Okay... notes for the readers! Yes, this has been on FanFiction.net before. It was a part of a longer-running story that really SUCKED. So I deleted it from the site along with all the other stuff I had uploaded (was in a very judging mood. Got frustrated.), and somehow forgot to delete it in the files on my computer. I was re-reading some old stuff the other day, and saw this. I liked the beginning for some reason, and thought I'd put it back up on here. Sooo, now I need opinions! Should I start from what I have here and redo it, or just kill it now? Read and review, please! Even the negative feedback's appreciated. -beams.- I really need to get my brother to draw this opening scene. He's so stubborn. Oh hey! If any of you are willing to, let me know!
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Vincent made his way through a back alley, scarlet cloak removed and slung over his left shoulder. The soft thud of his own footsteps made him nervous... no longer the familiar clicking of his boots, but sneakers. Ick. And they weren't even neat sneakers. It was typical, really, considering Yuffie had chosen them. She'd been the one to decide that his shoes didn't fit, and that his strange attitude had come as a result. He didn't think he had an attitude... no worse than any of theirs , anyway. Right?
A slight rustling off to the side caught his attention, and the robotic 'hand' wrapped in smooth red fabric tightened. Vinnie had never been one to startle easily... before. Now, his relaxed stride clipped to a faster walk, and his eyes flickered to the right... to the left again. The movement in the alley shifted with his gaze, and seemed to swell, to blossom behind him until it reared over him and twisted what had been semi-rational thought into a panic. The lanky vampire swung his machine arm from it's upward angle, where the hand had clutched the cloak, and with his other hand drew a gun. Another frightfully unplanned step forward, and he spun on the noise, splaying bullets into the night with a low groan that, these days, seemed always present and ready to fill the gaps. There was nothing, and then there was everything but... even while the weapon's sharp reports ripped through an otherwise silent night, the beast in Vincent Valentino's head surged on.
In his eyes, Vincent saw himself. The crystal clear crack of red that moved, with ghostly reverence, about the man's head, reflected a tiny, pathetic excuse for a soul wrapped up in an ill-functioning body of the same. The image in those massive snapping optics was watery, and every bit the Vinnie of late. Shattered fragments of some precious stone, those eyes... but they never seemed to falter, and though only faded, transparent traces of the rest of the face were visible, a cold glare shone brightly. These eyes needed no face to show emotion... on most occasions, rather, a lack of. They were Vincent's eyes, Vincent's eyes and Vincent's shuddering form and all ice and daggers and pain... he didn't notice when the handgun slid from his grip, or when his knees hit the pebble-littered dirt. He was gone.
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