Fearful Symmetry
Chapter 1: Slum Baby
Vincent Valentine stepped off the train, crossing the threshold into Slithe—more commonly known as Sector Six. Instantly his senses were filled with the slum's trademark: the smell of beer and smoke, the harsh, neon lights, and the sound of women "earning" their living. He allowed himself no expression as he straightened his navy Turks suit and stepped down from the platform. The Shinra manager cast him a look of comprehension before returning to the train's interior.
Naturally the manager had thought Vincent was some kind of executive taking a night off. After all, Sector Six was the ideal place for recreation. But this trip wasn't such an excursion; he had no interest in falling victim to the slum's addictive pull. This was business. And unlike the men and women of Slithe, he would be able to turn his back on the grime and filth once he was finished; because Vincent knew the risks of losing himself here. At twenty-two he was a man made from sense. He'd lived in nearly every situation a man could find himself in, and he'd learned from it. A particularly dark portion of his memory rested in the slums, and he wasn't about to let those mistakes resurface.
The night was cold. Vincent turned up the collar of his navy suit, hoping to drive out some of the chill. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he entered the infamous Wall Market. Ever since the city's creation criminals, drug-addicts, and prostitutes gathered here, drawn by empty promises and obsession. Vincent wasn't a stranger here. Even before being hired by the Turks he'd often come to this place, letting it feed off of him. The memories rested unpleasantly in him, twisting his features into a frown. Remembering those times filled him with shame an remorse, and seeing the young men that walked the streets made it worse, because they were caught in a fate that had once been his own.
Enough. You're on duty now.
Vincent let his breath out slowly through his nose, not quite as a sigh. He focused on the task at hand. His target was a gang leader and all-around trouble-maker, Mack Ginnis. The mission was simple: for the past two weeks he'd been visiting the bar that was Ginnis's hangout, and now was the night to take him out. One bullet would be enough.
The bar, "Satan's Closet," was less busy than usual, for which Vincent thanked his luck. The interior was small, with only the bar along the south wall, and four tables with chairs. Vincent took his usual seat at the end of the bar and ordered one drink, which he would sip from slowly over the next several hours. He didn't like drinking, but otherwise his Shinra status would be quickly divulged. As it was, he was sure the bar owner had caught on to his intentions there. As long as Ginnis continued to come to the bar and spill information over his drink, Vincent didn't care.
At ten o'clock the bar door swung open loudly, and in walked Mack Ginnis. He was a short, powerfully built man wearing a black muscle shirt and jeans, his brown hair shaved to stubble. He greeted the owner obnoxiously and took his seat at the bar.
But this night Ginnis wasn't alone. He was accompanied by a teenage girl in a red tank-top and leather mini-skirt. Her brunette hair terminated just below her jaw, unkept. Vincent was pretty sure that she was one of Wall Market's many "business" women, as he'd seen her with Ginnis before. Tonight, however, her elaborately made-up face was marred with the traces of a bruise on her left cheek, one she'd attempted to cover. She took a seat on Ginnis's right, leaning over the bar with her head pillowed on her arms.
Vincent couldn't help but cast several glances her way. He knew that look: the weary movements, the listless eyes. They were indications of sorrow and failure, like that of a lost soul awakening for the first time to find itself in Hell. His empathy for a moment caused him to forget his mission. Ginnis's laughter pulled him from the momentary repose.
"Two beers," he was saying. "Willy ain't' feeling good tonight. Got a headache." He continued to laugh, as if he'd said something hilarious. The bartender rolled his eyes and fulfilled the order.
This was Vincent's chance. He stood, looking as if his intention were to leave. He crossed behind his target, already removing the handgun from his belt. Ginnis had his head back, gulping down his drink, oblivious to his coming end. The bartender had moved to the end of the bar, his attention on the other clueless customers. He had the perfect shot. With only a bit of satisfaction Vincent pointed the weapon at the back of his target's neck.
He didn't pull the trigger. Just when he was about to curl his finger the girl lifted her head and turned on her stool; before Vincent had the chance to realize what was happening a gun barrel was pressed to his forehead.
"What the—" Ginnis began, setting his beer down. He quickly silenced when he realized what his situation was.
"Don't move," Vincent instructed firmly, refusing to show his sudden panic.
"You're in a hell'uv'a position to be making demands," the girl retorted blandly. She hooked her arm over his, tucking his wrist under her armpit so that he wouldn't be able to turn and shoot her. Her gun dug into his chin, forcing his head up. Vincent obeyed helplessly; though he could no longer see either Ginnis or the girl, he had no choice. "Drop the gun," she said.
Vincent didn't. He knew the moment he did, he'd be dead. He stalled. "You don't have to do this," he reasoned in a voice so calm and sure that it convinced even him. "You don't owe him anything."
The gun didn't lower. "Just keep talking," she muttered sarcastically. "I think it's fucking funny."
Ginnis started to get up, but the Turk pressed his gun harder into his neck. "Don't move," he repeated. He didn't care that everyone in the bar was glaring at him, thinking him a fool.
"Don't be a fucking bitch," the man replied eloquently. "You won't pull the trigger. You'll be dead."
"We all will be." During the short exchange Vincent had stealthily removed his second handgun, and he pressed the barrel into the girl's ribs. "I can fire before she kills me." He tilted his head to the side so that he could see his would-be killer. "'Willy' is short for 'Willow,' isn't it?"
She started visibly in surprise. "Yeah," she muttered. "Willy Trust."
"Don't listen to 'em, Willy," Ginnis growled. "He's just a fucker tryin' to save his Shinra ass."
The bartender, who had been watching the entire scene with amusement, couldn't help but laugh. "Looks like you three are in quite a knot," he remarked. "Maybe I'll grab my shotgun and join you."
"I don't think you could make it any worse," Vincent replied with a bit of a smirk.
"Shut the hell up," Ginnis snapped, shifting on his seat. Not being able to see his assailant was fraying his nerves. "We all know you're not going to shoot us, so get the hell out!"
The Turk ignored him. "Willow," he said, gazing at her as best he could. "You don't want to die in this place. Dying in the slums is like being killed in Hell." When Ginnis protested he shoved his gun painfully into the man's skin. "You know I'm right."
Willy pursed her lips, her anger focusing at him through her features. "Can't be helped," she spat. "And what do you know anyway, Shinra boy?"
"Not much," he admitted gravely. "But I grew up around here. The only reason I kept living was because dying in this filth of a city would be pathetic. Because I wouldn't let it win."
She didn't answer. Her gaze faltered from meeting his, and he could see recognition spreading across her face. After a moment she gave a short bark of laughter. "That's pretty good bull-shit," she said.
Vincent winced, and his finger curled around the trigger. But then the pressure eased from beneath his chin; she had recoiled. Willy took several steps back. "Pretty damn good," she repeated.
"Willy?" Ginnis cursed, and began to stand. "You little bi—"
The percussion of Vincent's gun interrupted the mans' speech. The body slumped heavily over the bar, spilling ashtrays and half-filled beer bottles. Willy didn't even blink, watching dispassionately. Only the killer could see the hint of satisfaction in her eyes.
The bar resumed its normal activity, now that the scene had ended. Vincent returned both guns to his belt and allowed himself a sigh. He faced the girl. "Thank you."
Willy nodded absently, staring down at the corpse. Then she set upon it, relieving her former lover of his watch and wallet. Vincent didn't try to stop her, and said nothing as she scampered out the door and into the street. Instead he pulled a wad of money out of his pocket and handed it to the patiently waiting bartender. "Sorry about the mess."
"You keep staking this place out," the older man snorted, "and my business will go down."
"Don't worry. I won't be back here for a while." Without a backward glance he left the bar, journeying once again into the night.
It was nearly two weeks later that he received the call from his superior. Adden Trexim, a Senior Turk and oldest member at age 37, was a strict, military-type man. He spoke sharply and to the point. "One of the floor receptionists received a letter last night, if you can call it that," he said through the receiver. "It was labeled 'To the Turk.' Says there's unfinished business at Satan's Closet."
"My old stakeout," Vincent recalled. He couldn't think of what "business" it could have been. The rest of Ginnis's gang had been cleared out by SOLDIER the week before; Vincent never let any of his enemies live long.
And then he remembered the girl.
"Check it out, but take Raile with you," his boss continued. "It could be anything. Stay alert."
"Yes, sir. I'll report once I've found out, sir." And he hung up.
Ban Raile, thought four years Vincent's senior, had joined the Turks about the same time. The man was of medium height with shortly-cropped black hair and a stern face, which contrasted Vincent's style and smooth features. They were, however, a formidable team, with Raile's strength and Vincent's accuracy. As a pair they had never failed a mission.
Raile lived in Mordrina up on the plate; he'd grown up there his entire life, and therefore had never truly experienced the slums for all that they were. Sometime Vincent envied the man's air of detachment, as if none of the poverty and filth could touch or affect him. He was a confident man with few fears.
As they approached the bar Vincent explained the situation and the girl, Willy Trust, who had spared his life. Raile listened, appreciative of her decision but not all-together impressed. He didn't seem to realize the significance as much as his partner did; in the slums, saving a Shinra was risky business.
Satan's Closet was crowded, as none of the patrons expected any Shinra so soon after the recent incident. Vincent hesitated only a moment before entering, as any one of the seemingly uninterested drunkards could have easily pulled a gun and shot him dead at any moment. Having Raile with him, however, gave him some confidence. He moved smoothly to the bar.
"I knew you'd show up," the bar owner commented, gathering the Turks' attentions. "And you brought a friend. Need a drink?"
Both men declined. "I was sent a note yesterday," Vincent told him. "Something about unfinished business. Do you know what's going on?"
The man nodded. "I sent it. Thought it'd get your attention." He tilted his head as if to indicate one side of the room. "Take a look."
Vincent did look, and was surprised to see the teenager from the night before, huddled in the corner. Her legs were pulled in close to her chest and her head was down, covered with her arms. Her skin was covered with welts and bruises, and she was filthy. It was an all too familiar scene for Vincent. But he couldn't help but stare, feeling sorry for her. "It's my fault," he murmured.
"Sure is. When Ginnis's boss found out he was furious, not to mention drunk off his ass. Willy's been in dept for months—being with a gang leader kept them away from her, but now she's free meat." He shrugged. "Just thought you should know, Shinra boy." The bartender moved away, serving the other customers.
"So that's the girl," said Raile. He sighed. "Don't feel guilty, Vincent. We've all got our problems. Hers are her own fault. Let's go."
But Vincent didn't. Instead he moved toward the back of the small bar, and crouched beside the girl. She was wearing a greasy T-shirt and jean shorts almost too short to be considered clothing. He couldn't help but notice that there were some well-trained muscles in those legs. Forcing this distraction aside, he touched her shoulder. "Hey."
She didn't respond. Vincent frowned, wondering if she was crying. He wouldn't' know how to react to that, or what he could do to comfort her. He didn't even know why he was bothering.
But he couldn't just leave her. He shook her gently and tried again. "Willow."
The girl flinched. He could hear her sniffling, and then slowly, her head lifted. Her face was smeared with tears and dried blood but her expression was hard, as if in determination. She glared back at him with defiance. Even in the very pit of despair her eyes were fierce and alive. There was a fire in her that refused to go out, even as it slowly diminished. She refused to let the slums win over her.
"Come back to finish it?" Willy asked coldly.
Vincent pursed his lips, frowning intently. His options were few. "I'm taking you with me," he said at last. "Can you walk?"
She stared, as if not comprehending. "What do you want?"
"Just to get you out of here. Are you hungry?"
Willy nodded, her attitude fading. From the looks of it she was starving. "I can walk," she said quietly.
"Good." He took her hand, which startled her, and helped her to her feet. When she leaned against him for support he made no complaint. Though he was a bit uncomfortable in doing so, he slipped his arm around her waist to keep her steady. This small gesture seemed to earn her complete trust: she sagged against him, hiding her face in the navy material of his suit. The Turk merely cleared his throat and started for the door.
Raile caught up with them outside. "Vincent, what are you doing?" he asked, puzzled and concerned.
"I'm just taking her to get cleaned up and something to eat," Vincent replied simply. He realized then that he was receiving several more confused stares from those lining the streets; he must have made quite a sight. "Go ahead and make the report. This is what it was about."
"Oh." Raile watched him for a moment more, then shrugged, as if accepting. "Alright. But...don't let it get to you. It's not your fault."
He nodded vaguely, and continued on. Raile moved off in a different direction, his face not pleased. Vincent didn't care. He couldn't explain the sudden responsibility he felt towards this girl. It might have been duty; as one who had escaped the slums, he felt it was his obligation to help another. And this girl was unlike so many others he'd seen. She had some courage in her, of that he was sure.
Vincent led his new charge to a small diner in Venuus. The hour was late, so customers were few, and he hesitated only briefly in taking her into the women's bathroom. "I'll be outside," he told her. And then he left.
Willy stared after the strange man. She sighed to herself and returned her gaze to the mirror once he'd gone. God, I look like hell, she thought sourly, wiping away the blood from her lips and chin. Cleaning the dirt was a more difficult task. She tried to hurry, as the man would be waiting. Why is he even bothering? I…I don't want his help. Another weary sigh escaped her lips as she continued to uncover bruises from under the filth. How long had she been sitting in that bar? She couldn't remember. Time seemed like a strange, alien concept to her now. From within the bar she didn't even have an idea of the passage of days, let alone hours. It was all a blur.
A long, painful blur.
He's probably just trying to get laid, she reasoned. An upper-class, stuck up Shinra prick looking for a break. That's fine if he follows through with the food. I'm starving. She finished cleaning up and took a moment to go to the bathroom before returning to the diner.
The Turk was waiting for her in one of the booths near the back. As he hadn't noticed her yet she paused to look him over. Hmm. Nice suit. Cute guy—must be twenty-something. Dig the hair. His hair as cut short except for his bangs, which perfectly framed his lean and handsome face. The body's not so bad, either. Grinning to herself she joined him.
"That's better," he remarked. "How do you feel?"
"Like shit, but not bad." Willy's eyes widened when she saw the plates of food waiting for her: a ham and cheese sandwich, a salad, a cup of soup, and a strawberry milkshake.
"I wasn't sure what you like," he said even as she'd already begun eating. "I guess it's the least I can do, considering you could have killed him."
She shrugged. "You said you didn't want to die in the slums. I can relate to that." She paused, gulping down half her shake on on breath. "Besides, I like your eyes. What's your name?"
"Vincent," he said, blinking as if startled by her sudden change in manner. She admitted silently that sometimes she amazed even herself. "Vincent Valentine."
"Excellent. So, you're a Turk?"
"Yes." Vincent sipped from a cup of coffee. "For five years."
"Really?" Willy frowned, looking him over again. He must have joined at a young age. She was struck by a sudden important question. "Were you lying before?" she asked, somewhat displeased with the solemnity in her own tone. "About…growing up in the slums?"
He paused, raising his eyes to her. They really were beautiful eyes; bright and sharp. He was hesitating. "I did grow up around Wall Market," he said at last. "Since I was twelve."
"So, you lived the hard life." She was only mildly impressed, as she'd been born and raised in the slums. "At least you've got enough sense to stay outta it." She laughed bitterly. "Me, I've always been a Slum-Baby. It sucks." She went back to eating.
The Turk gazed at her silently for a moment; questioningly, in a way that bothered her. "Why don't you leave?"
"Leave? You're smarter than that, aren't you, Vince? You can't just leave." Willy laughed, as if she found the whole idea very funny. But even as she did so her throat felt tight. She wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. "I've got no money and no place to go. You're a Shinra boy now, so you probably don't remember well. This place may be hell, but it's my home. When business picks up I'll be making good money again. Money I earn, not steal from the roaches I crush under my heel. Not like Shinra."
Vincent frowned. He didn't look insulted—merely thoughtful. He sipped from his beverage, his eyes cast downward, considering. She decided that he spent too much time considering. There wasn't anything to think about. It was the way the world was. She glanced out the window absently, and her eye caught sight of several men heading for the diner. She cringed. Muller's gang. If they find me here with a Turk…. The image her mind produced was not pleasant.
"Sorry, Vince, but I gotta go." Willy quickly scarfed as much of the leftover food as she could and washed it down with the soup broth. "It was nice talking to you. Thanks for the food." She flashed him a quick smile and a wink and headed toward the bathroom.
Vincent slid out of the booth and stood, watching her departure curiously. Before she reached the bathroom, however, three men had spotted her and wee entering the diner. Even as she started to run it was too late—the first man stepped inside and snatched her by the arm. "Well, look was we have here," he laughed.
Willy promptly kicked the man in the shin and pushed past him. Her freedom was short-lived; the second man quickly grabbed her around the waist and dragged her outside.
Vincent gave chase. By now he was obligated, almost—if anything, he owed it to her. He checked his gun and moved to the door where he could see.
"Good'ta see ya, Willy," the leader—Muller—drawled. "You owe us some money, if I recall."
"That's the downside of doing Pollen," she replied smoothly. "Can't keep your books straight."
Vincent cringed as Muller struck her across the face with the back of his hand. "Don't fuck with me, bitch," he hissed in a sudden shift of temper. "That money is mine. I put my ass on the line to get it. When I don't get paid, then it's your ass."
"At least it's a nice ass." Willy only winced as she was struck again. A thin trail of blood dribbled from her nose.
Vincent pursed his lips. He couldn't reveal himself yet—Muller's two thugs had their weapons drawn and were alert. He would be able to kill one with the first shot, but if the partner had good aim, he'd be dead before he got another chance. He would have to wait.
"C'mon, Will," Muller growled, dragging her by the arm. "We're gonna make up for the cash you owe me."
"Let go!" Willy shrieked, struggling against him. "Goddamnit, leave me alone!"
It has to be now. If they get to far away, I'll have to come out—they'll notice. It's now. Vincent took a deep breath to prepare. The even only took a moment. Within five seconds the Turk slipped soundlessly out the door and fired two shots. Both hit their targets perfectly. Muller whirled, gun drawn, but by then it was too late. Vincent fired a third time, striking the man clearly between the eyes. He landed on his back with a thud.
Willy gaped, stepping away from the three prone bodies. Then she laughed, and kicked Muller sharply in the side. "Filthy bastard." She turned to Vincent. "Nice shot, Vince."
Vincent surveyed his work; he always did after a mission, keeping track of his progress. The first shot was better than the second, and the third was better than both of them. He nodded to himself, pleased. "Are you all right?"
"Sure." She wiped her face, wincing at the bruises beginning to form on her cheek and jaw. "Damn, though. That hurt."
"You'd better not go back to Wall Market." Vincent glanced about the area to make sure one had witnessed the scene. "There's probably more like him. How much money did you owe?"
She frowned thoughtfully, in a way that convinced him to leave the question alone. "Never mind. Do you have a place to stay?"
"If I did," Willy replied, "I'd've been there."
"Right." The Turk considered silently. He didn't want to leave her—a lone teenager, already roughed up and wearing those clothes wouldn't last long in the slums. More than that, it was obvious she already had a reputation. There was only one thing he could think of. "Do you want to stay with me?"
The suggestion definitely perked her interest. "Well, I suppose so," she said, trying not to sound too pleased. "You live up top?"
"Yes. In Temdor. I…have a roommate, but I don't think he'll mind."
"Oh, is he cute?"
Vincent sighed, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.
Compared to the other sectors, Temdor was a decent place to live—especially one the plate. Most of the apartment and tenant houses were reserved for Shinra employees. On the third floor of such a building was a large three-bedroom apartment that had, since its creation, served only one function: to house Turks. Currently only two were residents: Vincent Valentine, and the newest Turk, Drake Tyser. Tyser was a tall, heavily-built man with a tremendous sense of humor. His carefree manner clashed with the seriousness of his comrades, something Trexim had assured would go away with time. Tyser didn't think so, and he took every opportunity to prove it.
It was no surprise, then, when he greeted the pair with, "Hullo, Jack. Finally gonna get laid?"
Willy nearly bounded into the apartment, her eyes wide and excited. "You must be Drake," she said, shaking his hand rapidly. "I'm Willy Trust. Vince didn't tell me you were so cute."
"And he didn't tell me about you," he replied slyly, kissing her hand. She giggled. "A pleasure."
"All mine."
Vincent sighed, closing the door behind him. "She needs to stay a while," he explained. "I didn't want her to stay in the slums tonight."
Tyser grinned. "Of course. You two hungry?"
"Yes." Willy eagerly followed him into the small kitchen. "I didn't get to finish my sandwich with Vince."
Vincent shook his head, letting the pair continue together. He wasn't hungry, and it was late anyway, so he decided to retire for the night. "I'm going to bed," he informed the others, peeking inside the kitchen. Tyser was making their guest a sandwich, Willy leaning against the counter, watching him and giggling. "The bedroom on the left is open," he told her.
"Okay. Thanks." Willy gave him a smile, then returned her attention to Tyser, as if salami was the most interest thing she'd ever seen.
The Turk shrugged and kept going. He'd done enough—the girl would be safe at least one night. After that he couldn't say. Certainly letting the girl stay there wasn't an option. Even if Tyser approved, the building was owned by Shinra. Rent came directly out of their pay, and his superiors would never allow her presence. He could give her some money, but how much would be enough? If she had somehow been involved in drug smuggling-as was his assumption from the exchange between her and Muller-the size of her debts could be tremendous. And paying them would only solve one problem. She still needed food, a place to stay, maybe some better-fitting clothes...
Why are you worrying about this so much? There are dozens just like her, and you don't give them a second glance. Why is she any different? You've already risked your life for her. Let her take care of herself.
Vincent resolved to give Willy Trust breakfast the next morning and train fare. After that, she'd be on her own again. With that settled he changed for bed and settled in for the night.
*Notes: Vincent is 22, Tyser is 23, Willy is 18, and Raile is 26. I'm saying that, since Sephiroth is ~30 during Meteor, 30 years ago Vincent was in love with Lucretia (when he was 27). This story now is about five years before that. ^_^ (35 years before Meteor)
These first two chapters are only to introduce Willy, Tyser, and some of Vincent's attitude. The real story begins in chapter 3.