Post by Beaver Dude on Aug 28, 2009 9:38:32 GMT -5
Ooc: I’m terribly uncertain of how Reeve would… y’know, work. He’s technically the brain behind Cait Sith, but his screentime is inferior to Cait’s own. Oh well, if I can only have one, I’m taking Reeve. xD
For those curious, if I had both, Cait Sith would become Reeve’s summon so as to keep the flavor.
Username: deiexmachinis
Current canons: Shera, Xaldin, Kefka
Canon you're auditioning for: Reeve Tuesti + Cait Sith
Media canon is from: FFVII, Dirge of the Cereberus
Is the current canon taken?: Nope
Audition post (400 words):
He was wearing an actual suit for once.
It was expensive, Savile Row stuff. Last Reeve heard, the sleepy, high-end shop which he’d slipped into and out of had had orders doubled. He’d received an irate letter from the owner demanding that Mr. President of WRO quote-unquote ‘stop trendsetting' and making a 'mockery' of art.
Said president took another moment to glance in the full length mirror. The suit remained as he remembered it : formal, dressy, black. Appropriate. Tasteful, even.
It reminded him a lot of his stint with Shinra.
They weren’t good memories.
He had considered a lighter hue – takin’ a page outta the Brat’s book, bossman? – but in the end it was a social event of some respectability. His custom overcoat, which was really just a party costume with ambitions, just wouldn’t cut it. Neither would changing the colour of the newest dent in his checkbook.
And, really, he might have been just a little tired of running and pretending. Plus, he could always donate to Salvation Army.
Threads look pretty darn fetchin’! Got a date with sumthin’ luscious?
He shushed Cait Sith, who might have been out of sight but not out of mind, and finished knotting a half-Windsor. In the mirror, someone who might have once been the Urban Development Head stared as Reeve centred the tie with a small, practiced motion, slicked back the errant strands of hair that flopped over his rather subtle widow’s peak and musingly scratched at the goatee.
On the dresser behind him a digital readout cycled between 4:16 and TOO EARLY.
Damn doll.
It took him about four minutes (two spent dithering about creases, another two deciding that he really couldn’t give a damn about the state of the suit) to find Cait Sith without the active link. The thing had stashed itself in his underwear drawer. Urk. After a moment of remorse where he decided to burn the entire set (he knew where that doll had been), he dragged the robotic feline out by the tail.
“Ow! Hey! Careful bossman, I’m delicate! Like a flower! Fate and fortune flow from these fingertips –”
Reeve had always known he was slightly insane. It came with the territory: roboticist, architect, social scientist, spy, double agent, genetic anomaly nicknamed ‘Inspire’. It was his gift to wonder if the last held a preponderance in import or if was the constant juggling of identities that had finally given him a unique case of multiple personality disorder. Or schizophrenia. Or something.
Case in point: he was having hard time distinguishing the automated Cait Sith speaking to him, and the one in his head. Both, in many ways, were more real than the other.
“What part of ‘alone’ escapes you?” He asked, shaking the crowned cat.
The doll blinked intelligently. “But your fortune sucks today, bossman. Doom, gloom, boom – the whole shebang! Without me, you’ll be dead and gone and - ”
Reeve waved it silent.
“Stay put, Cait.”
The automaton gave him the puppydog look, but seeing as he’d cobbled the cybernetic eyes together and could dissect any given component of the robotic exoskeleton in two heartbeats, its effectiveness was quite diminished. Nothing quite like detailed, encyclopaedic knowledge of anatomy to take away the mystique and allure of a pair of synthetic eyeballs.
“Your lucky color isn’t black?” The doll hazarded, hopefully.
“Cait,” Reeve warned, giving the cat another shake before letting it go.
Muttering softly to itself, the robot slunk back towards the underwear drawer before moodily shutting itself inside with a small bang.
Sighing to himself, the roboticist returned to the mirror for a last minute freshening, smoothing out his suit and dealing with the various microscopic pieces of dust that had gathered all across his elbows and knees. Picking up the keys to his car, and the flowers Aerith had assured him would last, he made his way out of the WRO’s headquarters and towards its parking lot.
Cloud called his wheeled and tacitly illicit horror ‘Fenrir’, Cid had slightly better taste and named his wings after his woman, but Reeve found it easier simply not to name whatever he couldn’t fix himself.
Radiant Garden. Midgar. Cait Sith.
The car was a car.
Geez Louise, stop feeling sorry for yourself! You’re making the stars come outta alignment! You’d think someone died or sumthin.
But someone had.
Lots of someones.
The drive was quiet. After his last outburst, the Cait in his head mellowed into a contemplative silence punctuated by the occasional purr. Radiant Garden’s survivors had never been very many to begin with, and even though ‘peace’ had returned it wasn’t like the main thoroughfares would be packed at this early hour. The occasional car sped by him, but for the most part he was alone with nothing but his thoughts and the sunrise to accompany him to his destination.
He was off to see the dead.
They had built a memorial instead of a graveyard. The uncounted millions that had perished and not returned could never be given their own homes in the earth – the undertaking would have been massive beyond all belief and sapped the already fragile and precarious resources that the newly liberated Radiant Garden possessed.
Instead they built it together, out of patchwork abilities, skills and substances. Merlin could have magicked it into existence all by his lonesome no doubt, but the old mage had smiled a sad smile when the resident ninja had made the offhand suggestion. Thousands upon thousands that had given up lunchbreaks, week-ends and vacations just so that they could work on the monument.
“There is value in effort, Yuffie.”
The statement had been profound enough to shock her into silence for the whole of twenty seconds before she returned to carving names on her mineral collection while whistling a jaunty Wutaian campfire tune.
(Reeve was pretty sure Yuffie didn’t know one of the Cait Sith dolls had seen her break down in front of the monument, five weeks later whispering ‘stupid Godo,’ ‘stupid mommy’ at the ungodly hour of three twenty-one and thirteen seconds. He’d carefully erased the recording. He had only meant to be on the lookout for vandals.)
It had been almost a year since the memorial had been erected and unveiled but he had yet to visit it as a mourner and not an architect, putting off the inevitable because of work. Always work. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he grabbed the bouquet feeling oddly guilty.
The memorial itself was huge, a building that soared and towered spectacularly in the shape of a heart. Everywhere were names and more names – clashing, contrasting colours that should have, by all rights, looked as ugly as sin but refused to, somehow. Inside, people stored keepsakes. There was a room of memories, a room for recordings, a room for thoughts, and dreams, and hopes and wishes…
He truly wished he had designed it all. But no, his contribution had merely been the requisite structural integrity to hold it together. Taking a deep breath, Reeve entered. Transport was Merlin’s contribution – and as the old man had yet to fail them in any meaningful way, Reeve closed his eyes and wished.
When he opened his eyes, he was in the room of recordings, watching as people looped endlessly in birthday parties, weddings, anniversaries, childbirth; on holograms, projector screens, videos, audio cassettes...
He found the one he was looking for.
Of course he had. Magic.
“Moooom. Stop! I’m a grown up!”
“Not with me, young man. And not with your hair in such a mess! But my that suit does look good on you.”[/b]
“Hi Mom.” The former Shinra executive said softly, staring as Ruvie preened over a younger, more foolish Reeve Tuesti.
“I brought flowers.”
For those curious, if I had both, Cait Sith would become Reeve’s summon so as to keep the flavor.
Username: deiexmachinis
Current canons: Shera, Xaldin, Kefka
Canon you're auditioning for: Reeve Tuesti + Cait Sith
Media canon is from: FFVII, Dirge of the Cereberus
Is the current canon taken?: Nope
Audition post (400 words):
He was wearing an actual suit for once.
It was expensive, Savile Row stuff. Last Reeve heard, the sleepy, high-end shop which he’d slipped into and out of had had orders doubled. He’d received an irate letter from the owner demanding that Mr. President of WRO quote-unquote ‘stop trendsetting' and making a 'mockery' of art.
Said president took another moment to glance in the full length mirror. The suit remained as he remembered it : formal, dressy, black. Appropriate. Tasteful, even.
It reminded him a lot of his stint with Shinra.
They weren’t good memories.
He had considered a lighter hue – takin’ a page outta the Brat’s book, bossman? – but in the end it was a social event of some respectability. His custom overcoat, which was really just a party costume with ambitions, just wouldn’t cut it. Neither would changing the colour of the newest dent in his checkbook.
And, really, he might have been just a little tired of running and pretending. Plus, he could always donate to Salvation Army.
Threads look pretty darn fetchin’! Got a date with sumthin’ luscious?
He shushed Cait Sith, who might have been out of sight but not out of mind, and finished knotting a half-Windsor. In the mirror, someone who might have once been the Urban Development Head stared as Reeve centred the tie with a small, practiced motion, slicked back the errant strands of hair that flopped over his rather subtle widow’s peak and musingly scratched at the goatee.
On the dresser behind him a digital readout cycled between 4:16 and TOO EARLY.
Damn doll.
It took him about four minutes (two spent dithering about creases, another two deciding that he really couldn’t give a damn about the state of the suit) to find Cait Sith without the active link. The thing had stashed itself in his underwear drawer. Urk. After a moment of remorse where he decided to burn the entire set (he knew where that doll had been), he dragged the robotic feline out by the tail.
“Ow! Hey! Careful bossman, I’m delicate! Like a flower! Fate and fortune flow from these fingertips –”
Reeve had always known he was slightly insane. It came with the territory: roboticist, architect, social scientist, spy, double agent, genetic anomaly nicknamed ‘Inspire’. It was his gift to wonder if the last held a preponderance in import or if was the constant juggling of identities that had finally given him a unique case of multiple personality disorder. Or schizophrenia. Or something.
Case in point: he was having hard time distinguishing the automated Cait Sith speaking to him, and the one in his head. Both, in many ways, were more real than the other.
“What part of ‘alone’ escapes you?” He asked, shaking the crowned cat.
The doll blinked intelligently. “But your fortune sucks today, bossman. Doom, gloom, boom – the whole shebang! Without me, you’ll be dead and gone and - ”
Reeve waved it silent.
“Stay put, Cait.”
The automaton gave him the puppydog look, but seeing as he’d cobbled the cybernetic eyes together and could dissect any given component of the robotic exoskeleton in two heartbeats, its effectiveness was quite diminished. Nothing quite like detailed, encyclopaedic knowledge of anatomy to take away the mystique and allure of a pair of synthetic eyeballs.
“Your lucky color isn’t black?” The doll hazarded, hopefully.
“Cait,” Reeve warned, giving the cat another shake before letting it go.
Muttering softly to itself, the robot slunk back towards the underwear drawer before moodily shutting itself inside with a small bang.
Sighing to himself, the roboticist returned to the mirror for a last minute freshening, smoothing out his suit and dealing with the various microscopic pieces of dust that had gathered all across his elbows and knees. Picking up the keys to his car, and the flowers Aerith had assured him would last, he made his way out of the WRO’s headquarters and towards its parking lot.
Cloud called his wheeled and tacitly illicit horror ‘Fenrir’, Cid had slightly better taste and named his wings after his woman, but Reeve found it easier simply not to name whatever he couldn’t fix himself.
Radiant Garden. Midgar. Cait Sith.
The car was a car.
Geez Louise, stop feeling sorry for yourself! You’re making the stars come outta alignment! You’d think someone died or sumthin.
But someone had.
Lots of someones.
The drive was quiet. After his last outburst, the Cait in his head mellowed into a contemplative silence punctuated by the occasional purr. Radiant Garden’s survivors had never been very many to begin with, and even though ‘peace’ had returned it wasn’t like the main thoroughfares would be packed at this early hour. The occasional car sped by him, but for the most part he was alone with nothing but his thoughts and the sunrise to accompany him to his destination.
He was off to see the dead.
They had built a memorial instead of a graveyard. The uncounted millions that had perished and not returned could never be given their own homes in the earth – the undertaking would have been massive beyond all belief and sapped the already fragile and precarious resources that the newly liberated Radiant Garden possessed.
Instead they built it together, out of patchwork abilities, skills and substances. Merlin could have magicked it into existence all by his lonesome no doubt, but the old mage had smiled a sad smile when the resident ninja had made the offhand suggestion. Thousands upon thousands that had given up lunchbreaks, week-ends and vacations just so that they could work on the monument.
“There is value in effort, Yuffie.”
The statement had been profound enough to shock her into silence for the whole of twenty seconds before she returned to carving names on her mineral collection while whistling a jaunty Wutaian campfire tune.
(Reeve was pretty sure Yuffie didn’t know one of the Cait Sith dolls had seen her break down in front of the monument, five weeks later whispering ‘stupid Godo,’ ‘stupid mommy’ at the ungodly hour of three twenty-one and thirteen seconds. He’d carefully erased the recording. He had only meant to be on the lookout for vandals.)
It had been almost a year since the memorial had been erected and unveiled but he had yet to visit it as a mourner and not an architect, putting off the inevitable because of work. Always work. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he grabbed the bouquet feeling oddly guilty.
The memorial itself was huge, a building that soared and towered spectacularly in the shape of a heart. Everywhere were names and more names – clashing, contrasting colours that should have, by all rights, looked as ugly as sin but refused to, somehow. Inside, people stored keepsakes. There was a room of memories, a room for recordings, a room for thoughts, and dreams, and hopes and wishes…
He truly wished he had designed it all. But no, his contribution had merely been the requisite structural integrity to hold it together. Taking a deep breath, Reeve entered. Transport was Merlin’s contribution – and as the old man had yet to fail them in any meaningful way, Reeve closed his eyes and wished.
When he opened his eyes, he was in the room of recordings, watching as people looped endlessly in birthday parties, weddings, anniversaries, childbirth; on holograms, projector screens, videos, audio cassettes...
He found the one he was looking for.
Of course he had. Magic.
“Moooom. Stop! I’m a grown up!”
“Not with me, young man. And not with your hair in such a mess! But my that suit does look good on you.”[/b]
“Hi Mom.” The former Shinra executive said softly, staring as Ruvie preened over a younger, more foolish Reeve Tuesti.
“I brought flowers.”
I did post in shades of grey if anyone even remembers that lmao