Blood Feast

Chapter 6: The Devil's Flight

Vincent practically paced a hole in the floor of Bugenhagen's sanctuary while Yatsui and his friends surveyed him in general silence, apart from Barret's noises of vocal restraint, snorts and coughs and the occasional whisper to Marlene—yet the little girl had always been the sensible one when she needed to be.

He'd gone over events in his head so far. It started with the Ying-Yang, soon followed by the bats. That solitary Dorky Face. The flustered griffins on the way here to Cosmo Canyon. The Stingers, crept up from where they were usually quite content to remain stalking the cool, dank iron-rich caves meandering below them. Long before that, the gunman existed mostly undisturbed. Or had he not noticed because there was a world that needed saving and enemies lurked around every corner like life was going out of style? Was he a monster beacon all along?

Vincent glanced over at Yatsui, who stood straight against a far wall, half-open eyes peering back lifelessly.

Or is it him?

He was a stranger that preceded these strange events. Was he a monster, too? Was he the one that started whatever was happening, on that evening who knew how many weeks and months ago, following Meteorfall?

Monsters existed everywhere, the damned beasts. They came in all sizes, shapes and forms, even human, whether natural or unnatural. Races, religions, and creeds among them were another story that few dared to broach. That aside, Vincent had never really considered monsterkind before. In the beginning, in his beginning, they were simply nuisances to be dealt with when they carried children off, razed crops down to the roots, overran human civilization, gummed up the works in Shinra's plans. They still were. But what need did the Planet have to create this kingdom of beasts to coexist with mankind? They were more than simple animals. Scientists, of course, pointed to evolution. If given to legends and myths, others considered Jenova the mother of all monsters when she fell eons ago, twisting whatever she touched into something unrecognizable.

The Calamity from the Skies. A monster in every sense of the word. Ruled by blood, governed by greed, bound by warped ambition—all of these the sinews for the body of some basic alien instinct far beyond their understanding. She was a mother of monsters, stepmother to his sin.

So, then, was it her, the be-all end-all culprit? Was it Jenova that masterminded this? Was his body and blood finally rebelling against him, seeking his torment, his death? Or some other ploy that the cells had in mind for the gunman? All these possibilities were enough to send him reeling off the cliffside. He wasn't fond of the idea of monsters trying to make a meal out of him. Or worse.

"What to do…" Vincent grumbled.

"Vincent Valentine, there must be something that can rectify your problem," Yatsui said with genuine concern, almost too genuine. Then he murmured to himself, "If not, then…"

"It must be the Jenova cells. Now that she, their source, is long gone and dead, maybe they're spoiling? There's nothing to call out and sing to them, like the Reunion would have done. But I still feel these demons. Were they something… else entirely, then? Of course. Hojo was trying to one up Gast. Of course."

"But shit, man, what them monsters come for?" Barret asked, clueless.

"Well, from much of what Vincent's said, it has to be him," Nanaki explained. He chuffed then added, "I mean that smell is rather…"

"There may be…" Vincent started to speak but stopped and pondered the rest in quiet.

"What are you thinking?" Yatsui asked. Vincent shook his head slowly then made a move for the door.

"I need to be alone. Gather my thoughts."

"Wait a second. Can't we do anything… to…?" Nothing but the tail of his cape caught Tifa's words when he left. She'd been the only one to rise to her feet in light of the gunman's departure. And she was tempted to rush after him. But everyone knew how much Vincent liked his personal space. Even after all that time they'd spent traveling together in the past, he was still wary about letting others close. Or it was merely a knee-jerk reaction that he had yet to grow out of.

At least he had a reason this time, whatever it was.

Vincent returned to Nibelheim to prepare himself. With every little errand to gather essentials, he couldn't help but glare over his shoulder like a hawk. He expected Yatsui to pop up out of nowhere the way he'd been doing, as if his company were welcome. It wasn't. It never was. The strange man was getting to be a pain in the ass.

Thankfully, he never showed his pale face once. This time.

But the evening before his departure, the skies would attempt to cloud over with those mutant bats again, the dogged pests. Vincent would spend a couple of hours cloaked in repellent materia on the roof of the inn, picking them off in little bunches when they dared swoop down a little closer. So, despite the 'rotting smell' that plagued him, monsters just couldn't fight the power of materia. They'd failed to get a good trace of him, so the gunman exercised his free rein to put them down in their confusion, all without breaking a sweat.

It was a good night. The wings and fangs from the corpses fetched a fair bit of gil at some of the shops, which Vincent then pooled into his personal funding.

All the while he wondered. There was no one left in this world to really figure out his current condition. Those who'd been intimate with his body in ways he wanted to forget were long since gone. In some ways he was grateful, in others he didn't know what to think or feel. But there should always be records, right? But first…

He had an obligation to fulfill. His journey.

To the City of the Ancients. The Forgotten Capital.

Like Cloud, Vincent came here seeking something, or some things. The solitude, the thoughtful decadence, last but not least the memories, to name a few.

The city was a shelled memorial to days bygone, more spiritual, austere and pure; of a people beloved by the Planet before Jenova wrought her disease upon them. Those people might have died off, but the city remained untouched by the Calamity from the Skies. Houses of bleached shell and stone petrified by time, the lonely ghost of a doomed utopia, that was this city. The winds of Coral Valley moaned on and on, forever lamenting its loss of the Cetra.

Of Aerith.

Vincent hefted his bag over one shoulder, double checked the small pouch thumping against his hip bone with each breeze or movement. He sighed, surveying the fossil metropolis ahead of him. "So quiet, so empty," he'd muttered. The wailing, whistling gales tossed his hair from side to side, stray locks throwing webs across his face. The air was cold and salty-sweet, gritty, too, from its careful and perpetual grinding down of the city. But there was nothing here, no one but him. Perfect.

He heaved his shoulders, beginning his hike down through to the city's inner limits, where the real wonders—and memories— lay. Though he had no clue how to use it, Vincent liked sitting by the Holy Machine, marveling at its design, mulling over the device's manipulation by the late bobbing Bugenhagen to spill out eerie music and images. Aerith's last moments. But he was sure it was capable of more than that.

"Hm."

"Why did you come here, of all places?"

Vincent groaned aloud, suddenly all too tired.

"Yatsui." He spun around to find the man just standing there with the wind looking as if it would blow him over and away. How the gunman could only hope. "Why do you follow me everywhere? I don't need someone like you constantly looking over my shoulder. So just what is the point?"

Yatsui took one step forward.

"I don't need a guardian. Hey, thanks for whatever you've done so far, but now? I can solve this alone, so if you'd kindly make your exit…"

"I cannot leave you, not just yet… You may not feel it so plainly now, but your pain I see so clear that it permeates the air, mystifying me. All this pain, you were not meant to have. Haunted by these shades of a dreary past, you were not fated to be." Yatsui advanced upon Vincent until they were nearly face to face, distanced only by Vincent's claws pointed in warning. "For so long I have observed you since the first day I laid eyes upon you. Your ache, I feel it as though my own but it is not… I cannot bear to see you this way. I cannot bear to see anyone this way. So, Vincent Valentine… Give me your pain."

"What?" Vincent's trigger finger twitched towards the gun at his hip. The monster finally reared its head, something the likes of which he didn't expect coming from this man, or any man. This was his game. Some lunatic scoping the crowds for what he assumed were those precious troubled few. And when he got them alone, unguarded, he struck in the guise of a sad faced man offering absolution.

Vincent wasn't defenseless. Instead of drawing Death Penalty on Yatsui, he bent quickly for his Quicksilver. Not as imposing as the rifle, but it remained a sure sign of caution.

"I am saying… lay your pain onto me. Let me bear it for you, for I see in your eyes how much you desire your life to be yours again, without hindrance. Give me your pain… Vincent." Yatsui outstretched his arms as if to bring the other into a loving embrace. Vincent recoiled accordingly. His shift in behavior, in words, it unnerved him. All this talk of taking his pain sounded absurd. It begged consideration, though. Some tiny part of himself was tempted. If he could stop the monsters, all the monsters, what a burden he'd lift. And, who knew what else he was capable of, if he truly was capable? Just like that. Tempting, mildly tempting.

"No," insisted Vincent.

"I am meant only to suffer; I have long ago come to this conclusion. Do not worry about me. I have learned to endure. Nothing can hurt me more than what has already befallen me. So, please, Vincent Valentine, lay your pain, your sorrows, your sins, unto me and be free. Give me your despair."

"You're nuts."