Abilities: Cloud has a couple of years of basic military training, knows how to fire and maintain an automatic rifle (though he isn't very proficient with it, on the former), can cast "magic" with the use of equipped materia (of which he presently has none, given that's equipment a little above his pay-grade), and has the necessary knowledge of survival skills one would expect of both an infantryman and a kid who grew up fending for himself way out in the boonies. But for the most part, he is limited to the abilities of an ordinary human being. Physically, he's quite weak, and mentally can be even more so (being both a very driven individual – and far more by his emotions than he tends to want to let on – and one prone to making rash decisions based on this drive).
However (through the magic of imminent protagonist status) there are two exceptions to the rule:
1) Under the absolute most extreme duress, Cloud is capable of tapping into an exceptional well of willpower, which transfers into seemingly inhuman strength (i.e. throwing Sephiroth across a room by the end of his own sword while still being impaled upon it, or lifting the Buster Sword with ease)
2) He has an apparently natural skill wielding swords, unlike with his standard issue weaponry, and is capable of striking far more devastating blows this way (this skill, however, also appears to be something of a desperation move – after the first incident in which he successfully wields a sword instead of his gun, he claims to have blacked out and have no memory of how he managed to take the opponents out with one swing)
It's spring, already, but there's a chill lingering in the air yet, icy fingers in the breeze reminding recently thawed ground of a winter just passed and amplifying the cold grip anxiety has settled over his heart. He hadn't dressed warmly enough, back then, either -- months that felt years gone, now. The last time he was here, standing in the crisscrossed shadows of the water tower's splintering wooden supports, waiting beneath the picture perfect, starry night sky.
There's no moon by which he might tell the hour, this time, and he's never owned a watch; so he waits, counting out the minutes each instant he hesitates and convinces himself it's safer to wait just a little longer. The lights in the houses around his hiding place were all extinguished long ago, lit out one by one as snuffed candles, families settling in for the evening, for the night. He might have run from where he stands, still, back shortly to the safety and warmth of his own home, where his mother sleeps, unaware of his plans to abscond far earlier than he's promised.
There's a different promise he intends to keep, though, as he ducks out from underneath the water tower at last to steal into the open, running quietly as he can to that painfully familiar spot-- There's no light in the window he peers up into, either, and some vital chord in him pulled taut with tension hums another foreboding note to his terrified mind.
(Because at all of fourteen and with precious little else to his name, the prospect of fatally wounded pride is surely something to be terrified of.)
She's not there that ugly little voice whispers. Or maybe it's She's changed her mind. Which is worse? He doesn't want to decide. In one final flash of bravery, he tosses the pebble practically crushed into his palm up to hit one dark windowpane. Though the rock he'd carefully selected in his time spent waiting is far too small even to crack the glass, he still has to grit his teeth at that little clatter of sound. It's more noise than he's made since taking up his hiding spot beneath the tower. Since some inconsequential, noncommittal answer he'd mumbled over the last homemade dinner he'll ever have in the only home he's ever known. Ages and ages ago.
A part of him (probably the same part that keeps reassuring him she's off somewhere laughing with her friends, right now, or telling on him because she's still angry that he let her fall) is certain that he's just made up this whole thing. That it must've been a dream he had, that if she even shows up at her bedroom window, it'll only be to look down on him like he's lost his mind. But back when he'd so flatly suggested that she run away, too, he still remembers--
He thinks he remembers--
Counting down the seconds between breaths, Cloud stops thinking and waits. He can afford to, for just a little longer.
Cloud Strife | Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII (V1.1) | Reserved (3/3)
Cloud has a couple of years of basic military training, knows how to fire and maintain an automatic rifle (though he isn't very proficient with it, on the former), can cast "magic" with the use of equipped materia (of which he presently has none, given that's equipment a little above his pay-grade), and has the necessary knowledge of survival skills one would expect of both an infantryman and a kid who grew up fending for himself way out in the boonies. But for the most part, he is limited to the abilities of an ordinary human being. Physically, he's quite weak, and mentally can be even more so (being both a very driven individual – and far more by his emotions than he tends to want to let on – and one prone to making rash decisions based on this drive).
However (through the magic of imminent protagonist status) there are two exceptions to the rule:
1) Under the absolute most extreme duress, Cloud is capable of tapping into an exceptional well of willpower, which transfers into seemingly inhuman strength (i.e. throwing Sephiroth across a room by the end of his own sword while still being impaled upon it, or lifting the Buster Sword with ease)
2) He has an apparently natural skill wielding swords, unlike with his standard issue weaponry, and is capable of striking far more devastating blows this way (this skill, however, also appears to be something of a desperation move – after the first incident in which he successfully wields a sword instead of his gun, he claims to have blacked out and have no memory of how he managed to take the opponents out with one swing)
Writing sample:
(From this thread.)
It's spring, already, but there's a chill lingering in the air yet, icy fingers in the breeze reminding recently thawed ground of a winter just passed and amplifying the cold grip anxiety has settled over his heart. He hadn't dressed warmly enough, back then, either -- months that felt years gone, now. The last time he was here, standing in the crisscrossed shadows of the water tower's splintering wooden supports, waiting beneath the picture perfect, starry night sky.
There's no moon by which he might tell the hour, this time, and he's never owned a watch; so he waits, counting out the minutes each instant he hesitates and convinces himself it's safer to wait just a little longer. The lights in the houses around his hiding place were all extinguished long ago, lit out one by one as snuffed candles, families settling in for the evening, for the night. He might have run from where he stands, still, back shortly to the safety and warmth of his own home, where his mother sleeps, unaware of his plans to abscond far earlier than he's promised.
There's a different promise he intends to keep, though, as he ducks out from underneath the water tower at last to steal into the open, running quietly as he can to that painfully familiar spot-- There's no light in the window he peers up into, either, and some vital chord in him pulled taut with tension hums another foreboding note to his terrified mind.
(Because at all of fourteen and with precious little else to his name, the prospect of fatally wounded pride is surely something to be terrified of.)
She's not there that ugly little voice whispers. Or maybe it's She's changed her mind. Which is worse? He doesn't want to decide. In one final flash of bravery, he tosses the pebble practically crushed into his palm up to hit one dark windowpane. Though the rock he'd carefully selected in his time spent waiting is far too small even to crack the glass, he still has to grit his teeth at that little clatter of sound. It's more noise than he's made since taking up his hiding spot beneath the tower. Since some inconsequential, noncommittal answer he'd mumbled over the last homemade dinner he'll ever have in the only home he's ever known. Ages and ages ago.
A part of him (probably the same part that keeps reassuring him she's off somewhere laughing with her friends, right now, or telling on him because she's still angry that he let her fall) is certain that he's just made up this whole thing. That it must've been a dream he had, that if she even shows up at her bedroom window, it'll only be to look down on him like he's lost his mind. But back when he'd so flatly suggested that she run away, too, he still remembers--
He thinks he remembers--
Counting down the seconds between breaths, Cloud stops thinking and waits. He can afford to, for just a little longer.
Voice sample:
One.
Two.