The worlds we come from? [ Her mind comes to a screeching halt, and no matter how much Eleven walks, he'll find himself unable to move forward. It's as if someone's pressed the off button on an escalator, or perhaps that Aerith herself is trying to prevent him from moving forward. ]
It's not Sephiroth? [ The lights go out. What comes, instead, is an explosion. A big bang, giving birth to the cosmos and everything else in the world, and under their feet is the concrete of a street, torn from the ground and held in mid-air. From the center of this burning inferno is a— it's hard to tell. A form. A empty hole, spitting out all this vitriol into the universe. This tornado of fire, it's being sucked into the black hole with a vengeance.
All the same, Aerith stands there, defiant. ]
It's bigger than him, this time. Isn't it?
[ The image of a man with long, flowing silver hair is the next illusion to come into play, arm raised overhead as he commands all this destruction into the palm of his hand. His gaze is tainted by pollution, the blue slits more inhuman than human at this point. He does nothing; he is a statue. A mirage. Nothing more than a recollection of her own. ]
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The worlds we come from? [ Her mind comes to a screeching halt, and no matter how much Eleven walks, he'll find himself unable to move forward. It's as if someone's pressed the off button on an escalator, or perhaps that Aerith herself is trying to prevent him from moving forward. ]
It's not Sephiroth? [ The lights go out. What comes, instead, is an explosion. A big bang, giving birth to the cosmos and everything else in the world, and under their feet is the concrete of a street, torn from the ground and held in mid-air. From the center of this burning inferno is a— it's hard to tell. A form. A empty hole, spitting out all this vitriol into the universe. This tornado of fire, it's being sucked into the black hole with a vengeance.
All the same, Aerith stands there, defiant. ]
It's bigger than him, this time. Isn't it?
[ The image of a man with long, flowing silver hair is the next illusion to come into play, arm raised overhead as he commands all this destruction into the palm of his hand. His gaze is tainted by pollution, the blue slits more inhuman than human at this point. He does nothing; he is a statue. A mirage. Nothing more than a recollection of her own. ]