I do not own FFVII or make money from this fanfic.
This was inspired by the Lincoln Park song 'What I've Done' and the scene in FFIV where Cecil must fight himself before abandoning his dark past and moving on.
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It is always the same.
I am in a room. But yet, it is not a room. There are four walls. But no door. No windows. No furniture. No ceiling. No floor. Nothing else that makes a room what it is.
Four walls. That is all.
The walls are mirrors, yet they do not reflect each other.
Only me.
Step by step, I move forward. On my left and right I can see the reflections walking with me. My cloak flows out behind me. Light, light with no source, reflects off my gauntlet. If I turn my head, I can see my eyes, stained with the blood of a thousand lives. Once, I looked over my shoulder. The image behind me was the same.
My boots make no sound as I walk. There is no floor, how can they?
I approach the mirror ahead. The image in the mirror walks towards me. It is not the same as the others. There is no cloak. No gauntlet. The hair is short. The suit is pristine. The eyes are dark Wutian ovals.
It is me.
It takes longer than it should, but I always reach the mirror. The image copies my movements exactly; as it should. It is a reflection, is it not?
I stand there, watching myself. Neither I, nor the image move.
Once, I drew Cerberus and shot. The glass shattered and I woke up.
Once, I drew Cerberus and shot. My aim was less precise than it is now, but it was good enough. It pierced my chest, just below the heart. Not perfect, but it would have killed just the same.
I woke before the blood could drip to the nonexistent floor and pool around my golden boots.
Now I stare. I wait for myself to make the first move. I do not disappoint me. Drawing Cerberus, the original, before I modified it, I shoot. A head shot this time. Dropping down, I roll to the side avoiding the bullet as easily as if it were no more than a thrown pebble.
The glass does not shatter.
Again, Cerberus booms, emptying the second of its three barrels at the spot where seconds ago I crouched. Still nothing breaks.
But then again, there is no floor where I was crouching. What would there be to break?
The glass. The glass between myself and myself. Why did my shots break the glass while these do not?
A third time, Cerberus booms. The bullet was close this time; I only just intercepted the shot with my gauntlet. While I load the triple barreled masterpiece, I look at what damage the bullet caused.
Nothing. A dent. A scratch. Or perhaps those were always there. It should have done more. I should be grateful.
Cerberus is not difficult to load, yet I am taking longer than normal to do so. Ah yes, I do not have the modified version. The original was much more difficult.
This time, all three barrels are emptied at once. It takes all of my enhanced skill, but I avoid the slashing bullets. To my left, my right, my rear, the reflections are doing the same. Every swish of my cloak, every crouch and leap is mirrored by my reflections.
But not the one in front. The one in front is from where the bullets fly, forcing me to use every bit of my despised enhancements to avoid them.
I do not like to be shot at.
The next time I stop to reload, I stride towards myself. Reaching through the glass I grab my neck with my gauntleted hand.
I hang limply in my grip dropping Cerberus where it falls away and disappears. Why should it not, there is no floor to stop it? It is easy to hold myself aloft, easy to tighten my grasp on my pale defenseless throat.
There is no longer glass between myself. I am in the center of the room, suspending myself above the floor that is not there by my own gold gauntleted hand. I look into my dark oval eyes, down into that face that was once mine.
My hold tightens.
The mirrors no longer reflect my image. They reflect my demons.
To my right is the Galian Beast.
Hellmasker to the left.
And though I do not see him, Death Gigas is behind.
They are staring, watching me hold myself in a killing grip. They stand tall, proud even. Proud of what they are, unashamed of themselves. Not like me.
In each set of eyes is something unique.
Anger burns the space between my shoulder blades.
The aura of disdain comes from the left.
Bright wolfish eyes are filled with pity.
As they watch, I continue to tighten my hold on my throat. But as I do, the face begins to change. It is no longer myself that I hold.
It is Lucrecia.
It is Sephiroth.
The first man I killed.
A Shinra executive I failed to protect.
Hojo.
A member of Deepground.
The first child I killed.
The faces continue to change and through it all my grip tightens. Now it is me again.
Only me.
In the front mirror, a winged shadow looms. It is Chaos, coming steadily closer, step by step until he occupies the spot where I once stood.
"Let go, Valentine," his deep voice fills the space between the mirrors.
My grip tightens yet again. I am surprised I have not crushed my windpipe.
"It is done," Chaos continues, "it is time to let go."
"Done," Hellmasker snarls, "the past is done and gone."
"Never to return, unless you bring it with you," Death Gigas hisses.
"You are here," Galien howls, "and they are not. Release yourself."
I hear them. It is impossible not to. The talons of my gauntlet dig into my flesh. Blood, my blood, runs down the gold metal dripping down, down into oblivion. Yet there is no pain in my face. No expression at all. It is like holding a puppet. Not alive.
But still real. Heavy. Like a chain. An iron chain, anchoring me down, keeping me from moving. From progressing. From living. From being alive. Keeping me away from others, forcing me to be alone. So, so alone.
"Let go," whispers Galian.
"Let go," Death Gigas rasps.
"Let go," Hellmasker growls.
Wings wide, golden eyes flaring Chaos speaks one last time, "Valentine. Let go."
They do not understand.
. . .
. . .
. . .
I cannot let go.