Disclaimer: These aren't my characters, they are from Final Fantasy 7.
Two voices resided within Vincent Valentine. The battle between the one that fed on his love for Lucrecia and the other, his demons, waged during every passing second. Wanting to lash out, the voice that dwelled on the past thrived on the negative emotions of anyone nearby. All it needed was a reason. The memories and vengeance that haunted his mind and whispered malice in his ear accumulated over the years-- stronger and stronger as it fed on Vincent's experiences.
The dawn of his current existence started after awaking in a laboratory in the musty basement of an aged mansion where mutation tests were performed that turned the professional Turk into the vigilante hellhound that now crouched in an alley. One of Vincent's eyes, filled with agony, could see to the side of his icy cold, metallic, left arm, the hand of which covered his face. Looking only into his own mind, his eyes acted like a mirror on his godforsaken soul. His face contorted into an incredulous, pain-filled stare which was enough to make him willing to cry to release the pressing inner walk down memory lane, but there was nothing he could do to divert his attention. As if he were holding onto something precious, every muscle in his body was tense and realizing he had been doing this, Vincent relaxed as best he could so he could weaken his focus.
Adjusting his crimson cloak to cover more of his face, Vincent let out a long breath of air. A miniature, spectral cloud curled in front of him. Snuggling his gloved hand back under his cloak, he dropped his metallic hand to the ground and it clanged, but he picked it back up to move the damp, sticky hair from his face. Glancing to his side, Vincent's red eyes, like those of a feline predator in the night, caught sight of a suspicious passer-by. This prey was too edgy, but he finally attracted Vincent's anger as he grabbed a young girl and dragged her into the alley.
In the shadows, Vincent's fingers stroked his revolver and pulled it from underneath his cloak. Seeing his prey's medulla oblongata in the sight, his finger reached for the trigger, but he grabbed his chest with his metal hand and squeezed to stop himself. He couldn't let the voice tell him to kill this man. It would be like he let Hojo win. Hearing a struggle, he knew he needed to help the girl so he found the man's knee with the sight and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered on the concrete as the man immediately dropped to the ground. Whimpering and frantically trying to stop the bleeding, the offender cursed himself.
Vincent heard the scream of the girl who scooted away from her attacker as quickly as possible and looked around for the gunman. Light caught Vincen'ts metal arm and she saw the gun in his hand as he stared at the wall of the building in front of him. Panicked, the girl whined and Vincent slowly turned to look at her; the dark blood had splattered on her horrified face and her shirt. The moment their eyes met, she stood up, yelling, and ran out into the street.
Rising from the concrete, Vincent skulked out to the sidewalk as if he were merely his silhouette; the only noise was the clink of his boots and sibilant sound of his metallic hand swiftly placing his revolver in its holster. The intermittent light from the street lamps and cars brought him out from the dark and reflected off his metallic arm.
The city made him sick. The people made him sick. And their actions made him sick. The vigilante he had become gave him an inner need to drive the ugliness out of it, but perhaps it was just to satisfy the voice. His own selfish desire to overcome his transformation when one voice dominated the other that could only think of doing things for Lucrecia. Although that wasn't a possibility, he wanted to think it was true. The voice said otherwise; having no room for hope and love in such a disgusting world, the voice could convince him that the world only deserved his judgement and his revolver. But he missed Lucrecia so much.
Feeling the demon wanting to take over again, Vincent thought it would be better to keep his mind on other things, because he knew one thing for sure-- he could not let it take over. That voice had to be contained or channeled and he would figure out how to do it permanently, no matter what it took. It was this kind of thinking that Vincent accepted to help him through his day without transforming into a hellish creature that fed on malevolence and a bloodthirsty desire to kill indiscriminately. Although the voice was starting to overpower him in time and if he actually hit the breaking point, it was increasingly harder to change back. This worried him. His eyes, half-alive like his soul, scanned the street and the people for another target.
Everyone he passed irked him. He had no reason for his blind anger but he felt he would soon reach his limit; the horrible feelings of loneliness and anger that resided in them only amplified the same feelings Vincent harbored. If he didn't contain the voice soon, mollify it, he might be pushed to the edge. Lucrecia was a beautiful person and Vincent missed the caring that she emitted, even though she didn't reciprocate his feelings. As Hojo held him to the table- Vincent gritted his teeth. Unwilling to relive any part of his past, he grunted and kept walking, trying to focus on something else. Anything. His eyes caught another man, walking into a store and holding what looked like a pistol in his jacket pocket. This new target was just begging for Vincent's death penalty and he grabbed it. His metal fingers clutching onto the grip and trigger, Vincent was ready to swiftly draw his shotgun out from under his cloak and then, of all times, he decides to converse with his voice.
Do it.
I can't.
You know you want to pull the trigger. Unleash your anger and take your vengeance on the scum-sucking vermin that live in this trash city.
It's wrong.
Who's to say?
I do. Lucrecia...
Love and attachment lead to ruin. You need to let me take over your weak soul.
Vincent began to feel like giving up; he sniffled. Letting his hair fall in his face, he fought the urge to cry, to let out his frustration and he decided to keep walking. His boots chinked on the concrete as he passed by more people, but now he ignored them and their negative auras. Vincent realized that he was weakening against the voice and if he just thought about it, if he had someone to tell him what to do, if he could make it leave, if he could only do something about it, he might be able to heal. The thing was, the voice helped him forget his past. And, he thought, if I learn to let go of the past, I can move on to the future. His Lucrecia-dominated thoughts held him back from the breaking point that night. But the future is always uncertain.