Pyro's Notes: Bonjour, y'all! (We're so cool we need to clash cultures.) This is the second chapter. Hope you liked the first one, because it's only going to get better from here! We've got way more characters making appearances, some awkward situations, some kidnapping, some drugs... Well, I don't want to spoil it all right here. You can just enjoy this piece of loveliness all your own. We wish you the best. Make sure to grant feedback so we can continue to make it better!
Disclaimer: Do. Not. Own. FFVII. (see disclaimer in Ch. 1 for specifications)
Tainted Blood
Chapter Two: How Vincent Runs Things
Doug Etheridge was twenty-four years old and working his way up a career chain of which his wife strongly disapproved. She didn't care if the "Company" as she called it was a branch of Avalanche or made up of crazy environmentalists who sought to defend the Planet and all its inhabitants from threats of destruction (or global warming, should it come about as some scientists predicted). She didn't give a hoot if hunting and firearms were his passion. "Guns kill people," she said. "Violence doesn't solve anything, Douggie!"
"Yeah, I know," he told her in reply. In a whisper, he added, "But I gotta do something."
These days a good majority of the population were overcome with that sense of needing to do something. And Doug wasn't the only one of them who had taken a risk and joined Cosa Nostra (or any other shady group for that matter, as they had been springing like turnips lately) because of it. His friends Jim and Hank, for example, were two normal guys who had normal jobs as fishermen, before they became so overwhelmed with a sense of uselessness that they looked up this gang and signed up. Most of the members had been good people with good jobs and decent pay. But they gave it all up for the sake of being able to do something for the world.
In the last few years, everything had gone to shit. Crazies ran amuck everywhere. Science experiments turned into desensitized killers and summoned Meteors to destroy the Planet. Secrets kept by Shinra for decades crept out from beneath the earth and rampaged the streets. Killing, maiming, blood, torture, intestines laying about on the sidewalk like sausages. Bodies with their heads chopped off. Bodies full of holes. Bodies turned blue from suffocation. Bodies still breathing, crying desperately for help. This was what their quiet world had become, and what were they, the people, supposed to do? Give all the work to Avalanche and pray it came out alright? Give the WRO the benefit of the doubt? Let Shinra "fix" it all?
No, not anymore. After Sephiroth, and remnants of Sephiroth, and Deepground with that Weiss creep trying to kill life itself, they couldn't sit back and keep letting things happen. They had to be a part of it. They had to do something. Had to be part of something. Needed to defend themselves rather than live defenseless for what may be their last few seconds of life. By now, the people were wary. They had faced threats of sudden death for the last four or five years and were getting tired of living in fear. Tired and restless. Luckily, there were some leader-like types who noticed this, and took advantage of it. Vincent Valentine was one of them. While not entirely a born leader, per se, he had knowledge of what to do with an army, and had the ability (and the respect) to lead them if he so wished. After watching the people mope about, wishing for something they could do to help, he gathered them into a group and turned it into a new authority.
It seemed to cure their helplessness. Doug Etheridge knew it cured his, having been given the chance to fight against the evils of the world, and that was why he went against his wife's wishes for him to leave the organization. Part of him felt bad for it; after all, he loved his wife, she was the world to him. But for exactly that reason, it was impossible for him to leave. How would he protect her without Cosa Nostra? How could he save her without Vincent Valentine's help?
He ran down the streets of Edge, trying to look more like a man in a hurry than a man running for his life. Not that his life was in danger at this moment, but so far as he knew it could be, and so he wanted to get to the base as quickly as possible. The base was both discreet and yet somehow conspicuous. Rather than gray like most other buildings in the city, it was brick red, relatively tall, and possessed the girth of a school building. That's what it had been intended to become, but the town counsel decided they didn't want a school here. Therefore, it had been cheap to buy, he learned from Cid Highwind, but it was in good condition and well worth the money. He pushed the heavy front door, feeling the strength drain from his arms in combination with the long time he'd spent running. A man standing guard put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"You alright, Douggie?" the big man asked. He smiled through his thick, messy beard.
"I'm fine, Hank," Doug replied. "Thanks. Is the Don around?"
Hank nodded. "Upstairs in his office. Meeting with Cloud, I believe."
Doug thanked him and ran up two flights of stairs. The Don's office was at the end of the hall. It wasn't marked or anything. Everyone just knew that was where his office was. If they didn't, then they might need to buy a map, because only complete rookies didn't know where the Don's office was, and no one was ever willing to help a rookie.
...Except maybe the Don.
Doug knocked on the door. The voices inside went silent as soon as he did so. As much as he hated interrupting the Don's meetings, it was necessary that the information he had be given at once.
"Come in," said Vincent Valentine, who sounded tired, and perhaps fed up with interruptions. Today had been a wild day. Undoubtedly he had been interrupted before.
He shut the door behind him and stayed there, timidly staring back at Cloud Strife and their leader. No one said anything for a few drawn seconds. Finally, Vincent invited him closer. "Sir," he said, standing before that huge, absurdly neat desk, "I've received word from the troops investigating South Edge, and I'm afraid to report some bad news."
Vincent made no indication of emotion. "What is it?"
Doug breathed deeply. "We've lost the three brothers. Jay, Jonah, and Jamison. They're dead." Both Cloud and Vincent bowed their heads, silent. When Vincent returned his gaze to Doug, he seemed exhausted.
"Details," he prompted. Doug knew exactly what that meant.
"They were found by the warehouses. Apparently there weren't any guards around, but there were four suspicious people, three of them described as silver-haired and having cat ears."
"Cat ears?" Cloud interrupted.
"Cat ears," Doug confirmed, nodding as though agreeing with Cloud that it sounded crazy. "They're the ones who killed the brothers. We believe it may have been magic."
"I see," Vincent replied. "And did anyone think to follow these four people?"
Doug nodded, proud of himself for thinking as efficiently as the Don. "I made sure someone went after 'em. They left the scene in a sedan. Although... I'm not sure if they've discovered they're being followed... I sent Miss Kisaragi after them."
A look of sarcasm passed between the other two. Grand.
"I hope she isn't the only one you sent," Cloud warned. "Whoever these people are, silver-haired men have always been bad luck. Yuffie won't be able to handle it on her own if they happen to turn around."
"I'm aware of that, sir," Doug said sheepishly. "But she was the only one who could catch up to them after they left. She's supposed to have a tracking device with her. Perhaps we could send someone out later...?"
As good a suggestion as it was, the Don let that question hang on an invisible string. He didn't know what to do. He sighed. Cloud started for the door. "I'll see if Barret knows anything about this."
Vincent stood. "Etheridge."
"Sir?"
"Take care of the corpses and the family. We'll have a service for them in a few days."
"Yes, sir."
He went to the door. "Tell the others to be more discreet. From now on there is no attacking unless prompted, and no trespassing without passes."
"Passes for the warehouses, sir?"
Vincent nodded. "They're called search warrants. Look it up."
Oh. Well, Doug knew what search warrants were. What he didn't know was how gang members were supposed to obtain them.
2
"Don't stress so much," Cid said. "It'll be over soon." But Vincent didn't satisfy him with an answer. The clock on the wall read as 4:32 in the afternoon, round and black-edged, contrasting with the clean white walls, and irritatingly loud as its hands clicked the seconds away. Vincent only wished Cid had been talking about the ordeal revolving around the suspiciously occupied warehouses in Edge. Instead, he was talking about the results. From the physical exam.
Normally, Vincent Valentine would excel in a physical exam. Agile, dextrous, and strong by nature, these traits were emphasized and multiplied with his transformation into a somewhat superhuman being. These days he was really agile, really dextrous, and really strong. A marvel to any military leader looking for some great physical attributes in his soldiers. And to a doctor, even more so. Which was why Vincent was, as Cid described it, stressing so much.
He loathed the doctor's office. Everything about it reminded him of memories he'd rather suppress. Latex gloves, cotton balls, stethoscopes, syringes. He wasn't one to have a fear of needles, but that didn't mean he liked them either. He always thought of Jenova cells when he saw a syringe. Thought of them being injected into Lucrecia Crescent's womb. It wasn't one of those happy thoughts your friends encouraged you to think when you were feeling down.
And it certainly wasn't helping to lower his stress levels. Doctors made him anxious. Not on purpose, of course, but they had that affect on him. Always had. It wasn't always so bad, but these past few years, he had lived as a not-quite-normal man with a not-so-typical body structure, which made going to the doctor's office an entirely new ordeal. Before, he worried about disappointing the physicians with high cholesterol, or a weight too far below healthiness. Today he worried about impressing them with too many interesting chemicals not ordinarily found beneath human skin, or some exciting new discovery relating to how his insides changed in the last thirty-something years. It was here in this medical room that he felt the oldest. He remembered being a child and sitting on the table like he was currently, swinging his legs and staring at the floor, waiting for that goddamn doctor to enter the room and smile and say hello, how are you today, Vinnie? And Vincent would smile shyly back and ask him politely not to call him Vinnie, he didn't like it when people called him Vinnie, and the doctor would just as politely apologize and correct himself—Vincent, yes, I'm sorry, Vincent, I won't say it again—and then proceed to take one of those damned syringes filled with transparent liquid junk and stick him with it. The doctors always told him to look away but he always looked anyway and noted what a strange feeling it was, getting something from outside being injected into you. It was even weirder later on when he learned that that liquid had probably been some virus or bacteria or other that could actually make him sick. And around the same time he learned of vaccines, he would also note what a similarly strange feeling it was to have the blood drawn directly out of his veins by some outside vacuum.
Hence why he avoided physicians in the past four years he had been awake. Unfortunately, he was afraid old age was finally beginning to dawn on him, and had noticed something he feared might be arthritis hitting him in his wrist. This pain wouldn't do at all, not when he still had this love for drawing guns more quickly than most aptly skilled gunmen. He hoped it would pass away with time. It hadn't. And so Cid had managed to convince him, after several mentions of it, to come here and meet with a doctor who could help him. A good one, but not too expensive. It better not be expensive, anyway. Vincent hadn't bothered to get health insurance. And money, quite frankly, was something he lacked.
The door opened without making a sound, something Vincent was unused to. All the doors in the Cosa Nostra base were squeaky and desperately needed oiling. But at least with the noise he knew when someone was opening a door. If they were as quiet as the door in this office, someone could sneak in and kill him or rob him or cause some kind of trouble and he wouldn't know until it was too late. Luckily he could see the door perfectly and watched it with interest, hoping the doctor had finally come and this would soon be over.
Thank the Lifestream for simple blessings.
"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting, Mr. Valentine," Dr. Kramer said in greeting as he closed that disturbingly un-squeaky door behind him. "We had a bit of a backup in getting your results." He held a manilla folder in his hands, a folder Vincent knew had his name and medical history recorded within it. Not that the medical history inside was very long; a good thirty-year chunk was missing, one that this particular doctor found an extremely intriguing task to fill out. This particular doctor was an experienced man, older than Cid and older-looking than Vincent, but younger than his patient at the ripe age of fifty-six. His hair was pure white and his skin a little dark and covered in spots and wrinkles and visible veins. His pale blue eyes looked droopy around the edges with sagging skin that had seen many a joyful and tearful day, but they were intelligent, sympathetic, and best of all, kind. He had pens in his lab coat, freshly pressed khaki-colored pants, and a potbelly in progress that made for a quiet, silly comfort when consulting with him. Hair was beginning to grow out of his ears, too, as though it had taken a trip from the very top of his head down into his brain and was looking out at the world from a different point of view, maybe taking pictures and gossiping. Cid recommended this particular doctor to Vincent because he was his own primary physician; he felt Vincent would like him, and wouldn't feel intimidated by any pressing obligation to give up his intriguing body structure for the sake of science. "This guy won't push you like other guys will," Cid had told him. "He believes in keeping medical information confidential, like it's supposed to be. Unless, y'know, it's required by law or somethin'."
And, for the most part, Vincent believed him. He had no real reason to object. And he knew, deep down in his heart, seeing a doctor was something his mother would want him to do. In fact, she'd be pissed at him for waiting this long. He tried not to stare at that manilla folder. "What kind of a backup?"
Kramer waved it off casually and plopped down on the infamous doctor's stool. "Nothing serious. One of the nurse's aids was having problems with the machine, is all. She's just learning how to operate it."
"Comforting," Vincent commented, which made Cid laugh. He had accompanied Vincent for the comfort of being a familiar face, introducing two people he liked to each other and providing support for his Don and secret lover. Not that chances were likely Vincent's health had been deteriorating too much; he functioned perfectly fine. But he had previously heard a little soliloquy from him concerning doctor's offices and Hojo. For Vincent's mental health, Cid tagged along.
Dr. Kramer chuckled too. Then he got serious. "Well, it may be the only comforting thing you hear from me today, besides that you truly are in excellent condition considering your age and, uh, the brief history you gave me about your thirty-year-long 'disappearance.' I hope we can get into more detail on that at another appointment?"
Vincent didn't say anything. He neither nodded nor shook his head. He waited for Kramer to continue. Which, after clearing his throat and opening the folder, he did. "Most of your scores were good," he said. "Respiration is fine, cholesterol level is excellent, weight... Well, that's a little tricky considering your arm there, which adds an undetermined amount of weight to you, but off an estimation I would say it's about right where it should be, perhaps a little under. You look malnourished from over here, possibly a result from that... uh, those 'events.'" He cast a shady eye in Vincent's direction before returning to his papers. "But your blood pressure is a little high. That worries me. It could increase your chances of heart attack or stroke. You said you aren't taking any medications?" Vincent nodded. "Interesting. But there are traces of mako in your bloodstream. That just might be your culprit." Vincent once again nodded, passive. Cid remained fairly quiet until now.
"And his wrist?"
The doctor smiled. "That's probably the worst of it."
3
Yuffie wasn't having much luck. She lost the sedan a long time ago and had since given up, no thanks to a little mishap with her shoelaces she'd rather not reflect upon. The worst part was having to make a report to the Don... er, Vincent, on it. If she told him she tripped and lost her way in the city, he'd be beyond pissed, he'd be... in berserker mode, ready to hack her head off and everything.
So, for the last two hours, she had been wandering around the alleyways, trying to make up some good excuse as she to why she lost sight of their perpetrators. Of course, she also had to figure out where she was and return to the base somehow. Usually cell phones were the way to go in this case, but upon that trip over her shoelaces, her cell phone fell out of her pocket and broke.
Yeah. Life sucked.
She wandered dejectedly until she came upon an interesting sight: groups of important-looking men standing around in the streets and chatting. They seemed to hover around a particular building, just across the street from a pie factory. Some of them dressed in suits, others lab coats, and there were a couple that sported solidly colored bald heads. She checked out the sign in front of the building.
The Umbra Company
Manufacturing, Marketing, and Service
Well. Wasn't that interesting? She was sure old Vincent would love to hear about this. Just as she got all happy thinking of what she'd tell him (and what his reaction might be), another, smaller group of guys came from around the corner, carrying a much less formal looking... somebody... in the midst of them. That somebody, though she couldn't see well from this angle, kicked, frenzied, and yelled about having just been kidnapped and taken hostage. He also screamed something else that she could barely hear...
Tuning into those sneaky ninja skills of hers, she traveled closer, keeping to the shadows. Now the somebody's screams were shockingly clear—as was his appearance.
Silver hair.
Yuffie gasped and covered her mouth immediately for fear of drawing attention. That guy... That guy looked like Sephiroth! Oh, when Vincent... No, when Cloud heard about this... She bolted off down the alleyway without a second thought as to where she was going or why. She just needed to get out of there. Right when she was halfway down the first alley, she heard the Sephiroth-lookalike shriek:
"LET ME GO! I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING TO YOU! ASSHOLES! WHY DON'T YOU GET THE HINT ALREADY?! I'M NOT—"
Yuffie didn't catch exactly who that somebody claimed not to be, but she took a wild guess, and took another wild guess that that somebody was lying.
4
Cosa Nostra wasn't the biggest criminal gang on the block, but they were growing steadily larger as their interests and those interested by them widened, and they were a criminal gang. Tifa Lockhart didn't entirely approve, and neither did Cloud, but he went along with it, because hell, Shinra did much worse over the course of the years than Vincent Valentine could do in a few months. Besides, it kept them safe, and the law couldn't touch them when they played around loopholes and used their power to get "above" what law was left in their pathetic excuse for a government.
Cosa Nostra's main business was prostitution. Yes, exactly. That's what Cloud thought. You're absolutely right. Yes, Vincent is a dirty old man. Okay, no, really, let's get serious here.
Cosa Nostra's main business was prostitution. As strange as it was to think that old Vinnie V. would dare degrade women in such a way, he was older now, more sensible, wiser, and weary of the world in a way he didn't used to be. He didn't think of it as degrading. He saw it as profitable. Profitable and noble in a twisted sort of way. Such feelings were natural, such hormones were secreted by the body in its everyday processes in order to carry out other natural processes which included—yes—procreation. But not everyone could find a mate. Not everyone's mates were willing to succumb to the hormones every time their partner had the will. This would be fine if the hormones vanished when they weren't wanted. Alas, hormones were not that obedient. They were rebel chemicals, pestering and whining and crying and begging until they were used for their purpose. They tormented, tortured, and, on good days, negotiated. But in the end the feeling was there, and unless something else overcame the hormones, they weren't about to go away.
Thus, Vincent Valentine created a solution and opened it to the public. Sex didn't hurt anybody unless it was rape, so why make it illegal to run a brothel in the first place? He didn't see the point. So he took a page from the hormones' book and rebelled. He purchased a smaller building three blocks away from the Cosa Nostra headquarters. He repaired the building to make it look attractive—marble green carpeting, burgundy-painted walls, clean, regularly polished oak furniture, erotic paintings adorning those walls, and a sign on the outside welcoming guests. He called it La Maison des Misérables, where happy endings came to folks who often found themselves in misery. This was a place where you weren't pushed into having sex, but encouraged to relieve stress.
And, as proper, a transparent plastic box of condoms free for the taking was placed plainly in view on the secretary's desk. As there was a secretary. The prostitutes here weren't treated like whores, but their own bosses. Vincent took good care of his girls. They were the ones who saw doctors frequently.
There was no detectable way of knowing that the business was owned and run by Cosa Nostra, except by the emblem of Cerberus—the very same as on Vincent Valentine's gun and cell phone—placed high at the top of the building, where only the keenest of eyes could see it. This was for protection. Protection from the police... and protecting the brothel from rival gangs, as they would know where to look for the emblem. And they would know not to mess with such an organization growing in popularity and notoriety.
Or at the least, they better not.
5
The troops returned from investigation that evening looking the most bummed out they'd ever been. Barret Wallace had somehow managed to retrieve search warrants for the warehouses, but when he led the boys out to make use of them, they found nothing. No leads, no clues, no evidence of anything, not even the murder of the brothers. It was all very discouraging. None of them wanted to tell the Don and disappoint him. Especially knowing he was already upset as it was, no need to pour unnecessary salt in the wound.
That didn't stop the Don from wanting a report, however. Three of them met in his office, the Don at his desk, the lieutenant Cloud Strife by his side, and Doug Etheridge standing nervously across from them, ashamed he had so little to report. He held his black beret in his hands and turned it round and round in anxiety. He really didn't have much to be nervous about, it was just that... The Don's mood was a little intimidating. When he got into a bad mood, it was like the entire base was made subconsciously aware of it and the tension in the air rose by seventy-five percent or more depending on how bad a mood he was in (and if Chaos was involved).
"Did you find anything?" Vincent asked, and Doug shook his head vigorously from side to side. Then he stopped, hesitated, and nodded.
"We didn't find anything at the warehouses," he explained, "but we did overhear some employers under the Umbra Company talking about a strange man they discovered recently. They say... They say he looks like Sephiroth."
Cloud's eyes widened. He stared at Vincent. "You think...?"
"I don't know," Vincent replied. He stared at his right hand and shook it, as though waiting to hear something crack. "Tell Cid to send someone to the Company... Send someone else to check on Yuffie. I haven't heard from her all day. And... get my medicine, would you?" Cloud nodded and ran off. Doug lingered, blinking stupidly, like that would help him comprehend.
"Is it bad, sir?"
Vincent didn't look at him. "Sometimes."
He hated being right.
