[ He doesn't want to have to keep it touching it. The petals, smeared with Sephiroth's blood, have another idea--they cling to his fingertips, even as he tries, with the subtle jerk of his wrist, to dislodge them. They remain, and he almost goes to drag his hand against the rusted floorboards beneath him, and then thinks better of it. No, he doesn't want to stain Aerith's church with more of this; instead, he wipes his hand on the thigh of his pants, though the petals simply cling there, stuck with blood. Maybe once he steps outside they'll fall away. He tries not to think about it.

What curse could this be? It's different than the geostigma, different from the grey-black blotches of pain and misery that adorn the children hanging around, desperate for food and water, in all the back alley gutters of Edge. If Sephiroth had such a thing, it would surely show on his skin. However, with all of that material in the way, how are either of them supposed to tell? One glance towards Sephiroth tells him that he's right: he's still done up as he had been in death, still wearing the same custom armor that had been given to him as a SOLDIER of high praise. They won't be able to tell anything like this. ]

I had nothing to do with it. [ --is what comes out his mouth at first, defensive. ] This is your own doing, if nothing else.

[ Back on his feet again, he shakes his head, takes a step sidelong and then, as though remembering, glances back at Sephiroth. He doesn't want to put his back to him--doesn't think it smart, even knowing that he won't strike him down here, just as the same is true in reverse. Neither of them are going to kill each other in this place, but that doesn't make it safe. ]

We should check you for geostigma. Maybe it's manifesting differently in you because of who, or what, you are.

[ His head tilts towards the door in indication. ]

And we're not doing that here. Outside. Let's go.