Vincent Valentine was not a morning person.
This was highly understandable. He'd slept through all of them for the past thirty years.
Some people ate when they were upset. Other, perhaps somewhat morally reprehensible people took their distress out on others. Still others would sit down with a good movie and cry their hearts out.
Vincent? Vincent slept. His choice of bedding aside, he felt this was not unusual. There had to be other people out there who locked themselves in coffins after their girlfriends shacked up with a mad scientist who then proceeded to perform horrible experiments that left one as a freak of nature, outcast by even the most benevolent of gods.
Honestly. He couldn't be the only one.
Still, it wasn't like he was completely opposed to the idea of being conscious. Theoretically, anyway. People who tell the tale of Vincent Valentine's legendary slumber often maintained that he spent the entire hibernation locked in the basement. This was untrue. Hygiene issues aside (and yes, the mansion did have a functioning bathroom, thank you very much), it wasn't exactly a cakewalk trying to get some shuteye in Nibelheim. Shouting parents organizing search parties for kids lost in the mountains, frequent monster attacks, and out-of-control village bonfires kept the noise level set comfortably above a gentle roar.
And then there were the vandals. Vincent couldn't count the number of times he'd awakened, blinking in confusion, to the sight of a quivering flashlight staring down out him shortly before its owner ran off screaming. Lost Number argued that little kids were too wiry to eat. Vincent hit him over the head with a rolled-up newspaper.
Add to that three monstrous personas living in his head. Vincent did his best to quiet them down, but the plain and simple fact was that they didn't sleep when he did. He was getting pretty goddamn sick and tired of waking up with the taste of bloody rat in his mouth. It was better than letting them run loose and slaughtering the village, he sympathized, he really did. Anyone who spent more than five minutes in Nibelheim wanted to burn the place to the ground, monster or otherwise.
But, as he so often explained to the three of them, he was waiting for someone. He wasn't sure who, but he had peeked at the strategy guide and had managed to catch a glimpse of spiky blonde hair before the Planet had noticed and put him in time out.
Midgar Hair Mousse was pretty expensive, so Vincent was almost certain that he'd know his future companion by sight. To be honest, he was looking forward to it. He'd read every book in the library twice, learned two dozen foreign languages, counted the ceiling tiles fifty-three times (there were 7458 and 3/15), and had even set up a series of clues detailing where he was.
Vincent Valentine had slumbered enough. He was ready.
Someone is coming.
The voice of Chaos was heavy in his mind. He couldn't describe how unpleasant it was to have someone else's thoughts reverberating in one's head, but it was something you got used to over the years. Also, if he ever managed to get the demon out of his head, he was going to hit him with an aluminum bat over and over.
"Excellent." Vincent murmured, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "The time has come… Hojo will pay for the crimes he's committed. Lucrecia… I'm coming…"
Hahahahaha! Let's get ready to do this, boys! It's murdering time!
"The day has finally arrived for me to repent for my- wait, what?" Vincent blinked.
What? I didn't say anything.
"Yes you did." Chaos might have been a demon set loose from the planet to destroy all living things, but in Vincent's opinion Hellmasker was the dangerous one. At least the Gallian Beast had the courtesy to clean himself every once in a while. "Something about murdering."
I'm sure I don't know what you mean.
"Listen, this is our big day, and I'm not going to have the three of you embarrass me." Vincent retreated into his mindscape and glared at his schizophrenic soul mates (the term wasn't as nearly as romantic when Vincent used it). "Beast, fix your hair. Masker, fix his hair for him. Not with the chainsaw. No. That is what we don't want."
You never let me have any fun.
"Shut up. Now, listen. We're going to be traveling with people. Humans. They're fleshy and bipedal and filled with little glands and fluids, just like me. I don't want you to eat them."
Just one.
"No."
Just a little morsel.
"No."
One nibble. That's all I ask.
"I'm running out of ways to say 'no'."
I hope Hojo rapes you.
An outsider staring at the coffin would see it sit as still as always for a moment, then shake violently. Vincent was shuddering.
"Alright, thank you for that, Chaos. Now. Where was I. Hairspray. I need my hairspray because I'm a little girl who needs to look good for her man- Chaos I swear to God. Take over my voice one more time. See what happens."
I'm scared. Hellmasker sniggered. There was an audible high-five.
Thirty years living in a basement did not do wonders for one's hairstyle. Vincent hurriedly brushed away some cobwebs and straightened his bangs before taking a gulp of Listerine and gargling. The footsteps on the spiral staircase were growing louder, albeit surprisingly soft. Ah, well, no matter.
With his philosophical reflections on Lucrecia and Hojo out of the way, Vincent was free to rub his claws together in anticipation and voice his own thoughts. "At last…" He smiled coldly, and some of the spiders crawling around the inside of the coffin dropped dead. "My foray into video game history…" Fantasies of going to parties with Lara Croft and Duke Nukem flashed through his mind.
The footsteps on the staircase ceased to a soft patter across the floor. Vincent lay grinning in his coffin, enveloped by the soft lips of Mrs. Pac Man and the adoration of squealing fan girls.
This was it. This was his moment. Thirty years of slumber and the occasional bathroom break had led up to this one glorious moment- where he, Vincent Valentine, would impress his mark upon the world. His name would be forever synonymous with angst and red flowing capes. Bad fanart would be drawn of him taking it from Cait Sith, but that was alright.
The time had come to be the speck of raincloud in a world of sunlight.
The coffin's lid slowly slid open, as though being pushed by a crippled lemur.
The time had come to introduce lust to an entire generation of teenage girls.
He rose without moving a muscle, swinging up like a hinged door. Gravity had no place in Vincent Valentine's world.
The time had come to take his revenge on those who had wronged him, to elevate himself up the ladder of history to the top of-
His eyes slowly adjusted to what he was seeing. Brown hair, not blonde. Oversized weapon, right, that was there, but it appeared to be a giant throwing star rather a sword. Tiny breasts, but breasts all the same.
Vincent's voice came as a pathetic whisper. "Who the hell are- Er-hem- Who the hell are you?"
"Hi!" chirped the Thing. "I'm Yuffie Kisaragi! Who are you?"
He looked around and saw no one else in sight. The room was empty save for one red-clad vampirical gunslinger and one ninja just a hairsbreadth away from androgyny. "Where is the rest of the party?" he asked in the hurt tones of a crossed lover. "Where is the effeminate protagonist? Where is the token black man? Where is the shot at glory I was promised?" This was wrong, this was all wrong! He had a speech- somewhere- It was very dark, and this wasn't it at all-
The girl- the "Yuffie"- blinked. "Oh, them? They left. Yeah, they got here a few days ago. Sorry about that. Did the same thing to me."
Vincent paid her no heed. "I mean I know the décor of the place can be off-putting, and Lost Number doesn't exactly smell like a bed of roses, but I did leave those hints and all-
Wait."
Light slowly dawned in his crimson eyes. His clawed hand clenched into a brass fist of fury. Slowly but surely, his bewildered and torn mind pieced it all together, and for the first time in thirty years Vincent Valentine knew outrage.
The following scream roused birds and bats from their places of roost. Children the world over suffered the sort of nightmare typically available only after watching a ten-hour monster movie marathon. An annoyed innkeeper found a suspicious yellow stain in Cloud Strife's bed sheet the following morning.
"They WHAT!?"