Most people, when they see the two together, assume that Vincent is the responsible by-the-books one, and Veld is the more careless one. The first time he heard that Veld nearly threw his side out laughing. Because Veld knew his partner. Yes, he knew Vincent very well. After all the time that they had spent together as partners, it was kind of hard not to get to know him.

So, Veld knew good and well that Vincent was an absolute unhinged son-of-a-bitch. He knew Vincent either had a death wish, a vendetta against God himself, or possibly even both. And it was that complete disregard for order and his own life that led to situations like this.

"Who wants to bet I can survive more than fifteen rounds of russian roulette?"

That phrase, spoken without any warning, was met with silence. Utter silence, for at least a few minutes. Mostly because, no one knew what that meant. Or, rather, no one wanted to know what that meant. In fact, it seemed as if everyone was trying to ignore the fact that it was said at all.

The sound of a gun being loaded is what broke the silence.

"Excuse me?" Veld said.

"I said, does anyone want to bet on how many rounds of russian roulette I can survive. I'm playing either way, so now's your only chance to bet." Came the response from none other than Vincent. Veld stared uncomprehendingly back at him.

"Please tell me you're joking." He sighed and stared at his long-time friend and partner. His partner who, in turn, spun the barrel of what looked like a standard issue pistol while looking him straight in the eyes the entire time.

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Veld wanted to slam his head on his desk. Instead, he settled for covering his face with his hands and letting out a long-suffering groan. Of course Vincent was serious. He's Vincent Valentine, when is he not? Veld took a deep breath and tried to think of any possible way to get his friend to just drop the damn gun and get some help, ranging from finding a way to talk him out of it (unlikely) to just tasing him (situations like these prompted him to keep a tazor on his person at all times.) Belatedly, he wondered what would happen if he just didn't do anything. Maybe Vin would end up shooting a whole in the wall. Maybe he'd end up blowing his brains out. Or maybe one of the other Turks would end up stopping him.

"I'll put fifty gil on fifteen."

"Weak. Seventy-five on twenty!"

"You crazy? Hundred on ten."

Or maybe they'd actually bet on it, what the actual fuck? What happened to 'Turks take care of their own'?!

"Can you please not encourage him?" Veld damn near begged. After all the shit his friend's managed to pull and survive, he wasn't exactly worried, per se. Nah, he was just tired. So god-forbiddingly tired of it all.

"Hey, don't be such a stick in the mud, man."

"Yeah, dude, Vincent's a big boy, he can make his own choices."

"Yes Veld, I can make decisions entirely on my own. You don't need to worry." Vincent had the audacity to say, still looking him in the eyes, as he put the gun to his head and took the first shot.

A blank, thank god.

A cheer went through the office, as well as a single groan, because apparently, someone actually fucking bet on Vin biting the bullet on the first shot.

This time, Veld did slam his head on his desk. Multiple times. He almost felt like crying. Solemnly, he watched as a few papers slid of his desk as well as a single pen that rolled underneath a storage cabinet. His favorite pen, at that. Could this day get any worse?

Another cheer went through the room as Vincent took yet another shot. This was going to be a long day.

Later, when Veld went to confront Vincent over the bullshit he pulled that day, Vincent took him aside and took apart the standard issue pistol he had used for it. Or at least, it looked like a standard issue, because it had apparently been modified. Absolutely no bullets would get shot out of that thing, even it was completely loaded up. The game was a total scam.

Veld was left standing in front of the elevator, while Vincent continued his walk back home a couple hundred gil richer than that morning.