Although far from being an innocent maiden, Vincent thinks, from time to time, about changing his name.

~persephone~

It is ridiculous for a Turk – efficient, order-driven, remorseless – to feel violated, but he felt such visceral helplessness the moment he woke from his 30-year sleep to discover himself straddling the line between this world and whatever comes after, belonging to neither but caught in both.

~a painting and a legend~

Dr. Jeraldine Foretson, a fellow with the Center for Civilian Biodefense Strategies. Invited to speak about threats of terrorism upon Midgar and, less ostensibly, against ShinRa. As ShinRa's first and final defense against terrorists, it only made sense that he and the rest of the Turks had been present. She had had brown hair, brown eyes, glasses, and a slight frame. Wholly unremarkable and more than a little apprehensive about being inside ShinRa headquarters, considering what she had to say.

"We call the potential misapplication of science the Persephone Effect, named after the myth of an innocent girl who was kidnapped and forced to share her time between the underworld and Earth." An image of a painting was projected onto the screen. "The myth accounts for the change of the seasons and the annual cycle of growth and decay."

Vincent had stared hard at the painting.

"Biology, medicine, agriculture, and other life sciences were always considered the 'good' sciences, but like Persephone they could be used to bring death and destruction in the form of biological weapons." Foretson had paused for a moment to proceed to the next slide.

"Recent advances in Mako refinement techniques, microbiology, and genetics are areas of concern." Click. "The same cell-injection technology used to strengthen livestock could, with just a minute increase in dosage, result in populations of carnivorous… monsters, with increased strength, speed, and invulnerability to tasers, normal bullet wounds, and status magic." Click. "Antibiotic-resistant strains of bacteria help scientists determine which antibiotic therapies will be most effective in treating an illness, but former Junon bioweapons manufacturers are suspected of using this technology to develop super-virulent, Mako-enhanced forms of infectious diseases." Click. The young woman had drawn a deep breath. "And last year, it was discovered that NeoGen and JenKor –" Well-known subsidiaries of the ShinRa Corporation was the unspoken thought hovering over the entire room. "– were performing preliminary research on the effects of Mako treatments on human subjects." Silence – some of it uncomfortable, some indignant, and far too much of it nonchalant – blanketed the audience.

Here, the doctor had clicked the presentation off and signaled that the lights be turned on again. Vincent blinked, the after-image of the painting seemingly branded on the inside of his eyelids. Dr. Foretson removed her glasses, her eyes suddenly large and bright. "My colleagues and I… our research suggests that these technologies could make harmless unregulated organisms dangerous and render obsolete current policies to restrict access to dangerous chemicals, pathogens, and procedures."

The rest of that day was forgettable. The good doctor had been swiftly and politely thanked for her time and dismissed with nary a question. There had been a few business and development meetings after that, in which teams of new people came in to report on the various Mako experiments Foretson had just been pleading with them to discontinue. Vincent might have gone on a mission later. He might have killed someone. Just business as usual.

A few weeks later, after reading in one of ShinRa's security reports about the 'terrorist attacks' that claimed the lives of several prominent members of the Center for Civilian Biodefense, he had felt a tickle of what must have been relief at not receiving that assignment. Persephone had flickered before his eyes.

~used~

If he keeps some distance from it, he can think about his situation with relative equanimity, as if the life he leads is not his own. A Turk is, in the simplest terms, a tool that the ShinRa Corporation used to obtain power and then keep it. He and his colleagues were the diplomats, negotiators, work-site supervisors – the voice of ShinRa. And when those things didn't work, or didn't work fast enough, they were the spies, thieves, assassins – the invisible hands that cultivated obedience by eradicating dissension, sowing the bloody seeds of domination so that ShinRa didn't have to.

Just because no one saw them didn't mean they weren't there. It's the same way with the blood on his hands – invisible but inescapable.

He examines himself clinically, and concludes that many of the advancements made to his body would have been invaluable as a Turk: increased strength, speed, and agility; enhanced senses; a claw 100 times stronger and more sensitive than his hand; vital organs no longer localized but spread in a diffuse network throughout his body so that, save his head, one bullet would not be sufficient to slow him down, let alone kill him.

Occasionally he manages to snatch a dream about a lucky bullet before the demons begin their clamoring.

~kidnapped~

He has been redesigned, remodeled like one of his guns to be better at a job he was already dangerously good at. His only consolation is that, if necessary, he will use these tools at his disposal to survive, to prolong his own life instead shortening others on the whim of a ruthless businessman.

~forced~

It haunts him, the ingenious design of the claw that makes everything feel real. It is so easy to forget that it is not his hand until he has unintentionally hurt someone, reminding him that he is not a man but merely a patchwork monster, each demon, each gruesome modification a facet of Hojo that that man sought to bury in Vincent. When he allows himself to reflect on it, he is horrified at how easily he adapted to these terrible changes, as if the transition from human to devil were trifling. Truly the most painful vengeance Hojo could have wreaked was making Vincent face himself. Still, he feels some small satisfaction in knowing that any triumph Hojo might have experienced over him was accidental, just like the rest of his work.

~growth~

No, he finally muses, it would never work. While Persephone brought winter to the world, she was at least permitted to bring spring back to it. He has no such recourse.

~decay~

Where his life used to be a permanent winter, cold and unrelenting and dead, now it is nothing, a black pit of failure and guilt, a suitable receptacle for the demons he plays host to. It is fitting that they – and he – remain here, essentially interred in the ShinRa mansion, for the sake of the world. He has convinced himself, even if he can't stifle the traitorous thought –

there can be no spring for me