Rosary.
Chapter One.
Vincent rubbed the beads, one by one, counting each smooth sphere strung together, as his pale cheekbone pressed against the barrel of the gun, the other hand resting with a finger dancing on the trigger. His gaze and the rifle followed the small speck of black in the abundant gray that was the man: the target. His dark trenchcoat flapped in the wind over neatly pressed blue suit as he kneeled crouched atop the tall building.
One shot. One shot.
All he needed was one shot.
The radio crackled. "Shall we move in Sir?" Tseng. Tseng the rookie. Tseng the teenage wiz-kid, top of the class, destined for succcess, jerked cruelly out of school by Shinra for his mindboggling tactics skills. Vincent didn't answer; let the kid wait. The speck was coming into focus, his finger slowly readied, the beads clacking together. Slowly, slowly he squeezed- when suddenly the radio crackled once more. "Sir?"
Sh*t! The speck swerved, head jerking like a deer in an open field. He barked something into the gray, Vincent could almost smell the fear on him; it stunk of weakness and sweat. It was now or never... A single shot blasted, cut through the silence. The pigeons scattered. There came a horrified scream, then, a second later, the man was dead. Vincent stood up, unassembled the sniper, and within seconds had it packed it neatly into a black canvas case. He pushed the string of bead to his upper arm, donned his shades. More little black specks flew around the stain of red that now lay so still. They were so much louder than before.
"Tseng. There's witnesses. And backup. Move in."
"Roger, sir," came the young voice on the other side, lively and so eager to succeed.
Vincent straightened his tie, flipped up the collar of his coat, and swished down silent as a panther to the streets below.
And the beads lay silent.
Tseng jumped to his feet with grace rarely found in adolescents. He loaded his small pistol in a swift set of choppy movements, though bony fingers trembled. Out the door he ran, pressed blue alighting gray. The voices grew louder: more could show up soon, someone significant, powerful, public. But not on Tseng's shift. He trotted up to the bellowing bodyguards, the gasping bystanders, never lowering his eyes behind shades.
One shot, two shot, three shot, four.
One by one in sequence, the bodies hit the ground with efficient thumps.
One by one they dropped, shot, shot, shot, reload.
And all who remained was a single bystander, sobbing with arms thrown over his head: "Oh no, oh please, oh don't, oh please, oh..." He looked decent, not too rich and corrupt, nor poor and bitter, desperate. Casual brown slacks, a navy apron over plain white shirt: the florist from the shop around the corner. He held in his hand a bouquet of flowers. For his wife or mother, Tseng thought. The young Turk's hand shook holding the gun, noticing with pressure the figure of Vincent standing dark and foreboding at the end of the alley, watching.
He shot the man twice through the forehead, the shells clinking on the floor. The man did not thump, but crumpled with his feet beneath him, the bouquet of roses scattering haphazardly across the muddy, rainy city street. The shaking hand lowered, and he followed the already departing form of Vincent, hiding burning eyes gratefully behind dark sunglasses. He was a Turk.
The roses crunched as Tseng stepped upon them to cross, shoe heel grinding sweet petals into the muck of ashes and dirtied blood, disintegrating them into the gray, gray puddle.
Flash.
The light came in blinding through as the glass shattered, rosy filter tinkling to the floor in a shower of rose red. Tseng surveyed the area, standing tall and proud, strong body still as he stood silently watching. Reno shoved an elbow through another pane, sunning himself in the destruction, liking it just as much when the glass cut.
"Stop." Tseng's voice rang out: sharp, authoritarian. A voice he'd learned from his first Turk leader...
Reno plunged his hands into his pockets, the image of the repenting child. Tseng made no move to speak to him, his eyes drawn elsewhere. "Just find the girl," he ordered, and his Turks ran off to do his bidding. His Turks. Tseng's Turks. Alone in the chapel now, he allowed a sigh, taking off sunglasses to flip back long dark hair and rub his temples. The girl, he knew, was behind those walls, in her delicate rose dress, clutching her forlorn flower girl's basket of slowly wilting buds. Behind the wall the flower girl hid. And Tseng would find her. And he would bring her to Hojo, who would take all she had and then kill her. Maybe he loved her. Maybe she loved him back. Nothing really mattered...it was all going to end in red, then gray. This was his job. And Tseng would do it, even knowing that. Just like a Turk leader. Just like all Turk leaders. Aware eyes caught the small garden of light in the middle of the room: a collection of bright flowers thriving so alive in the beam of sun that broke through the roof. They stood so lively, fresh, but Tseng could already see them wilt, could see them fade and crumple to the ground to die, becoming part of the gray like we all did. Our lives, our loves. "Tseng!" Rude's deep voice indicated they'd found her. Tseng put his shades back on, straightened his shoulders. The flowers, the flowers. He couldn't stand their fragile beauty. "Tseng!" Tseng stepped briskly forward to Rude's voice, not looking back, not looking down as he ground the flowers down, letting them bleed blood red into the rotting planks of the floor.
His footprints stained.
Unflash.
'Twas dark in the cavernous monastery :the monks didn't believe in the modern indulgement of electricity. Foolish, this unwillingness to move forward. They were afraid of losing their past so much, they missed everything ahead of them. The haunting chants hummed in the background, echoing back and forth. The smell of ashes and roses flooded the place. Hojo wrinkled his nose in distaste. Contemptuous, their blind devotion to their senseless, unsupported theory of a God. Fickle Fascination. He sighed. He really shouldn't be here, among these peons. Of an everlasting. He was the great Professor Hojo, he was science, conqueror of God. His eyes flicked to the pale statue of their lovely Goddess Peace, painstakingly rendered, the rosaries of blood red roses, made with a hundred petals per bead, secret of the monks. The secret they claimed to have been given by the great Goddess herself, to a humble follower in the field. Hojo rolled his eyes imperiously behind his spectacles. It was enough to make him laugh, and not much made him do so. He could be science, the great conqueror, but still had no power over that disgustingly corpulent, ignorant President Shinra, over where his very own research was to be held. And so he was stuck in this miserable shack of a tourist attraction in the rocky mounts of Nibelheim, living in the folksy little town, in the old historical Mansion. Oh how he abhorred history. It was such a bore, done before, yesterday's soggy newspaper. Only fit for puppies to piss on. He walked up to the old monk's cell gone gift shop. He slapped a couple gil on the counter, gave the ancient man behind a fake, weak sneer-smile, grabbed a rosary. A hundred petals a bead. Nonetheless, it was cute: their scurrying about, such enthusiasm to serve. Might as well buy the cheap trinket. He had the money, and besides, it'd remind him to keep his feet on the ground, dispell his rare dillusions of Fate. He walked out, shielding unaccustomed eyes from the light, and stuck the rosary deep in his pocket. The smell of roses was too strong for his liking.
Dark and dank were Vincent's quarters as well, austere and cold as a monk's cell. He stuck the key in the lock, twisted the knob, but the battered door would not open. A rectangular white business envelope fell from the doorjam, fluttered to the ground like a wounded dove. Vincent picked it up, slit it open with the knife he held in his boot, opened the letter within, and read.
Mr. Valentine-
Your belongings are already packed and shipping. Your apartment is no longer yours. A private buggy awaits in the street corner behind this bhilding. Your next mission as a Shinra Turk- You leave immediately for Nibelheim.
And so the Turk turned and headed out. The story of his life-leaving. And he never carried luggage.