There were few people privileged to have access to his phone in the Planet, Cloud being one of them. Albeit the expectancy of receiving a message from said companion was next to nil.
Excluding the Deepground incident a year prior, the dinky mobile device had only received incoming calls from two other allies: Tifa Lockhart and Reeve Tuesti. The busty bartender would call every now and then to ensure that he hadn't returned to the old Shin-Ra manor, with a light threat to indulge a certain Wutai Princess with his number if he didn't present physical proof of being awake and alive.
Reeve would drop work related messages, trusting the ex-Turk's advice on presenting matters. It was through those messages that Vincent survived everyday. The sixty-one-year-old didn't need a mother figure in his life, rather, a reason to stick around. Shin-Ra's former Urban Developer never outright asked for help, allowing the vampire a chance to redeem his personal afflictions by offering, despite hosting the bloodiest, most wicked demons known to Gaia. It was in behalf of Reeve's pride and Cloud's dissonance that Vincent was eternally grateful answering only their calls directly in a casual environment.
Wonder Square glittered obnoxiously below the man enveloped in red, hardly capturing his focus. Billowing about his frame were a newly hemmed cloak and wild tendrils of ebony; forcing their way past the faded scarlet headband that drooped to the figure's brow line in an attempt to block the ever circulating dust. Devoid of any glimmers the sky was suffocated by a thick haze tinged olive. Its origin remained obscure, sewers and vents alike clean of all but the smell, spotlights devoid of any Shin-Ra residue citywide. Vincent never quite understood the people he survived around: if there was a clear sky, the city would be dull and clear. If covered in smog, the city needed to bright and dense.
Through the throngs of laughter, incessant chatter of the masses, Vincent's finely tuned ears picked up a distant —yet familiar— tone, buzzing an odd, warbled tune.
Since its purchase the cell never quite sounded right, regardless of the clarity in a live transmission. Perhaps he'd have Cid take a look into the speakers on the next encounter. Digging around his weathered, inky leather trousers' pocket, the experiment gingerly grasped his phone with a calloused, gloved hand, genuinely surprised at the ID. Two years ago, Vincent held Cloud to his promise of discovering whether or not there was deliverance for heinous sins. Judging solely one the blonde's new outlook in the recent year's journey, the senior citizen had to admit he was relieved of the positive outcome, yet terrified, for what the world had in mind for him.
He honestly wasn't ready to let go of Lucretia, nor was ready to atone. The demons that infested his body were a reminder: a living memory that he had lived; that he had loved. There was no cure for the beasts, no amount of light could banish them in the cold shadows that obscured Shin-Ra's past life. They were lurking, always present, awaiting a new victim at Vincent's fingertips.
Answering without greeting, tired digits numbly held the device to his ear, noticing the absence of discord on the adjacent line. "Vincent?" The voice enunciated smoothly, the rich baritone calm and light, closely melodic.
The one in question twitched his head, blood-stained orbs fixating on a distracting neon sign below the rooftops. His entire figure tensed, posture perfectly erect now, breath tangled in his throat. His adam's apple bobbed in anticipation. It wasn't like Cloud to phone when there was peace. Cloud hardly was ever in a good mood if he had to be on a phone, speaking.
"I have the verdict." The vampire smirked and rolled his shoulders in effort to relax. Of course he did. A scoff escaped his pale, cracked lips. Always late, as Yuffie would complain. How often had he wished to confirm his suspicion? How often did he wish Cloud would distort his prediction?
"Cloud, it's been awhile." Monotone and habitual was the former AVALANCHE's response, velvet and fluent. Gold Saucer's outburst below promptly muted.
The brunette's smirk only widened as Cloud continued, inquiring about Banora and the suspected link to Gold Saucer. Straight to business, no time to waste on pleasantries. Vincent suspected, needing confirmation that Cloud had spoke to the Turks, namely Tseng. It would be rare indeed if they had, time couldn't heal all wounds no matter how shallow.
Over the past five years, Vincent willingly admitted to obtaining 9emotions
The blonde companion languidly stretched on the other end, his nose wrinkling in annoyance as he recalled again his night. He grunted oddly, a higher pitch than his usual voice, cut short by more shuffling around the church pews. Vincent was quick to recover the conversation, admitting his own findings in the private investigation. "Elena will be returning to Gold Saucer in a few days." The three would have to work together, and the gunslinger was admittedly curious to how this would turn out. All three didn't like working in crowds, especially in such a shabby place.
Over the past five years of socializing, the recipient of the call admitted to obtaining emotions, accepting their baggage along the way. Worry and parental concern seemed to be the most prominent and recurring, but curiosity spiced things up occasionally, such as tonight.
Chaos mocked everything about its host's life since the awakening in its revolting tongue. The shooter couldn't understand such vicious language that assaulted his immortal mind, though he did not play ignorant to when the incessant ramblings became increasingly vehement. Even Yuffie could infer from the tone what the monster was insulting. The demon began to ripple through his soul, clawing and scratching against the bone and flesh that made the cage. It was enough to veer Chaos' host from his conversation to something darker, wilder. He was in his head now, the rant vibrating Vincent's body, the blood lust he felt for such a damned soul over the line pulsing through delusions.
"Vincent?" Cloud's voice guided said man back from his wandering mind to the task on hand.
"Be careful," came the ex-Turk's last reply, promptly shutting his phone, a sight below warranting his gaze.
Dio —though his name escaped Vincent's memory— was trailing after an ambiguous character, clothed in the very same scarlet that tainted the gunslinger's hands. Silencing his metal footfalls, he balanced precariously on the shadowed rooftop, mindful of the waxed-on substances that over the course of the day begun to fuse with the charcoal asphalt. Wouldn't do to slip over the edge, no matter how graceful he could make the landing.
The figure locked in Vincent's eyes halted its weaving through people, sharply exhibiting a battle graced pivot, still ignoring the amusement park's owner. The ex-Turk was caught in his leer, stubbornly holding a Mako-infused gaze. It was times like these the ebony haired man was grateful for his enhancements. Mako orbs narrowed down the suspect pool he and Elena had begun to build.
The clock was ticking; time was against his suspect.
His opponent gleamed satisfied: eager to challenge the brood, proud to meet a haunting gaze; taunting the shapeshifter to play. Chaos rumbled once more, excited to please the mortal below. It wanted to hunt, the incoherent mumblings joyous for another battle of a monster's calibre. Gritting his teeth, the ivory observer perched his large, right hand overtop the Death Penalty, deftly removing the safety. Still nestled tight inside a newly polished holster, Vincent swallowed his other persona down.
Controlling a force more deceitful and cunning than Sephiroth himself was no small feat. Even more so when there were so many drumming heartbeats sweetly resonating in his eardrums, tempting a future of ruby rivers. Not once did Vincent's glare waver from his target, both dancing with the challenge. The figure in question may have won a battle in theory but the war was not by any means over.
Sharp, white fangs dug into their prison, spilling crimson tears down the shooter's throat, tainting his dry lips a most unforgiving liquid. That aroused Chaos once more, the sweet blood drops a taste of what he could have an ocean of. Dio's companion caught a drunk passerby from falling into him, ending the match with his overseer. Vincent didn't hesitate in disappearing.
As he shifted rooftops, trailing the swift suspect, his cape billowed and enveloped his imposing frame with each leap and landing, wild locks obscuring his vision temporarily. Had AVALANCHE's youngest companion been there, she'd have slapped him for not jumping on the man. He had been as clueless as she, losing the red clad man amongst the crowd somewhere, though he wouldn't risk relaying his thoughts aloud.
The bubbling loathing for the city gnawed at his mind, clawing for action, pushing Chaos into a frenzy of different tongues. Stiff muscles were forced to persevere back to the stairs leading to Vincent's room. Here he struggled, grasping the thin headband with his claw unforgivingly. He'd need a new one. The tips of the cool metal carved into his tender skin, releasing extra liquid fire down the curves of his face.
Stumbling into his door with an inhuman growl Vincent further fumbled in the entrance. The brightly lit hallway scathed his retinas, every shape surrounding skewed and molding into one another. Garnet orbs pinched shut when finally, his key slid itself in the knob. Slamming the object with excessive force, Vincent all but threw his physique inside, the torn headband fluttering uselessly from the blood-stained claw to the soiling carpet.
He had no doubt that his blood was cleaner than other liquids to splatter this room in the past. He was a monster. He deluded himself into ever being human it seemed. Emotions may have danced their way into his frozen soul, however, the vampire knew better; they couldn't change him.
Reeve and Cloud made him feel like he was better, something more, if only for a moment. Their constant need had him question his existence numerous nights' parallel to now, when Chaos was a mere breath away from control. He grunted to the musings, flinging the Ultimate weapon carelessly from his belt, gripping at his gloved hand mercilessly.
Cardinal currents tickled across the scratched, plated gold fingers as the struggle for dominance persisted. Peculiar of the cloaked man to ebb his true adversary so desperately. The pain of his mortal wounds palpitated dully, the ecstasy of such marks a soothing lullaby to the demon. Chaos craved more, yet the distinct isolation was noted, and the wounds would have to compensate him tonight. Shadows gathered in blobs, revealing gradually the objects of his suite.
Vincent regulated his breath, slumping his body against the dusty maple bedframe, the pressure welling up to a large crack! Inky tendrils splayed everywhere, minimal locks blocking his heavy gaze, plastering themselves about his coloured, sweaty cheeks. Longer stands snaked around his shoulders, fanning over and beneath his security cloak. Very few pieces clumped in perspiration about the bed as he emitted a guttural scoff.
Gaze lowering, the ex-Turk scowled to himself as his rusted life caked his forearm. The midnight glove had diminished into shreds; the fabric loosely hanging around his calloused palm all that remained. With great effort the exhausted man angled his head to the sole window, letting his eyelids droop in fatigue under the moon's streaming rays. Usually he'd enjoy watching the humans beneath the sill, waiting out dawn's greeting. "Not tonight," he decided.
No; the demon infested man couldn't withstand another episode, not another hour of torment tonight. His muscles rippled under their leather snares, shrieking in agony as they strained and convulsed against Chaos for so long before. This was beginning to be habitual, Chaos and he dueling for possession and he suffering the consequences of triumph. It was as though Hojo had paralyzed him devoid of morphine. In short, Vincent hurt. He was tense and sore and just plain laboured. Even the hole in his chest had hurt less than these nights.
Tremendous effort was spared to raise the brunette to his boot clad feet, the clothing in question imprinting the scratchy carpet, dull clinks and soft pads resonating in his ears. At long last, he had reached the curtains, his exposed right appendage swiping lamely at the deep teal fabric. Obsidian greed overtook the room, not even his clothing free from the raven's grasp. Discarding it next to his headband, Vincent proceeded to unbuckle his shirt, crumpling it next to his nightstand instead of the ever growing floor pile. Following after were his boots, muddy and worn resting as a halfway point between his outfit. As his eyes regained their perfect vision in the darkness, Vincent frowned at the scrapes nicking his footwear. He liked them too much to think about replacing them.
Collapsing shortly on the pale beige sheets, the structure that housed them groaned, white-spotted flower designs of the mattress stretching from the uneven pressure. The Death Penalty had been retrieved sometime in his stripping, though it anchored invisible to his form, should any emergency arise.
Bellowing another sigh, Vincent stretched back, one well-toned milky leg propped up slackly, his torn arm cradling his tight neck on the pillow. The rippled curtains caught his stare once more. Hanging lifelessly off the mattress was his claw, stagnant as the room, belying his mind.
No amount of exhaustion could keep the nightmares at bay. With grudging acceptance Vincent let slumber engulf him, discovering no rest in the torrent of regrets that drowned him.
