A/N: Hola! This is my first Final Fantasy VII fic (I mostly just do IX) but I've been meaning to write one for awhile. Actually, my muse came when I watched a trailer *cough* bootlegged *cough* of the new Final Fantasy VII sequel, Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children (the one-hour CG movie). I dunno . . . It sparked something in me. Um, this story can be interpreted several ways, so just read and enjoy. Warning: Despite the PG13 rating, I tend to cuss a lot ^_^ Oh, and if Vincent seems somewhat out of character, it's because this story is explaining why he's so cold now and why he said to Cloud that more nightmares would come to him than he'd previously had. In other words, this is an explanation of what haunts Vincent at night . . .
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy is owned by smart people. Enough said . . .
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"Well, well, Mr. Valentine . . . Would you like a taste of freedom, too?"
". . . Fuck off, Hojo,"
His eyes were glinting knife-like behind his glasses; a smirk curling steadily upon his lips. Dark hair falling into his eyes, he lifted the lid off the thick mahogany coffin.
Vincent sat up slowly, suspecting a trick. Crimson eyes flashed, narrowed with the suspicions hammered into a man who has been shattered and pieced back together again. A frown etched upon his features, he flexed his stiff muscles and gingerly tested out the golden prosthesis protruding from his left arm. It was amazing that no rust had accumulated on its surface.
"I give you an hour, Vincent," Hojo said softly, turning haughtily away from his prisoner. "If you're not back by then, I shall be forced to anesthetize you and force you back,"
Vincent gave him the finger with his prosthetic hand. Hojo smirked, patted his white coat where the various sedatives laid, and walked calmly from the room. Vincent watched him go before swinging his legs over the side of the coffin and leaping lightly to the floor.
"My god . . ." he whispered, noticing that whatever abominations Hojo had done to him had made it unnecessary for his eyes to focus in the dark. "Shit . . . I need a mirror . . . and fast . . ."
Stumbling slightly from lack of bodily functions, Vincent managed to find his way out of the coffin-laden room.
The basement was dark and dank, wreaking of rat feces and dirt. Vincent pulled the collar of his cloak up over his nose, frowning.
The least they could've done was clean up while I was gone . . .
The cave-like corridor seemed to go on forever. And even at the end there was no light. Just a lab. The lab. Vincent's eyes closed in horror.
No . . . I can't go in there . . .
He opened his lids to a thin line, staring blearily into the facility. Aha. A glint. That meant a mirror.
The man crept cautiously towards the table where a small compact mirror rested, having obviously not been used in awhile. It was rather smudged, but it would have to do. With trembling fingers, Vincent slowly lifted the lid and stared into its dirt-encrusted depths.
What he saw made his tampered blood run cold.
His skin, which had once been a beautiful, healthy shade was now a ghostly – no, ghastly – white and stretched skull-like across his face. His enchanting brown eyes were now a poisonous red, the pupils cut slit-like like a cat's. His ebony-black hair had become tangled and unkempt and now grew down to his waist. He was emaciated and thin, his cheekbones showing clearly through his flesh.
The mirror slipped uselessly from his grasp and fell to the floor with a crash.
He was a monster . . .
Vincent stumbled backwards, horror dancing in his crimson eyes.
"Hojo . . . what have you done to me . . .?!" he moaned. Then he stopped, eyes resting on the small golden case upon the floor. The mirror . . . There was a letter on the back, carved delicately into its top. A lacy, cursive "L."
Vincent dropped to his knees beside the case.
"Lucrecia . . ."
This was hers. Her favorite mirror. Why did Hojo have it? And why was it so neglected; this precious thing that had been caressed by her angelic hands. Vincent cradled it in his arms, his last fragment of Lucrecia's memory. A tear rolled down his cheek and made a small, shiny impression on the mirror's surface. Vincent bit his lip and rose, clenching the compact within his hands and slipping it into the safety of his red cloak.
If the mirror was that cruddy, and his hair that long . . . then . . .
"How much time has passed?" Vincent wondered aloud. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that no blood stained the floor and the shackles that had once bound him to the lab table were now rusted and lying in a pile of their own dust. But – his gut clenching at the new-found observation – the table was very clean. And he knew . . .
It's still being used . . .
Boots clicking rhythmically upon the cold steel floor, Vincent walked slowly from the room. If he could leave the mansion . . . If he could escape . . . But no. The Shinra would find him. Their eyes would watch him like a preying hawk, and when they caught him . . . Vincent smiled blandly.
"Back in the coffin for you, Mr. Valentine . . ."
And as he began the never-ending stump up the swirling spiral-staircase, the ex-Turk began to wonder.
Why did Hojo let me out . . .?
It was obvious that Hojo hadn't done it for Vincent's pleasure. If anything, Hojo was trying to torture him with small gasps at freedom before sending him back to his eternal sleep. Luckily, however, the slumber had been quiet; empty. No dreams had come to him – bad or good. He'd just floated in suspended animation for God-knows-how-long.
So why now?
Eventually, Vincent found his way to the hidden brick door and pushed it open. The smell of stale-death hit him immediately, making him gag. Obviously, no one had seriously lived in the mansion for years. What a blow . . .
Trance-like, the black-haired man wandered through the second floor and down the stairs. He didn't want to see anything in the mansion. The nostalgia would kill him. He just wanted sunlight; fresh-air. To hear children laughing one last time before his speck of an hour was up.
By the time he made it to the front door, it hit him how much time he'd wasted. Hurriedly, he threw open the oak blocks and gasped.
It was winter, icy and cold, the sky peppered with snow-flakes and the ground blanketed in a thin sheet of ice. The people of Nibelheim were, surprisingly, outside, continuing their chores despite the sub-zero temperatures. Apparently, when one lived in a small-town like Nibelheim, the cold stopped mattering after awhile.
But even more surprisingly, no one seemed to take notice of the strange, emaciated man that had suddenly stepped out of the abandoned Shinra Mansion. Could Hojo have been working there so many years now that mutilated humans had stopped becoming a shock?
Vincent pulled the shoulders of his cloak down over his arms, shivering. What to do with only an hour of freedom?
"Guess I'll see if anything's changed . . ."
His boots crunched in the freshly-falling snow and his breath rose in small puffs upon the air. Nibelheim looked like something out of a fairytale, and all the buildings resembled ginger-bread houses caked with thick frosting. Vincent sighed.
I've missed so much . . .
But now he stopped, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously once more. There was a building tucked away on the side of the town as if someone had tried – and failed – to hide it. But what was most suspicious about it was how metal it looked. Almost like . . .
Screw "almost." There it was, tacked like a curse-word upon the door:
Shinra Electric Power Co.
"Fuck,"
So they'd come, and they'd built, populated, spread, etc. The Shinra . . . Vincent hesitated. Did he really want to go see what that building was? Ignorance is bliss, after all . . . But curiosity got the better of him, and before he knew it the crimson-eyed man's feet were carrying him down the road and towards the blob of gray in the distance.
And his heart sank like a stone when he got there.
It was a lab . . . Another god damn lab . . . And this one appeared to be in well use. As a matter of fact . . . Vincent now saw that there were people lounging around back. Their uniforms were uncannily familiar . . .
"SOLDIERs," Vincent whispered, his breath hissing on the air. "If the Shinra now have enough power to actually put the SOLDIER concept into effect . . . And they need that many . . . Then Shinra's actually trying to take over!"
Shit . . . I've been asleep for a looooooooooooooong time . . .
Vincent rubbed his remaining arm for warmth, debating whether or not to go in. He didn't really want to . . . Probably wasn't supposed to . . . Was he still considered a Turk? Could he risk it . . .?
"Hell, yeah!" Vincent snarled, shaking a menacing fist. "After all they've put me through, I have a right to poke in their business!"
And with that, he threw open the steel door and stepped into the gloom.
It looked like something out of Midgar. Men and women in long white coats bustled past, clipboards in hand and glasses resting upon noses. SOLDIERs leaned against doorways, comparing the sizes of their swords and model-numbers of their guns. Countless passages ran through the brightly lit construction, the lights powered by what Vincent assumed to be some kick-ass mako.
"How can the Shinra afford all this . . .?" he wondered aloud, gazing down the endless passages. Once again, no one seemed to take heed of him. Was he really nothing more than an everyday occurrence now? Was that what the Shinra had in store for the future of the Planet?
"Well, nerts to them if they do . . ." Vincent grumbled to himself. And thus he began to explore.
He saw more things that day than he had seen in years. Laboratories filled with glowing mice . . . Tanks of growing (and fast) crystals . . . Rooms full of the latest gun technology (stunners, paralyzers, noxious-gasses . . .) and even a fitness room for the staff (that earned a small chuckle from the ex-Turk).
But soon he came to an area that was obviously not meant for the everyday eye. Though the corridor was not blocked off in any way, no one went near it; as if some invisible boundary-line had been drawn across its threshold. Countless doors lined the sides of the hall until the end, where there loomed only one. And Vincent knew that one was forbidden . . .
"Hey, kid," he rasped (his voice was still a little rusty) to a SOLDIER standing nearby. The young boy had shoulder-length blonde hair and intense blue eyes. Eyes that held a strange, indescribable glow . . . The kid seemed like a snot, too.
"What?" the boy somewhat snarled, glancing superciliously at a group of his nasty SOLDIER-friends nearby. Vincent attempted to seem friendly despite his skeletal appearance.
"Um, I was just wondering what all those rooms were for and why they seem so . . . forbidden," he pointed down the empty corridor. The SOLDIER sneered at his miniscule gang and they all snickered like little sheep.
"Like, those are the mako-showers, duh,"
Vincent blinked, uncomprehending. "Mako . . . showers . . .?" Boy, I must seem pretty stupid . . .
Sure enough, the SOLDIER snorted. "Unbelievable . . . C'mon, let's go. There's no use explaining a mako-shower to some used-up old lab-rat . . ." The boy snapped his fingers and the other SOLDIERs followed him like herded cattle.
Vincent watched them go and felt the first stabs of neglect. Lab-rat . . .? Is that all I am . . .?
Now he turned back to the corridor, and gazed into its depths. The lighting was less there, and made the place seem spookier. Now that he thought, however, the whole "forbidden-ness" of the passageway made sense. The phrase "mako-shower" made it sound like there was an abundance of possibly pure, liquefied mako. And it didn't take an idiot to know that even a small touch of mako could lead to mako-poisoning, permanent brain-damage, mutation, and even death. So of course people would want to stay away from a place bogged down in mako.
Well . . . most people . . .
"Let's see," Vincent said aloud, trotting down the hallway. "Which door to choose . . . Mm, that one's too far to the left. Er . . . that's door number thirteen . . . bad luck . . . Ah, decisions . . . Decisions . . ."
Well, duh.
The solitary door at the end. There had to be something good in there . . .
Remembering that he had a limited amount of time, Vincent sidled quickly up to the steel block in the wall. He pressed his good hand against its surface and shivered. The metal was ice-cold. And – for reasons the black-haired man couldn't explain – there was a presence upon that door. Really, the only way to describe it was bad, bad vibes . . .
Fingers trembling, he slowly grasped the handle and pulled. The door creaked open slowly, and the Turk finally peered inside.
It was pitch-black. Not a sound could be heard. But before Vincent could even think of venturing further, the noxious smell of fossil-fuels hit him like a sack of bricks. Mako . . . The reek of mako was everywhere . . .
"Dear god . . ." he whispered, choking. Then he heard it. It was faint, and it didn't surprise him that he hadn't heard it before. It was the sound of running water. Like the rush a shower makes when put on a light blast. Vincent arched an eyebrow.
Is someone taking a shower in here . . .?
So, naturally, he stepped inside. The Turk had to feel his way through the room as nothing could be seen but black. He let his fingers glide across the steel walls, and his feet scuff around the floor in search of objects that could trip him. And all the while, the sound of running water grew louder . . .
Then he saw it; an image that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his blackened life . . .
A boy, no older than eight, standing beneath a cold, steel shower-faucet, allowing the glowing, phosphorescent liquid to wash over his delicate little body. The child's eyes were closed – whether in pain or boredom Vincent couldn't tell – and a faint glow was radiating from his frail skin. Vincent's red eyes traveled to the faucet-head attached sloppily to the ceiling and then to the water that spurted from it's porous mouth.
Mako . . .
"Kid!" Vincent cried, eyes dancing with horror. He ran forward and seized the child from the shower, blindly grabbing for a towel lying in the darkness outside the glow of liquid and pulling the child into it. The boy seemed shocked for a moment and then suddenly let out a howl like a wounded animal and began struggling desperately out of Vincent's grasp.
"Let – me – go!" he screeched, kicking furiously. "Do you want to die?! I'm covered in toxic sludge!"
Vincent blinked, then realized the child was right. He loosened his grip and allowed the boy to claw out of his grasp, wrapping the towel around his bare little body.
"Christ . . ." the kid snarled, looking disgusted. "What kind of an idiot are you?!"
Vincent jerked with surprise. "Hey, I should be asking you the same thing! What the hell do you think you're doing, standing underneath a faucet of mako?! Do you want to die?!"
The boy snorted, drying his skin and brushing past the ex-Turk. "Obviously it's not hurting me . . . So buzz off!"
Vincent watched the eight-year-old fumble through the darkness and heard the sound of a zipper opening. He couldn't see what the child was doing outside the glow of the shower, but he could hear the sound of rubbing fabric. When the boy stepped back into the light, he was – much to Vincent's shock – dressed in the garb of a SOLDIER, a sword in his belt and all.
Is this child . . . a SOLDIER?! At his age . . .?
"You should get out of here . . ." the boy muttered off-handedly. "Only SOLDIERs are allowed in here, and you don't look like a SOLDIER," he was eyeing Vincent's rail-like frame, the missing arm, the sickly skin . . . Vincent blushed.
"Kid . . . Kid, I have to ask. Why are you here? Why are they showering you in mako?"
The youth blinked, obviously taken-aback by the question. "B-because . . ." he muttered. With the child's guard down, Vincent stole his possibly only opportunity to take a good look at him.
He was young, that was for sure. But he already had the stretch of muscles forming on his body, which was lean and well kept. The boy's hair – which trailed down past his waist – was an odd shade of silvery-gray, reminding Vincent strangely of the metal-steel that seemed to symbolize everything Shinra. The boy seemed to scream growing power . . .
Feeling his gaze upon him, the boy turned back, eyes wide with curiosity and a bit of scorn.
"What?!"
Vincent nearly let out a gasp of awe. Those eyes . . . He'd never seen anything like them before . . . They were an electric, toxic green, glowing faintly even in the gloom. Their gaze was piercing, and an energy radiated from them that caused the ex-Turk's breath to catch in his throat.
Just like the SOLDIER outside . . . Vincent thought wistfully. They're showering all the SOLDIERS in mako . . .
But no matter what the resemblance to the "mako-eyes" of the other SOLDIERs, this boy's eyes were different. There was nothing else like them on the Planet.
Who is this child . . .? Vincent wondered to himself. There was something about the boy's face that the black-haired man just couldn't explain. No matter which way he looked at it, that face reminded him of something . . . He just couldn't put his finger on what . . .
"Listen, I have to go," the kid grumbled, reaching for a bag in the darkness and slinging it over his shoulder. "You really should get out of here . . ."
He began to brush past the Turk, when Vincent suddenly reached out a hand and caught the boy by the arm.
"Hey! What gives?! Let go of – "
"Just give me a minute!" Vincent snapped, getting down on one knee and twisting the boy's arm so that the back of his hand was facing up. His worst fears were confirmed . . .
Etched thickly on the child's hand was a dark, black tattoo reading a simple number: 1.
Vincent closed his eyes and allowed the boy's arm to fall limply from his grasp. The image of the rusted shackles flashed through his mind; the spotless, obviously-used lab table . . .
Hojo . . .
"Okay, kid . . . You can go . . ."
Vincent stood slowly, gazing thickly into the darkness and trying to keep the pain from pouring out of his tattered soul. The boy just stood there, staring up at the older man. His eyes seemed to be searching with their eternal emerald glow, and he was frowning stiffly with thought. Vincent noticed this and growled.
"I said you can go!!!" It came out a little harsher than intended, but the youth didn't even flinch. A barrier seemed to have fallen around him.
". . . Did Hojo . . . Did Hojo tie you up and poke you with needles, too . . .?"
Vincent's crimson eyes flashed and he slowly gazed down at the boy. Suddenly – despite the child's powerful SOLDIER physique – he seemed like nothing more than a scared little kid. There were tears rimming the child's illuminating eyes and his lip was trembling with the coming onslaught. Vincent's lip twitched and he nodded slowly.
". . . Yes . . ."
The child smiled sadly, sniffing. ". . . I hope you feel better . . ."
And with that, he melted languidly back into the darkness. Vincent strained his eyes until he could see the youth no more. He couldn't get that haunting face out of his head; those glittering eyes, the stern, proud face . . . And then it hit him and he remembered what it reminded him of . . . The face in the mirror . . .
That was his face . . .
". . . Sephiroth . . ."
With a gasp, Vincent threw himself into the darkness, feeling desperately for a strand of the boy's silky, silver hair . . . a tattoo-marred hand . . . anything . . .
But the child was gone . . . And in the comfort of the dark, Vincent collapsed to his knees and cried . . .
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"Time's up, Valentine. Back in the box,"
Vincent gave no sign that he had understood other than his following out the order. Climbing carefully into the coffin, Vincent nestled his head into the velvety pillow and waited for the bliss of the lid to eclipse the room . . . The only roof he'd ever known . . .
Of course, Hojo – who thrived on the study of human misery – caught the aloofness in his specimen's form. A small smile flitted across his pointed face.
"My, my, Valentine . . . Did we have a little encounter today?"
Vincent didn't respond as Hojo rubbed a blob of cotton onto Vincent's arm. Hojo sneered at the dull glaze over Vincent's eyes.
"Well, it's like they always say . . .
"Reality is a . . . cold stab in the back . . ."
And with that, he jammed the needle deep into Vincent's flesh and allowed the darkness of sleep to overtake him.
But no drug, whether real or not, could keep Vincent in a deep enough sleep to chase away the nightmares.
For now they would always plague him as his fingers curled around the small compact mirror . . .
Visions of accusing green eyes, thick with the glow of miasma, and a never-ending cry into the night . . .
My baby . . .
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A/N: *Shivers* Eerie . . . I love to write stuff like that. So how was it? Good? Bad? Undecided ^_-? C'mon! Feedback! Um, as I said, this story leaves room for interpretation. I gave it to a friend of mine and she pretty much interpreted that Hojo knew Vincent would run into Sephiroth and did it just to spite him. Also, that Sephiroth was showering himself in mako by orders from Hojo and that's why the lab table's so clean. Also, the building in Nibelheim (obviously) would have been torn down before Cloud found Vincent. I just had to write it in for the sake of the story. Um . . . Yeah. Also, my friend had an interesting thought. She said that when Sephiroth said "I hope you feel better . . ." it was because Hojo had been lying to Sephiroth and saying the experiments were some kind of medicine or something. I dunno . . . It's up to you. I mean, when I wrote this, I did it with many perspectives in mind. You can tell me what you think in a review, if you want. Or just agree with my friend ^_^