Life isn't bad like this.
It's a lot harder than most people think it is, to care. For some people it comes naturally, but not to me.
Am I strange that way? I don't know.
For some people caring is just something they do, for some it's something they do too often and too easily. That is not the case for me.
My mind resents my heart every time I care, because it is my mind that needs to get my heart out of the dump when I'm hurt. I don't find that caring comes easily. But I learned something important not too long ago:
The memories of good times are something that can never be regretted. No matter what life throws at you, at the end of the day the good memories are all you have.
I'm sure I'll always remember the feeling of Marlene holding on to my claw, as I'm carrying her bag. She's going through the chocolate bar. The sun's shining and for a moment it feels right, it feels good, to have her beside me. It doesn't matter that we are disagreeing. It's me beside her, and no one else. Just me, Vincent Valentine, to walk a child home. I'm a part of her life, whether for a short while or no. She might remember me, growing up. I might affect a small part of her large picture. A tiny footnote somewhere in her story where she will remember that "one day, Vincent walked me home."
I'm afraid of the pain at the end of it, I am.
But on those long, empty nights that are to come I want to remember these moments, these feelings of family. So foreign. I'm hungry for them.
It's better to have something to miss than to have emptiness. Nothing's worse than the emptiness.
The emptiness is a bottomless pit of loneliness, where no light can reach.
A WRO police car stops beside us. We're beside a park and some clothing stores, still on the outskirts.
I hope everything is ok. I look around, but can't find anything amiss. A few school kids are enjoying the park's amusements. A young teenage couple in love are having a moment on the bench. A mother is walking her baby in a stroller.
It takes me a moment to realise that the cops are out of the car and are pointing…
At me.
"Let go of the child!" They are screaming at me.
What the hell is going on?
I'm sure this is a misunderstanding.
"Officers, what seems to be-"
"I said get away from the girl! Now!"
Marlene is clutching at my pants. She's scared.
"Put your guns down." I scowl, "You're scaring her."
One officer shuffles forward, gun still trained at me. He's young, maybe mid twenties. His gun form is acceptable. He knows what he's doing. The goatee he's sporting is pathetic, though his eyes are intense. I had so many guns pointed at me that I'm not even slightly bothered by this.
I look at Marlene,
"Let's do what they want so we can clear this up, alright?"
She nods and bravely steps away. I raise my hands in a placating manner. They start and almost shoot me.
One of them grabs Marlene's hand and takes her to 'safety'.
Holy, I hate everything right now. With arms up, my gun in its holster is visible under my jacket.
I guess my claw isn't helping, either.
The moment they take Marlene away they charge me. They're efficient, and quick.
Should I resist? Should I fight back?
No, Vincent. Keep it cool. They are WRO, they are the good guys.
Ouch.
They grab my hands and force them behind my back. Their hands are rough against the skin of my healthy hand, the elbow above my metal hand screams pain in protest. My muscles tense all by themselves and resent the rough treatment. I hear Marlene yelling at them, though it's hard to tell what she's saying.
They take my gun and do their best to cuff me. My claw wrist gives them trouble. I hear them call it a weapon.
Oh, they're going to pay if they mistreat her.
Holy, I can't do anything right.
Three hours later I'm still in the interrogation room.
I'm thirsty, I'm tired of this. They took away my PHS, and I don't know if Tifa was notified yet. She's going to bust down the door if she thinks Marlene is kept here against her will.
I don't know where she is, I don't know if they're keeping her here as well, or is it just me who get this sterling service.
"I told you," I say after taking in a deep, calming breath. "I was taking her home."
"How would you know where her home is, huh?" It's the same young man with the goatee. My eyes keep being drawn to that tuft of hair, because it is so unbefitting his square face. "The school-guard said he ain't never seen yous there, buddy."
I've been the interrogator countless times. I know their work better than I know how this end needs to react. I assume keeping my cool isn't really helping, because I'm still here after three hours. I've been interrogated before, tortured even before Hojo, but never by the good guys. I could escape if I wanted to. I just don't know what to do when these are the guys that I'm supposed to be helping.
"I'm a friend of the family." I repeat for the umpteenth time. It's hard to keep my patience with these imbeciles, goatee boy and deaf/mute boy, who hasn't spoken a work since he came in, but intermittently looks between me and a pile of files.
Probably trying to find out who I am. The name Vincent Valentine doesn't bring up anything logical.
Goatee paces back and forth, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"What did you say your name was, again?"
"Vincent Valentine." He immediately snatches a file from his co-workers hand and slams it on the desk in front of me. It says 'V. Valentine' on the top. It looks old.
He flips it open.
How long has it been since I've seen that picture? Decades, it feels like. Maybe I should cut my hair short again. And boy, did I make that suit look good. I wasn't so ugly back then, I think. I was supposed to be frozen with that face, so what changed that it looks so hideous when I look in the mirror these days? I guess Hojo couldn't keep me from changing.
"Says here that Valentine died over thirty years ago, buddy! Better start telling us the truth."
Don't call me 'buddy', kid. I was interrogating people before you were even an idea, before your father was an idea, possibly.
I look through the file quickly.
Died in action in Nibelheim. Date of birth so far back that Goatee's grandparents were probably kids at the time. A million witty comebacks spring to the tip of my tongue and I have to purse my lips to prevent any of them from coming out. It's the last thing I need. I just need to wait for Tifa to be notified and arrive.
How embarrassing.
It's strange to look at myself like this. It feels like I was someone else then, but then again, how was I to know where life would take me?
It's also strange to see my own date of demise. Damn you, Hojo. I'm sure you're laughing right now. An unexpected way for you to make my life miserable.
Goatee slams his hand on the table, snatching the file away. I find myself following it with my eyes- I wanted to read that.
"We have you busted red-handed for identity theft and trying to kidnap that girl, pervert!"
I scowl at him.
"Better start talkin', or you'll be tanning that pale ass of yours in jail for the rest of your life."
That could be a very long time.
"I told you the truth, gentlemen." I lean on the table calmly, leaning my cheek on my palm, "I don't plan on lying to you to make your story fit."
He slams the table again. It's really loud to my ears. The table's metal.
"You want us to believe that a freak like you was just walking her home?! The guard said he saw you scope out the place!"
I comment nothing about the freak part, but say,
"Correct. I was waiting for her. This does not disprove my story."
This seems to anger Goatee, and he kicks at my claw.
Since they found out that this 'weapon' of mine cannot be -ahem- disarmed (that would indeed dis-arm me- a pun, you know), they settled on cuffing my claw to the leg of the chair, just under my seat. The cuff barely fits around the wide wrist. I was glad when they removed the handcuffs from my human hand, though. I don't like things around my wrist. I don't like the feeling of being bound. It's enough to remind me of my four 'special' friends.
"Start talking, you pedophile bastard!" He yells, and walks around my chair, to which I am attached, "You're going to be here until you 'fess up!"
This isn't going well.
What can I do? Nothing I can say can convince the convinced. I look like a creature from another place. I don't dress like other people. Tifa had made fun of my outdated fashion sense.
Maybe they're the fashion police? Bad joke, and I've no time for them. I need to find a way to prove who I am.
I hear Tifa's voice. Thank goodness. I don't think I'm supposed to hear her, because the guys make no indication that they can hear anything that's going on outside.
By the way they're behaving; it seems they can't hear anything being said in here, either.
It sounds like she's right behind that mirror. Why do they have a mirror in here, anyway? I squint, and know that I'm not supposed to see her, but I do. Is it really a mirror?
I hate my eyes, it hurts to look through that glass. Maybe it's not a mirror after all, because it looks to me like Tifa's staring right at me. She looks worried.
I'm so glad you're here, Tifa. I look at her, and see her talk to the cop beside her.
"Yes, that's him!" She exclaims. Half through hearing her and half through reading her lips "Please let him out. He's not a criminal!"
"Hey, buddy!" The cop slams his hand again, snapping my attention back to him. I wonder if his hand hurts by now. "Look at me when I talk to you! No one's behind that mirror!"
"It's not a mirror." I answer calmly, turning to look at him. Do you want to tell me he really can't see through it? Either way he seems unnerved, "Tifa, my friend, accompanied by one of yours." I pause, then finally add, "And don't call me buddy."
The door unlocks my salvation. Tifa walks in, her prior concern replaced with fury.
"What the f$%k do you think you're doing?!" She steps up to Goatee and yells an inch from his face, "You can't just go around arresting people because they look different, you asshole!" He tries to talk, but Tifa won't let him. Go, Tifa, go! I love seeing him squirm.
"Do you have any idea who this is?" She points at me, "He's Vincent Valentine! He helped save the world, you ungrateful moron!" She stepping forward as he's stepping back, hands in front as if trying to placate her. "He's a good friend of Reeve, too. You know Reeve, right? He's your boss! I don't think he'll be very happy to find out how you treated his close friend!" The color drains from Goatee's face. "If Cloud was here he would have whooped your f%^#ing ass! You're lucky it's just me in a good mood!" I can't help the smug smile on my face. It's good feeling to be rescued sometimes. I'm starting to feel a little sorry for Goatee, though.
"Tifa." I say. As much as I'm enjoying this, and I am, I really want to go home. "Is Marlene alright?"
Tifa finally acknowledges my presence,
"Yes, she's fine. She was worried. Are you ok?"
"Yes." I nod. "They were just letting me go when you came in, right?" They both nod silently. I can see the gratitude spreading in their eyes. They were just doing their jobs. "So why don't you unhook me?" They blink at me and then the silent one approaches and releases my claw. "Thank you."
I get up. I catch myself rubbing the metal wrist, just out of reflex. No, it doesn't hurt. It's metal. It's dead metal that's partly responsible for getting me in this mess.
"Can we go?" I ask her, she says yes even without checking with the cops. Tifa's just awesome.
Oh.
I take the file with me.
"I'm borrowing this," I tell Goatee on the way out, tapping him on the chest with the file, daring him to object, but add "You don't mind, right, buddy?"
Helplessness is beautiful on his face.
On the way home we talk. All three of us.
It's late twilight. We talk about our eventful day, and we even make a joke of it. I even chuckled. Yes, me. It is such a great feeling. One of the rottenest days I've had in a while turned out, after all, to be one of the best.
By the time we get home everybody has a smile on their face, even little Marlene.
When I first came out of the interrogation room I apologized for ruining her day. She replied simply by throwing her arms around my waist.
"I won't let them take you away." She said and confessed to have called Tifa secretly when they thought she was being distraught. This kid would have made one hell of a Turk.
I was surprised by her statement and gesture and I still am. Could it be that she doesn't hate me anymore? I haven't done anything to make her like me. Certainly one lunch cannot turn hatred into affection?
I suppose she was just scared.
Woah! Took me a while longer than expected to get this one up. Apologies. It went through so many revisions, and again I was thinking of dropping it. There are a million ways to get to this juncture in the narrative, but I wasn't sure this one would be... exciting enough? But then again, the entire story is not especially exciting (in a purely action sense), so I figured this one was good. Also, I like the idea of no one believing he's himself because of his birthdate. ^_^
Hope you all enjoy!
LunarBlade.