What the Artist Sees
by Katie
Disclaimer: Vincent Valentine belongs to FF7. The artist belongs to Yinza. The story belongs to me. Simple, eh?

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Someone was watching him.

Vincent Valentine did not start, nor did he look around warily. His cool demeanor never faltered. He let his gaze wander slowly over his surroundings, dispassionately assessing potential danger.

A few tables over from where he sat, a young couple reveled in the romance of the outdoor cafe. Harmless. An older gentleman was feeding pigeons in the park, lost to anything but the birds, while a young mother pushed her stroller along and listened to the happy prattle of her toddler. Next to a water fountain, a poorly clad man played a mournful tune on his saxaphone. Resting in the nearby shade, an artist sat, her mind and eyes focused solely on what she was drawing. No one paid him the slightest mind.

Years of being a Turk had finely honed his instincts, and Vincent did not doubt himself. Someone had been watching him, and he waited patiently for the eyes to resurface. He had no doubt that they would.

He wasn't disapointed.

The artist looked up, her eyes studying his general area intently. Vincent felt sure he was her subject of choice. Why him was a mystery, and Vincent stood and walked over to her, determined to find out.

The girl continued sketching innocently as he approached, as if to rebut his conclusions. Her knuckles were white with pressure, and betrayed her.

He reached her table, and stood menacing before the girl. Her hand never stopped its frantic movement.

Why are you drawing me? Vincent asked. His voice was a chilling monotone.

Her hand ceased its movement, and the girl looked at him. The eyes hiding behind the thin wire frame glasses were a restless blue-gray, and surprisingly inscrutable.

You caught my interest, she answered.

Why?

The girl's face contorted into an expression of patient vexation.

Well think about it, she said, and waved a hand at him. It's not every day you see a man dressed in a black long sleeved shirt and pants, with a red cape to boot, in the middle of summer! I mean, I can't cault your color choice (gesturing to her own outfit) but even I have the sense to make it shorts and a sleeveless. You're an anamoly.

She paused, then held out the drawing. Vincent took it, thanking her with the barest of nods. He looked at the paper in his hands.

She was remarkably talented, he immediately observed. It was almost photo-like, that feeling that you could reach out and touch the scene, yet instinctively realizing it was 2D. A near perfect image of the past. The Vincent pictured copied his pose of ten minutes ago, seated in an outdoor cafe, studying his surrounding. His body lounged in a state of relaxed alertness, and the darkness of his outfit provided a sharp contrast to his cheerful surroundings. He stuck out like a sore thumb. Judging from the expression on his face, this fact was no surprise. It was cold and drawn inward, retreating from the world. His blood-red eyes glittered with bitterness and grief; his gently pursed lips silently raged against the the world. He radiated anger-anger at the world, anger at his fate...anger at himself. He clung desparately to that anger, nurturing self-loathing as if it were his soul purpose for being alive. With masochistic ferver he drank from guilt's bitter cup.

Vincent's fingers trembled imperceptibly, but enough for him to nearly drop the paper.

Hard seeing how others see you, isn't it? the girl asked quietly. Vincent looked up, having forgotten her very existance. She smiled kindly at him.

Keep it, she said, and grinned. I drew it on transfer paper, so I already have a copy.

With those worlds she stood, gathered together her materials, and left. Vincent barely noticed her passing, so fixated was he on what the artist had seen in him.

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Fini