Monday

by La Cidiana

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Summary: In the past: Photographs and family feuds. In the present: Coffee and file cabinets. In the future: Corporate scandal and scars on skin. What's to become of all of this? *Chapter 3!*

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A/N: Whooo keeeyyy, here we go with the most boring chapter yet! Seriously, dudes, it's just people sitting around... like.... talking.

Example 1: Blah blah yaddah blah yaddah blah FORWARDING THE PLOOOTTTT blah blah yaddah.

Example 2: Yaddah yaddah blah WHAT PLOT? blah yaddah blah. Scalawag.

Ahem.

In any case, at least I'm working on this. XD Even if it takes me, like, two months and a half to get ONE chapter up. o_O;; But hey, at least they're fairly beefy chapters.... Right? ....RIGHT?!

Was lazy with rereading, as usual. So the usual pology for errors I missed. But still try to enjoy. ;3

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3: The Cold Creeps In

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Thirty years ago

Vincent almost felt a pang of remorse as he and Derrick departed from their train in the Nibelheim station and found themselves standing on the wooden slats of the station that served as the main hub of transportation in the picturesque little mountain town. However, it faded away all too soon into a different kind of regret---this one more selfish than the other.

Don't suppose they have many.... fun places round here, huh? He sighed more to himself than anyone, narrowing his eyes and bending down to snatch up his single suitcase from the ground.

No, not to my knowledge, was Derrick's unexpected response. When Vincent blinked towards him, the President smiled with a hint of surprising warmness. And don't worry about your luggage... The station attendants will be taking care of the load, and I believe that we have business to attend to as is.... Ah-hah.

Derrick flashed his teeth towards something far off, and Vincent looked in the same direction, dropping his bag and a sick feeling immediately engulfing his stomach at the sight of a group of far-too-obvious scientists, sticking out like sore thumbs with their stark-white labcoats.

Professor Gast! Derrick exclaimed genially, walking towards the group with self-assuredness in his stride as the researchers picked up their own pace. One of them, a man with short black hair at the front of the group, waved back in greeting.

You knew what you were getting into when you looked at the papers... Vincent berated himself. It was even part of the reason that you took the damn job!

Vincent hung back, trying not to make any eye-contact with any of the researchers as Derrick and Gast exchanged meaningless formalities and began speaking some gibberish about money and molar mass-----that is, the normal scientific jargon of researchers who double as business men with experience at weaving through bureaucracy. After a while of not being rooted out as by one of the scientists, he found himself regaining his usual cocksure attitude and glancing over the makers of Shin-Ra Inc.'s so-called

.....Not too impressive, if he did say so himself; besides Gast, there were two other men with brown hair; a mousy, freckle-faced one, and a dark-skinned one with a crooked nose. His eyes wandered over to the next person, and suddenly, he froze. A woman?

A very fine woman, indeed. He blinked at her a few times as she stood serenely, a clipboard carried in her hands as she watched Derrick and Gast's conversation intently. His eyes followed the curves of her body, or at least the ones he could make out underneath her white coat (I should try to get it off sometime...) to her face. Straight, brown hair tied back into a long ponytail, full lips, full eyelashes; romantically Spanish features. Two things didn't fit in with the exotic look, however: her light skin, and her green eyes. They shone brightly from behind her glasses, so intensely, that for a moment, Vincent thought....

She paused, seeming to sense his stare on her, and she glanced towards him, causing him to look away and whistle in an all too casual manner, hands in his pants pockets. She smiled thinly and looked back to the President and scientist, who seemed to be finishing up the exchange of words. (Playing hard-to-get, huh?) Vincent moved his eyes towards them as well.

Well, we certainly do hope you enjoy your stay.... Gast said, shaking hands with the man again.

Oh, I'm sure I will, Derrick returned. He smiled, nodding towards Vincent. Not sure about this fellow, however. What do you think, Valentine?

Oh, I think I could get used to this place, he said, about to turn towards the woman and give her a suggestive wink when he realized that the whole group was staring at him strangely, most prominent being the lady in question. Gast's look was more one of curiosity, and he walked towards the Turk. Vincent Valentine?

Vincent answered, feeling a bit self-conscious at the strange greeting. He shook Gast's hand tentatively as it was offered to him, and the scientist smiled a bit eerily. Edward's brother. I've heard stories----

Before Vincent could register the awkward silence, a boy of about sixteen years with red hair and thick glasses burst onto the platform and ran towards them. Gast----Professor Gast-------Mr. President, sir! He bowed slightly, panting from the weight of what seemed to be a very heavy bag underneath his left arm.

What do you want, Ricky? Gast asked with slight exasperation, forgetting about Vincent for the moment. The Bluesuit took the opportunity to slink back a couple of steps and rub his hand where Gast had shaken it.

Please, Professor----just a photo, that's all, the boy pleaded, for my Current Event report, y'see?

Ricky, I don't think now is the opportune moment to---

Oh, let the boy be, Professor, Derrick smiled, garnering a delighted grin from the kid, who set his bag down and began rummaging through it for photo equipment. Me you, and Vincent, here---come on, now, let's stand together.

Vincent found himself pulled into the group of three, smiling nervously as the kid set up the equipment at lightning speeds. Finally, he seemed to finish, and did a double-take on the three, shouting in surprise. Wow, a Turk! A real live Turk! That's incredible!

Good God, Vincent gagged inwardly. He reminds me of Eddie. A real nerd. Cept he hated Bluesuits...

Yeah, yeah, kid, I'll be giving out autographs at five, he said out loud, cleaning out his ear with a pinky.

The kid exclaimed, causing him to drop one of the pieces and snatch it up again, in an awkward manner.

Just take the picture, Ricky, Gast said. His photo smile was waning.

he said, suddenly, ducking into his refuge behind the camera lens. Okay, look lively, everyone!

They all smiled more-or-less as best they could, and there was a blinding flash followed by the roll of the film.

Yeah, awesome, the kid grinned. His smile faded when he realized the glare that Gast was giving him, and began packing up his things.

Well, then, Gast strained a laugh and clasped his hands together as he turned towards the other two. Shall I show you to the inn?'

Vincent glanced around for the woman, but she had dispersed with the other two scientists.

Whatever, he sighed, feeling for his coat pocket to reassure himself that his cigarettes were still there. I'll have a smoke when the doctors are gone.

*~*~*

Today

Rude didn't think he'd ever seen as many files as this in any one place in his entire life. Cabinet after cabinet after cabinet of pointless documentation and forms...

And still, no luck.

He'd forgotten the real gist of what he'd been doing, anyway, especially with the interruptions now and then wherein he would find the especially juicy file of a Shin-Ra executive and sift through the papers, chuckling now and then at a letter revoking a raise or traffic violation tickets. (He'd never known Heidegger had done so much drunk driving! And gotten away with it, too...)

But after hours of fruitless searching through manilla-colored folders and the papers within, this whole thing was proving to be rather... stupid. Twenty million.... Yeah, right. He'd be lucky to get out of this storage room without going blind. All this stuff was old, anyway; the rest had gone kaboom along with the old HQ. He briefly grumbled something about the stupid makeshift non-Shin-Ra police forces sending him to some godforsaken basement instead of actually letting him go through their current stuff... but hey. He couldn't afford to make a stink about it, seeing as they were the ones offering that potentially-bankrupting reward...

His red-rimmed eyes (he'd given up on his shades hours ago in favor of actually being able to see) wandered over towards a small drawer in the vicinity of where he had been searching earlier. It was locked, but the thing was corroded and rusted up and falling off of the drawer's handle as it was. Curious as to whether there would be useful information in there or not, he walked over and, giving a furtive glance of the eyes left and right, grabbed it and forced it open. The ensuing flurry of dust was enough to make him wish he hadn't.

He hacked, flailing his arms in an attempt to ward off the onslaught. When it finally did subside, he found that his his eyes were watering and was about to close the drawer back into its original position (this wasn't worth the pain...) when he caught a glimpse of the name on the file at the top of the pile within.

He coughed, grabbing for the file and realizing it was thicker than the others he had come across. Funny, he thought he'd already been through the late President's personal information earlier in the hour...

In any case, it was still too damn dusty to read anything under fourteen font under these kinds of conditions, so Rude grabbed the file and slinked out as best he could, slipping on his shades as soon as he had reached the door at the top of the basement stairs. After a moment of thought, he decided to hide the folder under his jacket as well. Who knew what kind of dirt could be in there...

The blonde girl at the receptionist's desk looked up blankly as he walked by. She swallowed the piece of doughnut she'd been munching on. Done already?

After three hours, I should hope so, Rude shot her a glare that seemed to translate from behind his sunglasses.

she murmured meekly, blinking once before pointedly focusing back on the computer in front of her and beginning to type again.

The Ex-Turk turned back towards the glass-paneled door of the exit just in time to bump into some black-clothed blob's shoulder. He glared and rubbed his eyes. He still couldn't quite see clearly because of that damn dust cloud....

he muttered, pushing his way out the door and cursing whatever drunken night in which Reno had convinced him that bounty hunting was a manifestation of all that was drop-dead badass. He could faintly hear the person give out a polite, Oh, I'm quite fine, from inside and he wondered vaguely at the fact that some people in Midgar were still courteous.

*~*~*

In the memories of a woman once young...

She had never seen her daddy so angry, ever. She hid out in her room that first day, though her fearful curiosity caused her to move from the safety of her bed to the air duct near the door and put her ear to the grate so that she could hear what her parents were talking about downstairs. She was almost sorry she did, though; some illusions about her father's innate purity were shattered----mostly the fact that he never cursed.

God... that damn bastard!!!

Shhhh, it's only as long as the President decides to stay here, mi amor.

Believe you me, it's going to be a while. The President never takes this much trouble to go on a day trip...



WHY does he always have to find his way into my life, WHY?!

He is your brother...

And that's why he should stay the hell away from me.

Edward, calm down, please! Your daughter is upstairs!

A small feeling of satisfaction from the girl.

And her. I don't want him near her.

Don't you think you're overreacting just a tiny bit?

The sound of a fist slamming down on the top of the kitchen table. I am not overreacting in the slightest----do you know what that man----that family-----has done to me?! That hierarchy of birth and blood and all the other pretentious pieces of pompous shit that they threw at me....!!!

But was that your brother's fault?

He was shaped by them, he followed their rules, he was the son a bitch who drove me out of that house----why don't you ask him?!

I intend to do just that.



With all the ranting you do about that family of yours, I'm interested in going and seeing just how horrible these people---or at least one of them----is.

No, no, no, Lucrecia, I told you to stay home with me, away from their arrival-----I----I am not allowing you to-----

To what? Last time I checked, I was free to talk to whoever I wanted to.



Edward, sometimes..... I don't know, but you make absolutely no sense----NADA. You need some rest....

I need nothing of the sor---

The girl gave a little hiccup of terror as she heard the thump of her mother's footsteps on the stairs, and she ran to her bed, climbing into it and snuggling under the covers as quickly as she could, hugging her teddy bear close to her chest and closing her eyes in the pretense of sleep. She heard her bedroom door open a crack---her mother peeking in to check whether or not her little Cherlita had heard the ruckus downstairs. Apparently, her daughter's guise had been convincing, because a second later, the door was closed again and Cherry was able to open her eyes in the darkness.

She breathed out a sigh of relief and proceeded to wonder about this uncle she was never supposed to meet. What a mystery, even moreso than Daddy's recent project down at the mansion! And dangerous, too....

A wild, risky idea formulated itself in her childish mind. She'd go seek out this uncle the next day.... Yeah, when Daddy was downstairs working and Mommy was off at her weekly meeting with the history people... Yeah, yeah! They always knew how she went out and played with the boys, so she wouldn't be missed, and she knew where the inn was---right nearby, down the street---not to mention her uncle's name: Vincent Valentine. it was a cool name, cooler than most, and he was the President's---the President's!!!----bodyguard. You had to be at least slightly awesome to be anyone's bodyguard....

Thoughts such as these found their way into her mind as she drifted off to sleep, smiling quietly.

*~*~*

Two years from today

Sightings in the second, third, and fourth sectors----bounty hunters and vigilantes alike going missing by the day... A brown-haired man with worried eyes looked up from a pile of papers held in his nervous fingers. His name was Fleming. This whole venture seems to be getting out of hand...

I know, a man with shoulder-length blonde hair said coldly, a faint frown of contempt on his well-hewn features. His hands were clasped together behind his back as he looked through a large window at a high-rise view of the dark-blue sky above Midgar. He wore a grey suit, with classy white dress gloves over his fingertips and gold, diamond-shaped cufflinks.

Sir, could I suggest that we take another form of--

the blonde cut him off, turning around and raising his chin, glaring down at his subordinate. Ice emanated from his dark eyes. There is no way that I am allowing that man to continue at large----not while a true Shin-Ra is on the throne will scum like that race through the sewers.

At least he hasn't gotten too far on his exploits... Fleming offered optimistically. If he had, he wouldn't keep coming back into the city...

Who knows? The blonde answered, turning back towards the window in frustration. Who knows how close he is to the truth so long as we can't even find him? We don't even know the location of his base of operation....

Logistics in our information tell us that it must be connected to the old subway...

the blonde murmured to himself. His voice was quiet. All of this--worthless....

Mr. President, sir! A man in the red uniform of a third-class Neo-SOLDIER burst through the double-doors of the office, breathless. He stood for a moment, taking in air harshly and deeply before the blonde spoke up in annoyance.



the Neo-SOLDIER tried his best to stand at attention without collapsing. We have a survivor.

Both of the other men in the room stood straight up, though Fleming was the only one with wide eyes.

Where is he? The President asked in a cool, calm voice.

*~*~*

The Neo-Shin-Ra's hospital wasn't too huge an affair, as most areas of it were under serious construction; it looked more like a clinic than an emergency wing at this point. Although there were sickly Neo-Shin-Ra employees scattered along the hallways, there were only three people actually being kept in beds: A worker whose head had been injured by a fall from one of the other Neo-Shin-Ra centers that were being constructed, a pregnant woman being held in until complications with her fetus were cleared up, and a man whose body seemed to be hooked up to nearly every kind of life support machine that the hospital had on its hands. The man himself was barely visible, a collection of bruises and blood underneath bandages and bedsheets, and one clouded eye and a half-opened mouth peeking out from beneath the white and red.

As soon as the Neo-SOLDIER stopped at the bed in which the pitiful thing was lying, he turned on his heel and saluted. (He seemed to have gotten over his bout of lung troubles.) The President nodded curtly and the uniformed man left, leaving the blonde alone with his nervous companion as a doctor approached them. She bowed her head respectfully and then began to speak.

He was brought in an hour and a half ago, she said in a professional tone lacking any sort of sympathetic feeling for patients that hospital doctors were expected to have. Bullet wound in his shoulder--went clear through, fortunately--broken ribs and fractures in his skull that correspond to a large fall, and gashes down his chest and arms. Both of those are broken, too---the arms, I mean.

The President nodded. The man that acted as his shadow only stood, wringing his hands intermittently.

On another note, we found some fragments like this-- she extracted a small shard of metal from her coat's pocket and deposited it into the President's waiting hand --in some of the deeper wounds...

the blonde murmured, turning the piece in his gloved fingers.

A harder alloy of it, yes, the doctor nodded. Our scientists are working on its exact composition right now. She paused, glancing towards the still figure in the bed. He called himself... Fang, I think. Kept ranting on about some sort of monster. Oh... She seemed to remember something and padded over to the bedside table assigned to this particular cot. The top drawer was opened and, from it, she procured a medium-sized firearm--(looked like a custom job, probably with illegal parts and mechanisms)--which she held gingerly by the stock and also gave to her superior. The President took it and checked it over with his quick, cold eyes.

There are scratches along the trigger--and indentations, he said, more to himself than any of those around him. Seems like something he'd carry, and a little heavy... With a narrowing of the eyes and the flick of a half-hidden switch near the end of the gun's nose, a thin blade about four inches long shot out from the tip of the barrel and the blonde smiled Ah, of course, the symbolic last defense.... He held the gun by the handle with his right hand and swung it in a nonchalant, yet utterly professional manner. The doctor and Fleming backed away a good two feet. Good use of extra weight---balanced, too---simply ingenious, the stuff they come up with nowadays...

The brown-haired man blinked several times, taking in all this information before giving out a tired sigh and sinking into a hard chair near the bed. As a second thought, he dug a hand into his pants' back pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one up and sucking up the smoke. The doctor didn't protest.

Without so much as a word, the President leisurely strode to Fang's bedside and leaned over the man with his piercing glare. He had to continue staring for a little while before the single working eye of the patient slid over lethargically to meet his.

Who did this to you? The President asked quietly, directly.

The shell of a man tried to blink, but only succeeded in making his eyes water. He let loose a raspy, confused string of haphazard words.

What... it did this... I told em--I told em it wan't a good idea, no it en't---but----but we caught it. We cornered it---the other guy busted in....

'Other guy?' The President echoed with faint curiosity. From the chair, Fleming raised his chin.

Fang continued as if he hadn't even heard him. Yeah----yeah, we was so sorry we didn't know it when it fell off the building and we went down. Wings! Wings and claws and teeth and blood! Fang's eye was wide now, his body tense and his single pupil dilated in the panic of a not-so-distant memory. Jergo--he went forward an' went down first----fuck him!---I tried to run but it caught me, caught me an' tore me to pieces an' threw me on the ground---I crawled away---but Jesus! Fuckin' Jesus!

Foam had begun to course from Fang's mouth, and the President gladly stepped back and allowed the nurse to come forward, and murmuring a few calculating words to herself, wipe the stuff from the side of Fang's pale lips. The President took a step forward as soon as the doctor had gotten herself out of the way, and he watched with his scrutinous eyes as the bounty hunter's broken body heaved with deep breaths. He waited until the panic attack had subsided, but made no attempt at being sympathetic when he asked his next question.

The other man. He paused. Who was he?

Fang was quiet for a moment, contemplating a response. His teeth came together in a lopsided grin.

I brought the gun like ya people asked, he croaked. That's five thou right ere. How much more you offerin' fer the info?

Funny you should mention this thing, the President smiled, holding the gun up and slowly inching the blade jutting out from it closer to where Fang's neck would be underneath all of the bandages. As I seem to be controlling where it goes, and right now, it's heading straight for something called your He pulled it back a bit as soon as he noticed Fang's breaths quicken. Unless, of course, you choose to cooperate with us.

The bedridden man was silent a moment, thinking. He had obviously decided to go with the alternative choice that the President had given him. I didn't get a good lookit him--not really wit' helmet n' all, some kinda getaway driver.... On a motorcycle... yeah... One fast shit. After it attacked---I was lyin' down, the monster'd disappeared--but I saw the same guy run up to the target---it. Throw off his helmet. Blonde hair, face all white n' banged up, like some kinda accident he'd been in... He helped it away... He looked up to the President with a pensive, distant eye. Come to think of it... He... he looked kinda like you.

For the first time during the conversation, the President showed an emotion other than cold callousness. There was a flash of fear in his eyes as he stood up, as if visions of destruction were dancing before him. It only lasted for a moment, however, and then the blonde had narrowed his eyes and was walking away. His associate stumbled to his feet; there was fury in his boss's steps.

I want his death certificate on my desk within the hour, he growled to the doctor, saying it low enough that his victim couldn't hear him. She only nodded and padded away to find some of the cleaner toxins they had in storage. Fleming stood in shock, watching his superior's slow pace down the hallway and the hollow sound of footsteps that accompanied it.

The brown-haired man exclaimed. He answered your question...

We can't let him live to tell the world that AVALANCHE isn't the only one behind the Kill Valentine' plot, was his cold response.

But that's not it---is it? Fleming persisted, jogging to try to catch up to the President. We knew he must have had a partner-in-arms all this time, just no one ever came back to tell us!

Silence.

Sir----Mr. President---------President Rufus, sir!

He finally turned around with his pale blue eyes showing the strange, dull hue that no one could never quite figure out, his face as calm as a deep ocean's surface on a bright summer afternoon.

I'd tell you, he pursed his lips. But then I'd have to kill you.

The President gave out a short chuckle and continued on his way. Come, Fleming. We have much to add to our investigation.

The subordinate tried to laugh, but found that his voice was caught in his throat.

*~*~*

Today

You burned the coffee.

Since when do I drink coffee?

Since you're too lazy to go down to the store and get some more tea.

Yeah.... Yeah, whatever....

H-HEY! Get up!

Cid winced as Shera pulled him by the ear and he was forced to go along with her as she pulled him out of bed. Ow-ow-ow! Fuck! Stop that!

She gave a sort of hrumphing noise as she let go and he scrambled to get something on over his pajamas; namely, a worn-out bathrobe.

Oh, and there's a letter for you. From Midgar... Shera's voice faded as she walked away.

Probably another anti-AV bastard who mysteriously got ahold of my address, Cid grumbled, scratching his head momentarily as he cursed the day Yuffie had discovered how profitable playing both sides could be. He followed her and headed into their small kitchen. Damn, it reeks in here...

Probably because you left it on since last night... Shera muttered. That, and you've never used that thing before.

Cid stared at it blankly, a confused look in his eyes. Why'd I ever buy it in the first place?

You didn't, Shera sighed, grabbing a plate of toast and a glass of orange juice and making her way towards their living area. Farder bought it for you last Christmas, remember?

Oh, yeah... Cid's expression turned into one of annoyance. He's been tryin' every trick in the book to get me to give him back his damn spear..... He tensed for a moment, as if remembered the duties he'd carried out with the thing, before sighing and focusing his attention back on the coffee maker. No way he's gettin' it back.... Poor bastard's senile; can't handle a dangerous thing like that.

You're incorrigible, Shera stated from the other room. And please turn off that thing, if it isn't too much of a problem...

Oh, right, that. He raised his hand to flick off the switch. I needed something to keep me up.... He completed the motion and the coffee maker's light went out.

Shera poked her head in from their living area, adjusting her glasses as she chewed on a piece of toast. What's wrong?

Cid murmured, but obviously, something was awry as his brow furrowed and his pace quickened. He headed towards the door to the inside of the garage, swinging in through it and clicking on the light; his figure blocked Shera's view of the interior of the room, even though she tried to peer in from another angle.

Cid grumbled, turning away from the door as he closed it behind him. He leaned back against it, one hand over his face. He dropped it and looked towards his vaguely-declared girlfriend with weary eyes. I need to go.

Shera answered. She wasn't surprised at the sudden statement; Cid was prone to making spontaneous, unpredictable decisions, especially when it came to traveling----he was a pilot. Where to?

To visit a friend, he grunted in response, ducking into their room and closing the door. The sound of rustling clothes and the opening and closing of drawers could be heard.

Shera called back, picking up her plate (now empty) and carrying it, along with her glass, to the sink and rinsing them off.

You don't know him, she heard his muffled reply as his heavy footsteps thudded around. He's a weird guy, kinda cold.... Goth. He paused. Part of the Crackpot team. The one none of the papers talk about---he hides away.... He knew most of the so-called news sources downplayed AVALANCHE and the recognition they deserved for their heroic actions, anyway. This was mostly due to the fact that the editorial pages loved bitching about the current quality of life in Midgar, and when AVALANCHE members were mentioned, it was usually in an attempt to villainize them.

Shera responded, pausing. She'd heard a lot about the AVALANCHE members, but Cid had never really gone into detail about the whole fiasco of saving the world, although he sure went out of town a lot for weird, secretive meetings and get-togethers. She preferred staying home, (and whenever she became curious to go, Cid talked her into a tactic called not fraternizing with wackos who were generally fucked-up in the head. Shera would respond, Oh, and what about you? You're one of them! Wherein he would grumble something and slink away.) This was why the only members she'd met had been Cloud, Tifa, Nanaki, and Cid himself. Shera never asked too many questions about what had occurred while the group had been active, which got the two of them into much less arguments about that and more into arguments about petty things that weren't as serious as they had been in the past.

Cid walked out of the bedroom and stood in the kitchen doorway. How do I look? He asked half-seriously.

Like usual, Shera yawned, and she walked past her familiarly-garbed Captain, wiping the plate and putting it up on the shelf. I guess you'll be taking the plane, then...?

Unless you want me to walk twenty miles in a day..... yes. He responded dryly, walking back into the garage. He came out carrying a heavy-looking cardboard box. I'll be back in a few hours... or more... He paused as he got to the entrance of the house, in the middle of the motion of kicking open the screen door. Make that pot roast you bought for tonight..... I'll.... he nodded as he walked out into the yard. I'll go get some tea while I'm at it.

Sounds good, Shera responded, back at the sink and rinsing off the dishes used during the previous night's Valentine's Day dinner. (It hadn't been especially romantic, mostly due to Cid's lack of anything out of the ordinary to say.) She heard the faint creaking of the plane being wheeled onto the street, and then if the engine being revved up and taxiing down to the small runway a hundred meters down from where the people lived in town.

Suddenly, she remembered something and walked quickly to the coffee table, where the morning's mail had been left. Cid's letter was still there, unopened, and she thought for a moment that maybe he would want it before he left. Then, she realized that that was ridiculous; it probably was more idiotic hatemail, nothing worth racing after him to place into his hand.

With a sigh, she paced back to the kitchen and continued with her chores before something else occurred to her and she took off her apron.

I never did check to see if he finished cleaning up there.... She thought to herself as she headed for the attic trapdoor down the hall.

*~*~*

Two years from today

Vincent opened his eyes slowly and painfully, his vision bleary as an unbearably bright light streamed in from above him. He tried to raise a hand to block out the light, but found that he was tied down somehow.

Don't move, he head Elliot's voice through grit teeth. I'm working on something.

Vincent was about to ask what exactly it was that Elliot was working on when a series of sharp, searing pains rushed from his limbs to his head, the most prominent of which was from the upper part of his right arm. He took a sharp intake of breath, but when his chest involuntarily jerked with the movement, he found he was belted down to the top of a table.

Calm down! Elliot hissed. The pain subsided for a moment and then came back again as soon as Vincent was still. Not my fault you decided to take on half an army....

Half an...? Vincent trailed off slowly, grimacing as he felt Elliot's knife dig deeper into his flesh. Flashes of guns pointed at him from the top of a building and the sight of a smoggy sky blowing dry air on his face bubbled up through his memory, and then a gap of blackness, just before seeing Elliot's face biting its lip in thought for a brief moment and losing consciousness again.

he said dully, realizing all too easily what had happened. His face twitched one last time as he felt a painful tug and Elliot breathed a sigh of relief as the pain finally began to fade away---for good, this time. He opened his eyes and beheld his friend's blurry face, smiling in a vaguely smug manner as he leaned over the table and dangled a bloody bullet in front of Vincent's eyes with a pair of tweezers.

This is what happens when you try to take care of things by yourself, the makeshift surgeon said, admonishingly shaking the tweezers in rhythm with his words. Jumping onto the stairwell of a building to distract them.... what in God's name were you thinking?

Hey, I took em out, didn't I?! Vincent scowled irritably, trying to raise his arms but finding that they were still bound. The pain, however, was all but gone; his regenerative body must have sealed up the wounds already.

You're just lucky I serve as a private doctor as well as a partner, Elliot's smile turned into an annoyed expression as he turned away and began gathering up his medical instruments. (God knew where he'd acquired them from...) After dumping them all in a large bowl of water and wiping his hands on a bloody dishtowel, he turned back and began to undo the straps, which were really only a few oversized belts tied over the table and buckled below it. Vincent growled, sitting up as soon as he was able to. He rubbed his bare arm with the other as if to warm it, only to rerealize that his left arm was an appendage of metal and shivering. He glared up at Elliot, slightly wounded. Was that really necessary?

Didn't know if you were going to flail or not, Elliot answered calmly. You're lucky you were unconscious for most of the time I was pulling those things out of you. And don't give me any of that nonsense about bad experiences' with doctors....

Wasn't plannin' to, Vincent responded, fishing his cigarettes out of his pants pockets and lighting one up. (His pants were the only piece of clothing left on his poor, pallid body.) He set down the pack and lighter on the table and took a drag, lightly tracing the contours of the scars that lined his chest absentmindedly with his gold claw. I don't remember much of any of that, anyway. A dark look flashed across his visage. El.... that guy---the bartender---he knew something...

Elliot paused for a moment (he'd picked up the bowel and had been rinsing off the instruments in the sink.)

he said quietly. He continued the washing motions. It wouldn't be a good idea to go after him at the moment, however. His bar is probably teeming with vermin at the moment, hoping you'll come back and join them. So don't.

Don't, don't, don't, Vincent grumbled in aggravation, sliding off the table and pacing around the room. Well, what am I supposed to do, then, huh?!

I've no idea, Elliot responded, turning back towards his comrade. He closed his eyes, sighing as he ran his fingers through his blonde hair and leaned back against the sink's cabinet. Vincent glanced up at him momentarily, just in time to see him stretch his neck sideways and expose the right side of his face. It was stark-white and wrinkled like the skin of an old man, but worse, as if candlewax had been layered on his skin, melted down to his chest, molded into gruesome shapes, and then left there to rot.

The badly-scarred man opened his eyes again---a sharp, cynical blue---and Vincent looked away, embarrassed for staring in morbid curiosity even after knowing the man for a long while. Elliot was silent, but not coldly. This quiet was one more calculative than annoyed. Vincent played along, sitting down in one of the chairs in the small living area that had been taken from the table and snuffing out the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray stand beside him. More impulsively than suddenly, he grabbed his sunglasses (also in his pockets) and put them on his face, glaring up towards Elliot as the blonde arched his normal eyebrow. (The one on his right side was filled with gaps of hair where bad gashes had once been.)

Is there really a need, he mocked Vincent's previous question, for those down here?

Vincent answered lightly, getting up from his seat.

Elliot responded, kneeling down and reaching for something under the sink. You should rest up even if you think that body of yours is done healing already. You can take my bed if you want; I'll sleep on the couch-------WHAT are you doing....?

Going out, Vincent shrugged. He'd slunk over to the closet and put a white, collared shirt on and was now donning his coat, along with a black winter scarf---Elliot's. He picked up his remaining glove and dangled it in the air dubiously before sliding it backwards onto the exposed part of his left claw. He shivered and slid his bare hand into one of his coat pockets. Damn.... it's gonna be freezing over there....

'Over there...?' Elliot narrowed his eyes. You're going on over to Wall Market, aren't you?

Vincent grunted in response. He was pulling on his boots and lacing them up. I need a new glove... and new info.

Elliot murmured quietly, putting a hand to the scarred side of his face. They'll be crawling the streets right now---searching... They know you were injured.

Vincent let out a laugh as he strode to the door and turned the wheel to open it. At this time of year? The only ones who go over there are the die-hard drunks and womanizers. And me.

What a loyal shopper, Elliot said dryly, his eyes following Vincent's path.

Fuck, you really should get to know this city better if you really need to know where to save me from the bad guys, Vincent shook his head a bit condescendingly.

Oh, but I do know it well, Elliot gave one of his dangerous smiles that could freeze over hell if it wanted to and Vincent realized automatically that he'd lost the exchange of banter. Uh, all right. I.... guess I'll be going, then.

Of course. Ciao.