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limits[ AVALANCHE's first mission had been to deal with the Sorceresses. It hadn't been an easy task, but it had been a necessary one to gain the allegiance of the GARDENs in their war against ShinRa. Their journey had been long, and bloody, and filled with loss and misery - but at its end, they had stood victorious. The world had seemed so bright and brimming with possibilities, and for that one shining moment, all of them had hope.
It had lasted about six months. Construction on EDGE was well underway before they realized they had a problem on their hands.
Geostigma started to claw its way across the planet. At first the handful of survivors from Midgar began displaying symptoms, spreading slowly out from there. An epidemic that magic can't cure, that slowly choked the life from the host.
It hits him while he's visiting the Garden. He has a stack of casefiles - all children from Edge, in need of homes and (probably pallative) care while they hunt for a cure. Midgar's government is in shambles and there's nothing in place to take them, so the best thing to do is move them to somewhere that can. Not all are sick - but even if they were, there's really no telling until they begin to bleed.
Most of the people who have it don't display symptoms until it's far too late, and Cloud is unfortunately no different. He's seated in the chair across from Squall's desk, waiting for the commander to be pulled from whatever meeting he's attending to sit down and discuss somethimg more important. His fingers impatiently tap against the mahogany wood underneath him, tap, tap, tap, tap - until they're locking abruptly. Pain flares through his senses and Cloud pitches forward, coughing and gagging. Black blood splatters across the fresh white paperwork, obscuring the hopeful faces of new recruits. ]
It had lasted about six months. Construction on EDGE was well underway before they realized they had a problem on their hands.
Geostigma started to claw its way across the planet. At first the handful of survivors from Midgar began displaying symptoms, spreading slowly out from there. An epidemic that magic can't cure, that slowly choked the life from the host.
It hits him while he's visiting the Garden. He has a stack of casefiles - all children from Edge, in need of homes and (probably pallative) care while they hunt for a cure. Midgar's government is in shambles and there's nothing in place to take them, so the best thing to do is move them to somewhere that can. Not all are sick - but even if they were, there's really no telling until they begin to bleed.
Most of the people who have it don't display symptoms until it's far too late, and Cloud is unfortunately no different. He's seated in the chair across from Squall's desk, waiting for the commander to be pulled from whatever meeting he's attending to sit down and discuss somethimg more important. His fingers impatiently tap against the mahogany wood underneath him, tap, tap, tap, tap - until they're locking abruptly. Pain flares through his senses and Cloud pitches forward, coughing and gagging. Black blood splatters across the fresh white paperwork, obscuring the hopeful faces of new recruits. ]
