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FFVII fanfic: Appearances
Title: Appearances
Fandom: FFVII: OGC
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary: Nanaki reflects on the connection between the image humans present and who we really are. Yes, it's a philosophical musing about... clothes.
Humans, Nanaki had discovered, came in a wide range of garbs and colours. It had fascinated him during his journey with AVALANCHE to observe the variety in human appearance and guess what it meant. Nanaki understood the concept of decoration, of marking oneself. But humans went much further than that.
They rarely saw each other, so eager they were to conceal themselves. And he didn’t blame them, really; he had seen humans unclothed and it wasn’t pretty – they were like overgrown newborns, bare and gangly with odd scabby patches of hair. So, poor, naked creatures that they were, they needed clothes to cover them.
He had assumed it was that simple as a cub in Cosmo Canyon. But then he had been taken to Midgar and he realised that clothes meant much more than that. They were a status symbol; they represented the persona that humans wanted to project.
He had soon learned to associate Hojo’s white coat with the mark of a scientist. Cold, blank and calculating, it gave away nothing; it covered up the wearer’s humanity. It was a uniform, much like the Turks’ attire: it turned a person into their profession. And there was a hierarchy in the Shinra building, with the most expensive suits at the top and the drabbest at the bottom. There were no humans there, only jobs. Like cogs in a machine, they went about their business, and when the virus came, they died. The soldiers were the same, just another part of the company, defined only by their uniforms. Faceless, nameless. When they encountered AVALANCHE, they died.
His experience of humans being so limited, AVALANCHE came as a surprise to Nanaki. They were a ragtag bunch, each one of them very different, and although Cloud was undoubtedly the leader, he was no dictator. Everyone was allowed to give their opinion and they all frequently challenged Cloud’s decisions.
It was curious, then, Nanaki thought, that Cloud had still chosen to wear the uniform of a SOLDIER. He was an ex-SOLDIER, he had rejected Shinra – and yet he still looked like one. It was only later, on the Highwind, when Cloud had confessed the true nature of his past that Nanaki understood why. The uniform was a mask. It defined Cloud as a SOLDIER, because Cloud didn’t know how to define himself. Cloud was never a SOLDIER but the uniform and the sword made him feel like one. His appearance was an illusion; it reinforced his false identity. Even now, it seemed that he couldn’t get rid of his illusionary past entirely; it was too much a part of him, and his usual black attire echoed that.
Tifa’s appearance was misleading too. She had seemed insecure; her clothes never quite suited her. She had projected the image of a bar maid – short skirt, welcoming smile, a mischievous sparkle in her eye – but in reality she was reserved. He thought she seemed much happier after she cut her hair; the long hair had been a vestige of her childhood, untouched out of loyalty to a mother who had loved her daughter’s hair long. Now that she was living with Cloud, she seemed much more comfortable in her skin.
Barret and Cid were both straightforward; you got what you saw. That had been his initial impression, but Nanaki revised it later on. Barret seemed rough and ready in his slum clothes, yet he had shown a softer side when Nanaki saw how tenderly he behaved towards Marlene. Cid was similar, his pilot garb signifying his connection to the sky, even when he was stuck on the ground. He smelled of oil and tobacco; he smoked and swore frequently. But the care he displayed to his crew on the Highwind said far more.
Yuffie had pockets. Many, many pockets. He envied humans their pockets; how useful, to be able to carry so many items. His clip was a poor replacement. And, of course, Yuffie liked to carry lots of materia. She had slots in her armour, slots in the handle of her shuriken, slots hidden in her shield guard. She had knives strapped to her legs. She had hidden pockets behind the straps for her shuriken which nobody knew about until two thousand gil went missing and they heard distinct jangling noises every time Yuffie moved. She called herself a ninja, but she wasn’t really suited to silence like true ninjas; once you looked again, her appearance made it clear – her attire was perfectly suited to a sneak thief. Yuffie was deceptive, but transparently so.
Vincent was a mystery. He had unnerved Nanaki at first because he smelled so old – musty, like something forgotten in a library and left to decay. He covered the deadness of his skin with voluminous material; that red cloak was a shield, a distraction. Vincent wanted people to see the golden claw, the pointed boots, the cloak, the gun. He didn’t want them to see him.
Unlike Aerith, who had worn her identity freely. She was peculiar: both mysterious and transparent. She had never hidden the white materia in her hair. It was there, if you chose to see it – just a glimmer of white when she flicked her braid or laughed. And her heritage was in her eyes, if you looked – they saw right into you, and they never judged, they always accepted. She stood out like a bright flower – her demeanour was easy to read, even for him, because she was so open and lively. She used to smile more than any of them. He felt sure that her spirit was still smiling.
And Nanaki? He had not changed, nor did he want to. Teeth and claws and fur and flame. Nanaki would always be Nanaki.
Fandom: FFVII: OGC
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary: Nanaki reflects on the connection between the image humans present and who we really are. Yes, it's a philosophical musing about... clothes.
Humans, Nanaki had discovered, came in a wide range of garbs and colours. It had fascinated him during his journey with AVALANCHE to observe the variety in human appearance and guess what it meant. Nanaki understood the concept of decoration, of marking oneself. But humans went much further than that.
They rarely saw each other, so eager they were to conceal themselves. And he didn’t blame them, really; he had seen humans unclothed and it wasn’t pretty – they were like overgrown newborns, bare and gangly with odd scabby patches of hair. So, poor, naked creatures that they were, they needed clothes to cover them.
He had assumed it was that simple as a cub in Cosmo Canyon. But then he had been taken to Midgar and he realised that clothes meant much more than that. They were a status symbol; they represented the persona that humans wanted to project.
He had soon learned to associate Hojo’s white coat with the mark of a scientist. Cold, blank and calculating, it gave away nothing; it covered up the wearer’s humanity. It was a uniform, much like the Turks’ attire: it turned a person into their profession. And there was a hierarchy in the Shinra building, with the most expensive suits at the top and the drabbest at the bottom. There were no humans there, only jobs. Like cogs in a machine, they went about their business, and when the virus came, they died. The soldiers were the same, just another part of the company, defined only by their uniforms. Faceless, nameless. When they encountered AVALANCHE, they died.
His experience of humans being so limited, AVALANCHE came as a surprise to Nanaki. They were a ragtag bunch, each one of them very different, and although Cloud was undoubtedly the leader, he was no dictator. Everyone was allowed to give their opinion and they all frequently challenged Cloud’s decisions.
It was curious, then, Nanaki thought, that Cloud had still chosen to wear the uniform of a SOLDIER. He was an ex-SOLDIER, he had rejected Shinra – and yet he still looked like one. It was only later, on the Highwind, when Cloud had confessed the true nature of his past that Nanaki understood why. The uniform was a mask. It defined Cloud as a SOLDIER, because Cloud didn’t know how to define himself. Cloud was never a SOLDIER but the uniform and the sword made him feel like one. His appearance was an illusion; it reinforced his false identity. Even now, it seemed that he couldn’t get rid of his illusionary past entirely; it was too much a part of him, and his usual black attire echoed that.
Tifa’s appearance was misleading too. She had seemed insecure; her clothes never quite suited her. She had projected the image of a bar maid – short skirt, welcoming smile, a mischievous sparkle in her eye – but in reality she was reserved. He thought she seemed much happier after she cut her hair; the long hair had been a vestige of her childhood, untouched out of loyalty to a mother who had loved her daughter’s hair long. Now that she was living with Cloud, she seemed much more comfortable in her skin.
Barret and Cid were both straightforward; you got what you saw. That had been his initial impression, but Nanaki revised it later on. Barret seemed rough and ready in his slum clothes, yet he had shown a softer side when Nanaki saw how tenderly he behaved towards Marlene. Cid was similar, his pilot garb signifying his connection to the sky, even when he was stuck on the ground. He smelled of oil and tobacco; he smoked and swore frequently. But the care he displayed to his crew on the Highwind said far more.
Yuffie had pockets. Many, many pockets. He envied humans their pockets; how useful, to be able to carry so many items. His clip was a poor replacement. And, of course, Yuffie liked to carry lots of materia. She had slots in her armour, slots in the handle of her shuriken, slots hidden in her shield guard. She had knives strapped to her legs. She had hidden pockets behind the straps for her shuriken which nobody knew about until two thousand gil went missing and they heard distinct jangling noises every time Yuffie moved. She called herself a ninja, but she wasn’t really suited to silence like true ninjas; once you looked again, her appearance made it clear – her attire was perfectly suited to a sneak thief. Yuffie was deceptive, but transparently so.
Vincent was a mystery. He had unnerved Nanaki at first because he smelled so old – musty, like something forgotten in a library and left to decay. He covered the deadness of his skin with voluminous material; that red cloak was a shield, a distraction. Vincent wanted people to see the golden claw, the pointed boots, the cloak, the gun. He didn’t want them to see him.
Unlike Aerith, who had worn her identity freely. She was peculiar: both mysterious and transparent. She had never hidden the white materia in her hair. It was there, if you chose to see it – just a glimmer of white when she flicked her braid or laughed. And her heritage was in her eyes, if you looked – they saw right into you, and they never judged, they always accepted. She stood out like a bright flower – her demeanour was easy to read, even for him, because she was so open and lively. She used to smile more than any of them. He felt sure that her spirit was still smiling.
And Nanaki? He had not changed, nor did he want to. Teeth and claws and fur and flame. Nanaki would always be Nanaki.