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Masamune, a weapon of legend that sings for blood in the hands of Shinra’s hero-worshipped General. Seven feet of polished death, designed for nothing other than efficient violence, to be taken as seriously as the silver-haired man who wielded it. Who could expect that a trained killing machine would find little distinction between combat and the undertaking of more mundane ventures.
The first time it happened the other First Class SOLDIERs were too shocked to do much more than stare in open-mouthed astonishment.
A successful but messy mission saw the three most deadly creatures in Shinra’s employ making their way back to camp. The weary slog through the jungle was not improved at all by Genesis persistently bemoaning a casualty of their last scuffle, his beloved red coat. “The Goddess surely grieves this day, for no greater loss is there than the loss of culture in an uncivilised land.” An outstretched hand, flung for dramatic effect, succeeded in slapping a palm frond into Angeal who was a pace behind on the trail.
“Ugh, Gen, surely this can wait until we are back to camp?” One look at the wounded expression on his childhood friend’s face and Angeal knew ignoring him would not earn them any peace. “Fine. Show me this catastrophe then, perhaps we can fix it.” The closer inspection determined that the damage was nothing more than a loose thread pulled from the hem. “Is this it?” Angeal’s amused dismissal was met with a burning glare from the redhead, but before a suitable retort could be made a flash of silver cut through the air.
Sephiroth, having freed his hair from the grasps of yet another branch, had moved up beside Angeal. After considering the problem with as much intensity as he used to assess an intelligence report, the SOLDIER decided on a simple solution. Masamune sang and the offending thread of red was neatly severed from the leather coat.
“It is getting late, we should continue.” he ignored the pairs of mako-bright eyes that gawked at him, stepping nimbly past Angeal and back onto the trail.
“Geal, did that just happen?”
“Yes, Gen, yes it did.”
The rest of the journey home passed in silence, even Genesis’s fire dampened in the face of such absurdity.
The second time it happened they perhaps should have been better prepared.
On the rare night when all three had clear schedules the First Class trio would have dinner at, in Genesis’s opinion anyway, the best restaurant in Midgar: Angeal’s apartment. Sephiroth was late, held back by Lazard in yet another boring meeting, so Genesis was assisting his friend in the kitchen by offering helpful advice and keeping their glasses topped up with red wine. “You seem to be taking longer than usual with that Angeal. Roughing it in the jungle hasn't made you rusty has it?”
“I just need to get these knives sharpened. Do you think we'll have time before we get sent out again?” The burly SOLDIER was frowning in concentration at the vegetable knife in his hand when a sound from the front of the apartment had Genesis reaching to fill a third glass. He held it out toward the General as he entered the room.
“Perfect timing Seph, we are in great need of a hero.”
“Oh? I’m afraid my talents in the kitchen are not typically the stuff of legend. Unless there has been a new Shinra publicity campaign I wasn’t informed about.” With a small smirk Sephiroth accepted the glass and leaned against the bench, surveying the array of ingredients. “Is something the matter?”
“A dire situation indeed, our esteemed colleague here has neglected his culinary arsenal and I fear our meal will suffer for it.”
Angeal suppressed a sigh at the exaggerated description and rolled his shoulders before collecting another carrot. “You’ll just have to put up with the vegetables cut a little rougher than you’re used to Gen. I promise the flavour will remain the same.”
Not even SOLDIER reflexes were enough for Genesis and Angeal to stop what happened next.