Faded Dreams, Falling Like Rain

A Final Fantasy VII Fan Fiction by Sarah Digna Yudlowitz

Dream . . .

Dream of death . . .

Dream of moonlight . . .

Legal Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and all of its characters belong to the company of Squaresoft. I do not claim these characters or the concept of the game for my own. This work is not to be distributed, sold, or posted anywhere without the consent of its author. Comments and encouragements are always welcomed, as they are a part of the enjoyment of writing Fan fiction. Please take this into consideration while you read the following fiction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brief summary: With the death of Sephiroth, something in Cloud dies, almost bringing him to the brink of a madman. Vincent attempts to console him, telling him that he and Cloud are very much alike in the respect that they mourn for the shell of a man that died not at the hands of Cloud, but back in Nibelheim when lies penetrated him. He was a man who was supposed to be the perfect soldier . . .







Chapter Two







Sad notes filled the stagnant heavy air of the laboratory, but upon them a lilting beauty and happiness rolled off with the careful artistry of its musician. The air of Nibelheim's small close knitted community drifted through a window recently opened and a few birds danced upon the pane, joining in sometimes on the notes that drifted to them, their heads cocking as if listening with content and contemplating the meaning of each one that was birthed into the world.



"Can I open my eyes now?" a woman's voice whispered, sultry and almost giddy with the enjoyment of the sound. Beside her, Vincent Valentine sat perched upon a discarded desk, a dinner he had brought to this woman he was so fond of, his Lucrecia. He smiled, satisfied that beneath the scrap of material, his love's eyes were bright, their blue depths shining. Vincent's eyes matched hers, a dark navy complimented by the inside shards of ice surrounding his pupils. Slowly, his violin came to a stop, it's harmony fading in the air as if it didn't want to leave. Vincent reached a hand out to softly caress Lucreica's cheek, then placed his other on her hand that was clutched in her lap as if holding onto he last fading notes of Vincent's violin. He slowly removed the material over his love's eyes to savor looking into them. Once he removed it, she smiled at him warmly, full of love, and kissed him softly, almost agonizingly so. "I didn't know you played," the woman breathed. Vincent smiled again, this time almost sadly as he touched her feathery soft hair, moving through the wavy thickness that was a glorious chestnut to undo it from its bun and run his hands through the full length.



"There are many things you don't know about me, my Lucreicia," Vincent said in a whisper, regretfully. As he did, the door to the basement laboratory swung open to reveal the frail form of Hojo, who was carrying a box of experimentation tools. Mostly beakers, tubes, and unnameable fluids resided there. Both Vincent and Lucrecia jumped with a start. Vincent was now standing next to Lucrecia, an arm snaked around her almost possessively. Hojo stared at Vincent with hatred.



"Young love. How sweet. Get off the premises, Turk. There is fragile work that needs to be attended to," Hojo seethed, arching his back upwards slightly so that he did not appear as easy to fell. In actuality, Hojo was quite strong. Experimentation of earlier scientists, especially Professor Gast, had associated alien tissue with that of a human's. Cells inside of that alien form were known to induce vitality and renewed vigor. However, this did not slow the aging process and made the patients dependant upon the cells of Jenova, for once their cells were mutated, a strange occurrence would happen. These mutated cells would spread like a disease and take over the cells that had been damaged, feeding off of weakness to grow strong, multiplying in number by this process, much in the way a disease might concur a person. The Jenova cells, upon being carried to the brain then began to enhance it, along with endurance, but Jenova's gifts came with a price. The Jenova cells and their disease-like qualities would soon die, for they would attack each other. More dosages would be needed to sustain the patient, for within their mind the cells created a stimulus. It was like a drug, not without its comedowns. This comedown was withdrawal. Without being fed more cells, without being linked to Jenova in whatever shape way or form, came this comedown which eventually led to death. Most of the patients subjected to this procedure would die upon the first few of the dosages, for this had a great impact upon the person's body and thought process in a fast duration of time.



"If that is what you wish, sir," Vincent said after some time, reluctantly releasing Lucrecia to collect his things. The whole while, he could feel Hojo's eyes boring into him. His eyes of course must have been on the blue suit he wore, something that bound Vincent to a reputation of ruthlessness. He was, in fact, a sniper. He gave Lucrecia a look of longing; that he would need her love while he was gone. Lucrecia stood, looking down as Hojo now looked down upon her. Vincent began walking swiftly toward the door, staring incredulously at him as he left.

*****





Vincent sat cradled within the confined dark space of the room's closet, silently missing his coffin as he hung his wrist above the bar, his clawed mechanical arm by his side. He sighed, a long deep sound that came from deep beneath his chest. He lowered his flesh arm and cradled the mechanical one with it, absently joining them together, fingers and claws intertwining. Dark, almost blackish blood dripped from his fingers and he squeezed these two together. He was beast and man, a man with only a haunting past and nothing more. There was nothing to look forward to, he was almost sure of it.



"Vincent?" a voice asked, very near to the door of the closet that must have belonged to Cloud. Its adolescence had never fled throughout his journey, his conquest to vanquish no other than his idol, his hero.



"Yes?" Vincent asked from behind the door. He leaned back, pulling his legs close to his chest as best as he could. The blood that dripped down the fingers of his left hand began to dry and Vincent timidly handled the hand as though it were an injured paw. He began to lick the wounds clean and then once the task was finished, his gently took the blood from his clawed hands. During this time, Cloud was on the other side of the door, remaining quiet.



". . .Can I talk to you?" Cloud finally said. From Cloud's voice, he was clearly upset. The man had sensed this negative feel from the moment he had gotten up, had awoken from a dream of the past . . .





"Yes," Vincent said in response and eased the door open. Cloud stood before him, disheveled and tired looking. His eyelids drooped over half of his eyes lazily as he studied Vincent, who looked uneasy as always, nothing else. Cloud's eyes then slid to the cuts healing on Vincent's fingers and he looked down into the man's eyes questioningly. He noticed how dilated Vincent's pupils were, which slit like a cat's from time to time, making their red color much more threatening. He knew the dreams that would always follow Vincent when sleep came, claiming his soul to reap its benefits with him. Slowly, Vincent stood and left his makeshift closest behind, looking at it forlornly as he neared the door. He sourly missed his coffin . . . being entombed where he should have stayed, a protective darkness hanging over him. Why had he ever been awoken?



"When we came to the Shinra mansion," Cloud began, staring down at the floor, "we didn't think that you would join us. Well . . . AVALANCHE progressed into something much bigger. We knew that. But . . . I didn't expect all of what happened to actually happen . . ."



"You didn't expect that Sephiroth would be your main goal?" Vincent asked, knowing the answer. He came upon the kitchen, Cloud walking behind him, half asleep.



"No . . . and I never . . . expected he would die. Not at my hands," Cloud sighed, looking at the palms of his hands where he had gripped the hilt of his ultimate weapon. They had been slick with blood when he had murdered Sephiroth. He cringed at staring at his hands, almost feeling the warm red liquid slide through his fingers again. Cloud closed his eyes and was startled as Vincent guided him to a chair, his flesh hand upon the boy's shoulder. He did this half for balance, half for reassurance. His gentleness with the boy was almost fatherly, rather than out of the friendship Cloud thought they had established. He was greeted with a sad look.



"The others," Cloud muttered. "What's going on?"



"They understand that this is not an easy thing for you to get over. They wish you luck, but they also wish that they could add strength," Vincent said, sitting across from Cloud.



"And . . . and you're doing that for them, Vincent?" Cloud asked, almost sounding scared. Vincent laughed, such an unusual thing that Cloud's trepidation of this man was heightened.



"Relax Cloud," Vincent said evenly, studying Cloud's face, and then looking away. He sighed, almost laughing again. "You remind me so much of myself, Cloud. And yet, you've managed to become so much more. Can't you see that you've grown?" Somehow, sharing all of this with the young man, Vincent felt liberated somewhat. He had not laughed in a span of time that seemed to resemble an eternity of hellish nightmares that surrounded him.



"I got what I wanted," Cloud said numbly. "When I was younger, I wanted to be famous, known. Well, now I'm going to be known as the broken boy who killed Sephiroth who had rose too high on clipped wings, wings of freedom he never had." The contempt in Cloud's voice made Vincent return to his surrounding, but he did not dare look as Cloud put his head down on the table, sure that his head was dizzy with memories and faded hopes. Perhaps they should all make new hopes and new dreams for a world that was rid of Shinra, rid of waste from the mass pollution of Hell brought to the living. Vincent's eyes then drifted to the open window and as a bird rested on the pane, Vincent drifted back into the Hell of his nightmares, tumbling toward inward hate all over again.