hollow cement halls of the train station and carries Cloud out to the deck. ]
[ a look left. a look right. his hands perch on his hips as he observes and ruminates, and then one goes over his shoulder — to grasp at nothing. he even looks at his empty hand perplexed, as though it betrays him. ]
Hey. You seen a sword around? About this wide— [ his two hands held apart in measurement, this is... as broad as his waist. ] —this big? [ and here, his hand marks the height: just shy of his eyebrows from the ground. who needs a sword this big. who. ]
bubblegum.
[ well, first things first: look for everyone else. his scouting brings him to the ice cream shop, drawn by the proclivity of his party (or a sharp nose, or penchant for mischief). he doesn't himself order anything, but the shop seems to be keen to serve him anyway: two big scoops in a cone, one a peppy pink and the second a chunk-chocked chocolate. a rankled brow and insistent frown accompany his visible train of thought... before he reluctantly snatches it off of the stand and heads out the door, as though some invisible person had been standing there, smiling, expectant. ]
[ it's a dairy and sugar rush as he laps at saccharine pink with his tongue, pulling of tablets of chewy pink gum and smacking them between his teeth as his boots thump heavy on the sidewalk. ]
It's not below par, [ he announces to no one in particular, ] But I've had better in Midgar.
[ ...what just came out of his mouth? ]
rocky road.
I like your shirt.
[ this man, nursing a half-eaten waffle cone with mostly chocolate left but some residual pink, has just walked up to a complete stranger and complimented their clothing. this wouldn't be unusual if it were anyone other than Cloud fucking Strife, whose very name quivers the hearts of extroverts everywhere. aside from that, he has no personal stake in fashion; his looks are just pragmatic, refashioned pieces of uniform. might as well be wearing the ugliest shirt known to man.]
[ sllllrrrrppp. and yet he had said yet, and continues to lick his ice cream, with such an inscrutable expression that it's hard to gauge his tone or intent. after another bite of cone, he adds: ]
I think you can take me in a fight.
[ there's a sticky river of chocolate in his glove that he can't quite feel through the fabric, dripping onto his corded shirt between the straps of an empty weapon holster. summer has taken a toll on frozen desserts. ]
network. @ c.strife
I'm looking for some people.
1. Long silver hair guy, really long sword
2. Big guy with a big gun arm and even bigger mouth
3. Brawler girl with red eyes. She's probably made it to the bars by now
4. Red talking dog(?) with tail on fire. Not sure how he'd use a phone, to be honest
5. Girl who likes flowers but don't let that fool you
I'm also avoiding some people.
1. Snotty blond guy with a shotgun and evil cat
2. Skinny redhead guy with ugly tattoos
3. Bald guy with glasses, punches hard
Contact me. Or don't.
other.
[ feel free to wildcard anywhere in the city, i'm flexible. PM this journal as needed. ]