Post by Applicant Tseng on Aug 26, 2008 1:55:29 GMT -5
Who?
Silent and still, the room echoed with the rhythmic sound of a pen as it was tapped lightly against the mahogany desk. A careful steady hand wordlessly flicked the gold inlaid cap covering the end in time with imperceptible metronome known only to the room’s single occupant Tseng, Tseng of the Turks. He was the leader of Shinra’s left hand, a privileged position granting him access to untold resources and a higher pay grade than most of similar age and prestige. The echo continued outward through the cavernous office reflecting off the beautiful wood paneled walls bouncing between priceless works of art. Yes, he had everything a man could desire.
Except time, the thought resounded through his mind cutting through the silence and quiet reflection. The pen continued to tick away as seconds fell through the hourglass. He had no time to complete his missions to his satisfactions, nor was he granted enough to perform them in an efficient manner. Shinra exhausted all his will some days as did the loose nature of his subordinates. Soldiers while generally boorish and far too naïve for his tastes at least followed orders in a way one could call predictable; the Turks by their very nature were not. Perhaps, it was for the best considering their purpose, his purpose.
Now, he was here in a world not unlike his own, in a place both familiar yet different. Midgar the blighted city, which reminded him of all the things he had become, remained. Even the things of his world were no longer similar not even allowing him to have the barest hint of familiarity such as the Great Northern Crater which no longer rested under layers of ice and snow. It was as if someone was taking away pieces of himself forcing him to fight a clock without even a shred of information.
The pen’s pace slowed greatly as his mind spiraled out of control his thoughts growing more erratic as if to imply his own sanity was just out of reach. Slowly, the pen turned back into the cheap stylus he had picked up hours ago and the desk into the bar table at which he drank. The memories flooded back to him as he attempted to piece his cluttered existence back together.
He was the leader of the Turks: Reno, Rude, Elena. President Shinra was dead and his son Rufus had taken the reins. Avalanche was no longer his primary concern; he had to stop Sephiroth instead. The trail had led him to a temple where he had confronted the fiend before…
Tseng shook his head clearing his thoughts from the past and future and bringing himself back into the present. He was Tseng of the Turks: calm, cool, rational. Most of all, he was alive, and as long as he yet lived he had purpose.
serusangel@gmail.com
Silent and still, the room echoed with the rhythmic sound of a pen as it was tapped lightly against the mahogany desk. A careful steady hand wordlessly flicked the gold inlaid cap covering the end in time with imperceptible metronome known only to the room’s single occupant Tseng, Tseng of the Turks. He was the leader of Shinra’s left hand, a privileged position granting him access to untold resources and a higher pay grade than most of similar age and prestige. The echo continued outward through the cavernous office reflecting off the beautiful wood paneled walls bouncing between priceless works of art. Yes, he had everything a man could desire.
Except time, the thought resounded through his mind cutting through the silence and quiet reflection. The pen continued to tick away as seconds fell through the hourglass. He had no time to complete his missions to his satisfactions, nor was he granted enough to perform them in an efficient manner. Shinra exhausted all his will some days as did the loose nature of his subordinates. Soldiers while generally boorish and far too naïve for his tastes at least followed orders in a way one could call predictable; the Turks by their very nature were not. Perhaps, it was for the best considering their purpose, his purpose.
Now, he was here in a world not unlike his own, in a place both familiar yet different. Midgar the blighted city, which reminded him of all the things he had become, remained. Even the things of his world were no longer similar not even allowing him to have the barest hint of familiarity such as the Great Northern Crater which no longer rested under layers of ice and snow. It was as if someone was taking away pieces of himself forcing him to fight a clock without even a shred of information.
The pen’s pace slowed greatly as his mind spiraled out of control his thoughts growing more erratic as if to imply his own sanity was just out of reach. Slowly, the pen turned back into the cheap stylus he had picked up hours ago and the desk into the bar table at which he drank. The memories flooded back to him as he attempted to piece his cluttered existence back together.
He was the leader of the Turks: Reno, Rude, Elena. President Shinra was dead and his son Rufus had taken the reins. Avalanche was no longer his primary concern; he had to stop Sephiroth instead. The trail had led him to a temple where he had confronted the fiend before…
Tseng shook his head clearing his thoughts from the past and future and bringing himself back into the present. He was Tseng of the Turks: calm, cool, rational. Most of all, he was alive, and as long as he yet lived he had purpose.
serusangel@gmail.com