Bloody shadow
Nightfall in Midgar.
Atop the plate, people slept, safe in the knowledge that the ancient stars that shone upon them would protect them 'till morning.
Below the plate, however, the citizens of the slums were drenched in darkness, reliant not on the stars for safety, but their own wit and luck.
The only light cast down their emulated from buzzing street lamps, neon signs, or the odd spark cast by a stranger in the shadows lighting a cigarette.
It was a sad, broken down place, but its residents were far from that desription. They cherished their homes, fought for them, all the while earning a pittance (if anything) and forever battling through the daily task of staying alive.
The fact that it was the home for the revoloutionary groups such a s Avalanche and The Prosecutors was a testimony to its' will.
Shinra, the governing body, was well aware of this 'unsavoury' element, which was the president created a special division of the Turks:- Force Zero.
Force Zore wore the same uniform as the Turks and attended the same briefings as the Turks.
Essentially, they were Turks.
But once out of the public eye, they became Soldiers; Turk- trained assassins and military- trained fighters, whose job it was to seek out undercover rebel operations and put a stop to them. Permanently.
One such member was Vincent Valentine.
He was a tall, slim man, 23 years old, with a delicate, pale complexion and long black hair that contrasted his skin tone. Often described as the epitomy of male beauty, his harsh childhood and blood-drenched upbringing amazingly left him with no physical flaws whatsoever.
But he felt that that was soon about to change, as he walked through a dark backstreet in the sector 7 slums, alone.
He moved silently, fluidly, like a shadow amongst the likewise darkness, walking at a swift, but nonetheless casual pace. His breathing was barely audible, even to himself, his deep brown eyes darting from left to right inside his otherwise motionless head.
Suddenly, just like a wild cat, he froze in mid pace. Not a muscle twitched in his rigid body, as his gaze fixed on the tiny source of light that had captured his attention, which vanished just as suddenly as it had appeared:- a lighter.
Vincent swallowd slowly and licked his pale lips. His eyes were unblinking, his stare unwavering. Moving almost so slow as to be unbearable, he lifted his right arm and silently unholstered the small pistol by his hip.
This was it. This was the place. The reason for him being down in the stinking hell-hole in the first place.
He raised the pistol to his right eye and squinted along its' length. Then, by strokng a neat little button, a miniture infra-red sniper-scope popped out and locked into place. Vincent silently cursed at the meagre noise it produced.
For an assassins' weapon, you'd think they'd sort out the mechanisms...........!
Sure enough, looking through the scope, he saw a lone man smoking a re-used dog end, and a small set of stone steps, leading down into the depths.
This was the place, alright. The Prosecutors' headquarters.
Vincent allowed himself a thin-lipped smile, before gently tapping the microphone attached to his headset; an affirmative signal to be picked up by his colleagues.
Then, as silently as a snake on glass,he crept closer..................
..................................................................................................................and stopped. Again.
This time, however, his stance was slightly less confident. His normally calm breathing picked up a little, and he blinked into the darkness.
All of a sudden, he threw himself to the ground and rolled, just as a shot rang out through the alleyway.
Immeadiatly jumping up from his prone position, he fired a single shot into the darkness, and was rewarded by the sound of a pained scream and a thump.
Vincent wasn't atall surprised at his seemingly luck shot; it was normal.
Even if he was about to think about it, the unknown attackers wouldn't have given him the chance. They suddenly emerged from the darkness brandishing flashlights, not to mention a number of heavy weapons.
Ambush!
Even a Turk knows when to run, especially a Force Zero Turk.
Vincent turned on his heels and fled, his long legs blessing him with giant strides, giving him the chance to fire a few shots behind him.
A gun is all very well from a distance, but in a melee you'd be better off hitting your opponent with the butt!
Agent Valentine knew this all too well, and as he rounded a corner, his heart sank as he realised that soon he'll end up using just such a tactic.
"Shit!" he hissed, desperately searching for a way out of the dead-end he now found himself stuck in, " A set of wings would be appreciated......."
"Hey there, buddy!"
Vincent spun to face the man who had adressed him, and found himself staring at about a dozen other armed terrorists.
With the barest of growls, tha Turk snapped his pistol up and aimed at the ringleader, who raised his arms in a gesture of surrender.
"Whoah," the man chuckled, "Okay, okay. I give!"
The sound of several guns being cocked and loaded from high above rang throughout the otherwise silent shadows.
The ringleader lowered his hands and laughed, ignoring the sound of an engine growing closer.
"Well, now," he boomed, "The hunter has become the hunted! The coin has been flipped, hmm?!"
Vincent, still aiming, gave a mirthless smile.
"Yes, it has," he replied, his tone low, soft, "Heads I win. Tails you lose."
The ringleader died with a puzzled expression on his face, and a bullet through his forehead.
Before the concealed gunners could open fire on the Turk, a shiny black car swerved around the corner, ploughing into the remaining terrorists and screaching to halt beside Vincent.
The black window opened, revealing a young blonde man driving and a red-head girl in the back seat.
"Get in, Valentine!" the man snapped.
Vincent complied, taking his place in the front passenger seat whilst the fooftop gunners rained bullets down upon the car, which were repelled by a blue magic shield.
Vincent slumped in his seat ever-so-slightly.
The male agent, Doran Lek, who was Vincents' Turk partner and friend, glanced over at him, smiling.
"Well?" he asked, "Do I get a 'thankyou'?"
The taller man said nothing and begn to polish his gun.
The blonde sighed. "Guess not."
"What took you so long, Lek?"
Leks' mouth opened and shut like a goldfish, before staring back at his comrade.
"Val, you are cold, man!"
"Well, at least he got the job done," said the woman named Seyma Sienna, leaning forward between the two men, "He killed their leader and we took out a few, too. Mission complete!"
A huge smile spread across her face, much like a child when they're pleased with themselves.
"I created the shield!" she said, proudly.
Lek shook his head.
"Whatever," he grumbled, "I still say you're cold."
Before Vincent got a word in edgeways, Seyma cut in.
"He's not cold, he's professional!" she drew closer to him, and put on a flirtacious tone, " Besides, I really like that quality in a man...."
Lek rolled his eyes.
"Geez, Seyma, could you quit hitting on my pal the whole time? Christs' sake, guys, get a room!"
Vincent blushed at that comment and chuckled.
Seyma turned her attentions on Lek.
"My, my, I think someone's jealous of darling Agent Valentine."
"JEALOUS?" both men cried, in unison.
"I am not!" Lek sputtered, " Why would I be jealous of him? The lanky- haired, depressing, unsociable, skinny, murderous goth-boy that he is!"
"Hey!" Vincent glowered, "I am not a goth!"
His friends smiled warmly at him, and he grinned back.
I'm sure that if the sun shone beneath the plate, they would ride off into the sunset.
Instead, they rode off into yet more darkness; a void which was to echo their uncertain futures. Now, however, they held onto as much happiness as they could grab.
End
Nightfall in Midgar.
Atop the plate, people slept, safe in the knowledge that the ancient stars that shone upon them would protect them 'till morning.
Below the plate, however, the citizens of the slums were drenched in darkness, reliant not on the stars for safety, but their own wit and luck.
The only light cast down their emulated from buzzing street lamps, neon signs, or the odd spark cast by a stranger in the shadows lighting a cigarette.
It was a sad, broken down place, but its residents were far from that desription. They cherished their homes, fought for them, all the while earning a pittance (if anything) and forever battling through the daily task of staying alive.
The fact that it was the home for the revoloutionary groups such a s Avalanche and The Prosecutors was a testimony to its' will.
Shinra, the governing body, was well aware of this 'unsavoury' element, which was the president created a special division of the Turks:- Force Zero.
Force Zore wore the same uniform as the Turks and attended the same briefings as the Turks.
Essentially, they were Turks.
But once out of the public eye, they became Soldiers; Turk- trained assassins and military- trained fighters, whose job it was to seek out undercover rebel operations and put a stop to them. Permanently.
One such member was Vincent Valentine.
He was a tall, slim man, 23 years old, with a delicate, pale complexion and long black hair that contrasted his skin tone. Often described as the epitomy of male beauty, his harsh childhood and blood-drenched upbringing amazingly left him with no physical flaws whatsoever.
But he felt that that was soon about to change, as he walked through a dark backstreet in the sector 7 slums, alone.
He moved silently, fluidly, like a shadow amongst the likewise darkness, walking at a swift, but nonetheless casual pace. His breathing was barely audible, even to himself, his deep brown eyes darting from left to right inside his otherwise motionless head.
Suddenly, just like a wild cat, he froze in mid pace. Not a muscle twitched in his rigid body, as his gaze fixed on the tiny source of light that had captured his attention, which vanished just as suddenly as it had appeared:- a lighter.
Vincent swallowd slowly and licked his pale lips. His eyes were unblinking, his stare unwavering. Moving almost so slow as to be unbearable, he lifted his right arm and silently unholstered the small pistol by his hip.
This was it. This was the place. The reason for him being down in the stinking hell-hole in the first place.
He raised the pistol to his right eye and squinted along its' length. Then, by strokng a neat little button, a miniture infra-red sniper-scope popped out and locked into place. Vincent silently cursed at the meagre noise it produced.
For an assassins' weapon, you'd think they'd sort out the mechanisms...........!
Sure enough, looking through the scope, he saw a lone man smoking a re-used dog end, and a small set of stone steps, leading down into the depths.
This was the place, alright. The Prosecutors' headquarters.
Vincent allowed himself a thin-lipped smile, before gently tapping the microphone attached to his headset; an affirmative signal to be picked up by his colleagues.
Then, as silently as a snake on glass,he crept closer..................
..................................................................................................................and stopped. Again.
This time, however, his stance was slightly less confident. His normally calm breathing picked up a little, and he blinked into the darkness.
All of a sudden, he threw himself to the ground and rolled, just as a shot rang out through the alleyway.
Immeadiatly jumping up from his prone position, he fired a single shot into the darkness, and was rewarded by the sound of a pained scream and a thump.
Vincent wasn't atall surprised at his seemingly luck shot; it was normal.
Even if he was about to think about it, the unknown attackers wouldn't have given him the chance. They suddenly emerged from the darkness brandishing flashlights, not to mention a number of heavy weapons.
Ambush!
Even a Turk knows when to run, especially a Force Zero Turk.
Vincent turned on his heels and fled, his long legs blessing him with giant strides, giving him the chance to fire a few shots behind him.
A gun is all very well from a distance, but in a melee you'd be better off hitting your opponent with the butt!
Agent Valentine knew this all too well, and as he rounded a corner, his heart sank as he realised that soon he'll end up using just such a tactic.
"Shit!" he hissed, desperately searching for a way out of the dead-end he now found himself stuck in, " A set of wings would be appreciated......."
"Hey there, buddy!"
Vincent spun to face the man who had adressed him, and found himself staring at about a dozen other armed terrorists.
With the barest of growls, tha Turk snapped his pistol up and aimed at the ringleader, who raised his arms in a gesture of surrender.
"Whoah," the man chuckled, "Okay, okay. I give!"
The sound of several guns being cocked and loaded from high above rang throughout the otherwise silent shadows.
The ringleader lowered his hands and laughed, ignoring the sound of an engine growing closer.
"Well, now," he boomed, "The hunter has become the hunted! The coin has been flipped, hmm?!"
Vincent, still aiming, gave a mirthless smile.
"Yes, it has," he replied, his tone low, soft, "Heads I win. Tails you lose."
The ringleader died with a puzzled expression on his face, and a bullet through his forehead.
Before the concealed gunners could open fire on the Turk, a shiny black car swerved around the corner, ploughing into the remaining terrorists and screaching to halt beside Vincent.
The black window opened, revealing a young blonde man driving and a red-head girl in the back seat.
"Get in, Valentine!" the man snapped.
Vincent complied, taking his place in the front passenger seat whilst the fooftop gunners rained bullets down upon the car, which were repelled by a blue magic shield.
Vincent slumped in his seat ever-so-slightly.
The male agent, Doran Lek, who was Vincents' Turk partner and friend, glanced over at him, smiling.
"Well?" he asked, "Do I get a 'thankyou'?"
The taller man said nothing and begn to polish his gun.
The blonde sighed. "Guess not."
"What took you so long, Lek?"
Leks' mouth opened and shut like a goldfish, before staring back at his comrade.
"Val, you are cold, man!"
"Well, at least he got the job done," said the woman named Seyma Sienna, leaning forward between the two men, "He killed their leader and we took out a few, too. Mission complete!"
A huge smile spread across her face, much like a child when they're pleased with themselves.
"I created the shield!" she said, proudly.
Lek shook his head.
"Whatever," he grumbled, "I still say you're cold."
Before Vincent got a word in edgeways, Seyma cut in.
"He's not cold, he's professional!" she drew closer to him, and put on a flirtacious tone, " Besides, I really like that quality in a man...."
Lek rolled his eyes.
"Geez, Seyma, could you quit hitting on my pal the whole time? Christs' sake, guys, get a room!"
Vincent blushed at that comment and chuckled.
Seyma turned her attentions on Lek.
"My, my, I think someone's jealous of darling Agent Valentine."
"JEALOUS?" both men cried, in unison.
"I am not!" Lek sputtered, " Why would I be jealous of him? The lanky- haired, depressing, unsociable, skinny, murderous goth-boy that he is!"
"Hey!" Vincent glowered, "I am not a goth!"
His friends smiled warmly at him, and he grinned back.
I'm sure that if the sun shone beneath the plate, they would ride off into the sunset.
Instead, they rode off into yet more darkness; a void which was to echo their uncertain futures. Now, however, they held onto as much happiness as they could grab.
End