Disclaimer: I don't own anything from the Final Fantasy franchise, especially not Dissidia and FFVII. But everything not associated with such (original plot, original characters, original author rants, etc.) does belong to me.

As much as Sephiroth would like to be done with this battle between Cosmos and Chaos and return—somehow—to the matters he left behind, with Cloud and the Planet, he can't help but notice the whispers that chase him, whispers from the others that he has a very, very important part to play in the very existence of the current battle.

This fic is rated T because it started off as a way for me to experiment with Sephiroth's way of speaking (because he never really says all that much nowadays, even though what he does say is usually very… well, not very nice, to say the least.)

Please enjoy and please review!

~greyrondo

Phobic

Chapter One: Abandoned Glory

This world is new, even as it is nothing I haven't seen before. The green glow of the Lifestream is a prison as it coils around me, but there is something more. Something dark like stardust. And it is power distilled, all the ephemeral and peripheral tossed away until only purity remained.

I doubt that I can depend on something so subjective as my memories in this unearthly cathedral. Especially when I consider what they tell me.

They tell me that just like I summoned the great meteor from the sky, the sum of our darkness and bloodlust invoked the great deity Chaos and scalded the crust of this world that is not mine, but looks so much like it.

It is what I dreamt mine would be: extinguished, fractured, perfect in its inorganic disregard for the obsessive-compulsive tics of order and mass consciousness' conception of what exactly defines 'ugly'.

Order is nothing more than the illusion of tranquility. Peace-keepers are never far from their swords, or better yet, their state-of-the-art tracking guns so that they can pretend that the deaths on their shoulders are nothing more than a statistic, like some double-blind psychological experiment. Accept the responsibility, and death becomes weightless to those who are strong enough.

"I heard you're looking for someone." Garland.

It begins with denial, like most things. Pour out a shot of the propaganda-laced newspapers or inhale a line of commercially-owned media networks that abandoned the watchdog post $300 million gil ago. Either way, the story is about happiness caught aflame.

Don't blame the fire. Fire is an after-effect. It doesn't destroy; it's just a grave marker. The decision that made the fire condemned everything to ashes before the spark met the oxygen and fuel. Lightning. Orders from the top. Denial.

Erase the evidence and see if the knowledge catches fire along with it. See if watching strangers' happy lives reduced to cinders can reverse the chemical reaction, undo the permanent and return the naïveté to your innocent eyes.

"Well, are you looking for someone, or not?"

It doesn't work. You should have known before you lit that match.

You have heard about me, after all. You've chanted my name with a breathless smile on your face, just like the rest of the vicarious valkyries who haunt the battlefield from behind the lens of live video. Then your delusion caught fire and you knew better, and you whispered my name in fear because it's a name that you can't help but whisper.

Sephiroth.

Knowledge with fear is better than the alternative. If the cameras had their way, then you never would have known. They would have kept me alive in their press releases of glory and their medals of honor, and I would have become a living memory, a legend with a cut-and-paste face. I said it was a better alternative, but we both know which one you would prefer. Everyone loves a hero.

But choice is a privilege reserved for a select few. And some audiences don't know that it's a camera they're looking through.

Garland is a fallen hero. He has no face, only a mask to better render his visage in biased sketches of history. He wears a suit of armor because the blood of innocents cannot be allowed to stain his flesh and tarnish his image, for those who would have used his accomplishments for their own gain could not allow for duality. Just as the stories of my own battles compound upon themselves and twist the truth until they fill the void of fantasy, the weapon Garland wields changes form as he sees fit. And he doesn't even know what a camera is.

It's comforting to be on the other side of the lens. Nothing that plays out in front of me is a surprise. Why he says this instead of that, why she couldn't be bothered. It's like I've known them all their lives. I might as well be the voice inside of their collective insecure brain.

I know how Garland feels. I know that when he wonders what could have happened, had Chaos not come his way, he thinks of the lie that he abandoned. A life of service leads to freedom only in death. And there's only one way out. The ones who think of that way as dark are the ones who would do better to stay on the pre-worn path.

Garland sighs, and shakes his head. "Do what you will, Sephiroth. I don't have time for this."

"You have enough time to pretend that you have something better to do right now than talk to me."

"Pretend all you like, Sephiroth."

I glare at him. "Excuse me?" I demand, but he's staring off, as if he never spoke. When he hears me, he wastes a moment giving me a confused look.

"I said, do what you will. I don't have time for this. I expect this sort of behavior from one of the others, but not from you. Are you all right? If you need some time, don't come. I'll have the Emperor fill you in on our goals. "

Our illusion of camaraderie. His destruction, my destruction, it's all the same. It won't happen. If I didn't know better, I would find it surprising that we haven't all stabbed each other in the back yet.

I suppose that comment was in bad taste. But Cloud has another goddess of light on which to squander his hope now.

Cloud. Just the thought of him…

"Why are you laughing?" Garland wants to know.

Something that always has eluded me is what exactly I thought of Cloud. Forget the lies that I tell him. Those are words utilized for a specific purpose.

Those words are quick to come and quick to alienate me. They aren't true. He was an unexpected complication first and a delicate mind to toy with second, not the other way around.

"I can't believe I have to take you seriously."

That isn't meant for the person who hears me.

"What did you leave behind in your world, Garland? Did you draw your sword to feel alive? Not necessarily to kill others, but to feel the fear that despite your skill, you have the slightest chance of dying? What other pain would that have erased, I wonder… did your glory sever the connection between yourself and the rest of the world? And if it did, it makes perfect sense that fighting in the name of your king would no longer be enough. You needed that brush with the darkness to give you the same rush that merely swinging your sword at human enemies once did. It's all right. I knew I was different, too…" I say and I turn, but Garland is gone.

It is as if he was never here. I am the only one listening.

There's really no one else here when it comes down to it. Just Cloud and myself, and a few distractions.

But it would not do to have the Emperor tell me of Garland's plans. If Garland could see the glint of pride behind the Emperor's eyes, he would know better than to test him by making him a messenger boy. Unless Garland does know, and he means to make an example.

Let the Emperor have his pride. Then he won't see any reason to challenge the status quo. It won't hurt me to listen to what Garland and the others have to say.

But what am I even doing here?