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Who: Zack Fair (neverwinged), open to anybody in the vicinity who would like to pal around with / abuse the local puppy.
When: Day after Zack wakes up, early morning
Location: Outside Sion's surprisingly still standing shack. That's alliteration, babes.
Rating: Pending, that's all up to who visits.
Summary: Zack's outside wandering on still injured legs, angsting about everything that's happened and the fact that his journal name no longer fits. Sigh. Also known as "Take likes to log lots."
Staying cooped up inside (though it could hardly count as inside, what with all the holes in the building) for nearly a week was enough for Zack. One could only be so upset, depressed, and guilt-ridden before the restlessness took over and something had to move. And just waving his right arm around in circles for the better part of an hour just wasn't doing the trick for a trained exercise enthusiast.
Everything still protested his every move, which made getting out of the bed rather difficult. His left arm . . . his entire left side, really, had to be dragged like a great weight behind him. It pulled on his shoulder as he moved off the bed, and dropped down when the mattress no longer supported the weight. Zack knew it hurt, so he was sure he might've cried out, he just hoped nobody heard him. People had rushed to help him enough. People had their own problems to deal with; Kunsel was sick, he wasn't going to ask for help if it would only hurt him.
His legs didn't necessarily enjoy having the rest of his body weight on them, either. They'd gone through enough Cure spells and potions for the bones themselves to have healed, but that didn't take the hurt away. And the same went for his shattered ribs - now set back together, but it still hurt to breathe.
Not to mention he still felt the pipe.
To Zack, it still felt like everything was broken, torn open and ripped apart. He could swear that if he looked down then he would see the metal impaling his midsection, which was precisely why Zack kept his eyes focused straight ahead as he made his way through the half destroyed home and outside. If he thought about it long enough, it still felt like he was bleeding.
In truth, nearly everything he was feeling was still in Zack's head. Materia and potions could only heal the physical ailments, they did nothing to remove the fear in his eyes, nor the memories of what'd happened. Of the look on Cloud's - not-Cloud's - face as he reached out and grabbed his neck, ripped his shoulder open, and tore that black wing from his skin. Or Sephiroth's sneer and cruel voice as his ribs shattered, his legs twisted until they snapped, and his abdomen punctured by blunt metal. Because he couldn't forget it, he still felt it.
The tips of black feathers dragged along the dusty ground as he walked, and he was not shivering, thank you, it was just a little chilly. Holding the appendage up hurt - or, at least, he believed it would, since he had no idea how the darned thing worked anyway, only that he'd lift his left arm and the wing would go with it. And it was easier to just let a coat hang off his shoulders rather than try to cut a slit in another shirt to fit it through. He kept walking in silent steps, refusing to go far from the house, and stopped as the tip of his boot touched the nearest block of fallen concrete. Not that different from the one he'd been impaled on only a handful of days ago.
Zack shook his head, trying not to think about it. He wasn't scared. He couldn't be scared; he was Zack Fair, former SOLDIER First Class, who'd only been alive again for two weeks, and simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time. He would be physically well soon enough, others needed him to be mentally well just as much. He needed to think about something else. He turned around, hoping something would be there to distract him.
. . . wow. How long had it been since he'd seen a sunrise?
When: Day after Zack wakes up, early morning
Location: Outside Sion's surprisingly still standing shack. That's alliteration, babes.
Rating: Pending, that's all up to who visits.
Summary: Zack's outside wandering on still injured legs, angsting about everything that's happened and the fact that his journal name no longer fits. Sigh. Also known as "Take likes to log lots."
Staying cooped up inside (though it could hardly count as inside, what with all the holes in the building) for nearly a week was enough for Zack. One could only be so upset, depressed, and guilt-ridden before the restlessness took over and something had to move. And just waving his right arm around in circles for the better part of an hour just wasn't doing the trick for a trained exercise enthusiast.
Everything still protested his every move, which made getting out of the bed rather difficult. His left arm . . . his entire left side, really, had to be dragged like a great weight behind him. It pulled on his shoulder as he moved off the bed, and dropped down when the mattress no longer supported the weight. Zack knew it hurt, so he was sure he might've cried out, he just hoped nobody heard him. People had rushed to help him enough. People had their own problems to deal with; Kunsel was sick, he wasn't going to ask for help if it would only hurt him.
His legs didn't necessarily enjoy having the rest of his body weight on them, either. They'd gone through enough Cure spells and potions for the bones themselves to have healed, but that didn't take the hurt away. And the same went for his shattered ribs - now set back together, but it still hurt to breathe.
Not to mention he still felt the pipe.
To Zack, it still felt like everything was broken, torn open and ripped apart. He could swear that if he looked down then he would see the metal impaling his midsection, which was precisely why Zack kept his eyes focused straight ahead as he made his way through the half destroyed home and outside. If he thought about it long enough, it still felt like he was bleeding.
In truth, nearly everything he was feeling was still in Zack's head. Materia and potions could only heal the physical ailments, they did nothing to remove the fear in his eyes, nor the memories of what'd happened. Of the look on Cloud's - not-Cloud's - face as he reached out and grabbed his neck, ripped his shoulder open, and tore that black wing from his skin. Or Sephiroth's sneer and cruel voice as his ribs shattered, his legs twisted until they snapped, and his abdomen punctured by blunt metal. Because he couldn't forget it, he still felt it.
The tips of black feathers dragged along the dusty ground as he walked, and he was not shivering, thank you, it was just a little chilly. Holding the appendage up hurt - or, at least, he believed it would, since he had no idea how the darned thing worked anyway, only that he'd lift his left arm and the wing would go with it. And it was easier to just let a coat hang off his shoulders rather than try to cut a slit in another shirt to fit it through. He kept walking in silent steps, refusing to go far from the house, and stopped as the tip of his boot touched the nearest block of fallen concrete. Not that different from the one he'd been impaled on only a handful of days ago.
Zack shook his head, trying not to think about it. He wasn't scared. He couldn't be scared; he was Zack Fair, former SOLDIER First Class, who'd only been alive again for two weeks, and simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time. He would be physically well soon enough, others needed him to be mentally well just as much. He needed to think about something else. He turned around, hoping something would be there to distract him.
. . . wow. How long had it been since he'd seen a sunrise?