Chapter 26

Tracking down the present whereabouts of Kain Dawson wasn't particularly difficult. At least, not once Vincent had discovered his latest alias. The conman was currently mired in an insurance scam, passing himself off as one Rikos Mitchell and conniving as many of Midgar's paranoid residents as possible out of large portions of their savings.

Vincent lurked in the streets of Sector Two's lower plate slums, waiting for the man to put in an appearance. The troublesome part was that he wasn't totally sure what the man looked like. Every photograph seemed to show a different face, so they were of little help. The best he had to go on was a description from one of his sources down here. Taking into consideration that the aforementioned source was more often than not drugged up to his eyeballs, Vincent didn't hold out much hope that the description was in any way accurate.

So he remained wandering the street, keeping his eyes open for a man who might just fit in with what he knew.

After another hour, he decided that he'd looked in just about every shop window it was possible to look in. Any more and he'd be even more conspicuous than he was already. Spotting a small café over the road, he opted to take a break. Well, not so much a break, he reasoned. It was an excuse to sit outside and keep an eye open, even if he did have to nurse a coffee for a few more hours.

It proved to be a worthwhile idea. Not ten minutes after he'd parked himself in a chair, a man who met all of the sources' characteristics walked into the café.

"Rikos Mitchell?"

The seated man looked up at the sound of his name. He saw a tall presence towering next to him. Smart, suited and quite out of place in the slums of Midgar. A confused expression passed over his face, followed by one of suspiscion. Something tugged at his memory.

"Do I know you?" he asked. "You look familiar… Did you buy a policy from me? Because if you're dissatisfied with your insurance in any way, the small print does tell you…"

Vincent shook his head. "I'm not a client. As such."

"Eh?"

"I have a proposition, Mr Mitchell. Or perhaps" he whispered, leaning closer, "I ought to call you Mr Dawson?"

This time, the range of expressions that the mans' face twisted into was almost comical to behold. After going through more confusion, surprise and worry, it finally settled on shock and panic. Things fell into place very rapidly after that.

"Turk!" he yelled, and bolted out onto the street, knocking over his chair and table, which sent his teacup flying into another patrons' lap. Vincent cursed. He hadn't expected the man to do a vanishing act, at least not this early in the proceedings. He hurdled the prone table, and sprinted off in pursuit, oblivious to the alarm caused in his wake.

He immediately spotted his target, running like a man possessed down the main road. The conman was no match for the finely tuned muscles of a Turk, and soon Vincent found himself gaining. Mitchell / Dawson made a break, hurtling down one of the side roads. According to Vincent's calculations, this was a bad move on the part of the runner. Sector Two alleys invariably ended up in dead ends, so it was just a matter of time.

He caught up with the man just as he ran headlong into one of the dead ends. Cornered, he looked frantically for an escape route. Catching a glimpse of a fire escape ladder attached to one of the buildings, he made a valiant attempt to climb it. It started a few feet above the ground, so he had to jump to get a grip; a task made all the more difficult by his refusal to let go of his briefcase. Apelike, he swung himself up and started scrabbling up the ladder.

Vincent took a second or two to appraise the situation, before pulling out his gun and firing. The bullet hit the top of the ladder, breaking clean through the mechanism that was holding part of it in place. Precisely the part that Mitchell / Dawson was using. He screamed in terror as the ladder slipped back down its tracks to the ground, taking him with it.

Caught like the proverbial rat in a trap, he took the only option left available to him, and collapsed into a gibbering wreck at Vincent's feet.

"For Odin's sake, don't kill me!" he begged, clutching his precious case to his chest. "I haven't done anything wrong! That insurance is guaranteed, just don't kill me!"

"Mr Dawson" Vincent began wearily, "if I wanted to see you dead, your body would already be cooling off in this alleyway." He tucked his gun away and hauled the conman to his feet. "As it is, I simply want to talk to you."

Dawson still regarded him with suspiscion, but he had to admit that when the Turks were trying to kill someone, they usually succeeded pretty quickly. He dusted himself off and tried to regain some semblance of his composure.

"OK, just don't call me 'Dawson'" he said. "I haven't gone by that name in years."

Vincent ignored the urge to roll his eyes. "I noticed that, Mr Mitchell" he commented, emphasizing the alias. "You're a difficult man to pin down."

Mitchell straightened himself up, evidence of pride appearing in his bearing. "Damn straight" he agreed. "And not without reason, too." His wariness took over from the pride once more. "So why are you after me? Is it the insurance?"

"No, it's not the insurance."

"The housing then? I swear on my mother's life that I didn't know those places were going to get demolished the week after I sold them…"

The Turk did roll his eyes this time. "Mr Mitchell, you don't have a mother. She died seven years ago."

Mitchell's double take was something to behold. "How in the hell did you know that?!"

"I know a lot about you" revealed Vincent casually. "I know about your family, your life, your little schemes… I'm guessing you've hit hard times if you're back down here in the slums."

The conman shuddered. "My last business venture didn't work out as well as I'd hoped" he confessed. "Though quite how you know so much about me…"

"Mr Mitchell" Vincent sighed. "It's my job to know about people. People like you, in particular."

"People like me? But I haven't interfered with the Turks or anything!"

Vincent was beginning to question his judgement over letting this man join the Turks, but persevered, even in the face of adversity. He was sure it had never been this difficult before.

"I told you that I had a proposition for you" he said. "The proposition is this: I would like you to join the Turks."

"You want me to what?"

"Join the Turks. We are in need of a fourth member and you could fill the gap."

Mitchell seemed lost for words, a fact which Vincent found not at all unpleasant. He seemed to be gathering his wits. Clearly this encounter was not turning out as he'd thought.

"Let me get this straight" he began. "I recognize you now, you're Valentine, aren't you?" Vincent acknowledged the name with an inclination of his head. "And you want me to become a Turk?"

"I do."

Mitchell chewed on his lip. "How much of a choice do I get in the matter?" He regarded the Turk infront of him, who responded with a slight quirk of his lips and a small movement of the hand back towards his gun.

"How much do you think?"

The conman smirked briefly. "So you are here to kill me."

"Not necessarily. You do have the choice."

"But my options are limited to join or get shot, right?"

Vincent smiled a smile without humour. "An accurate assessment."

Mitchell looked around him and gave a melodramatic sigh. "But I'm soooo happy with my life the way it is" he intoned. "The endless line of morons, the useless business partners, the sleeping in the slums…"

"Welcome aboard, Mr Dawson." Vincent gave a genuine smile this time, before herding the man out of the alleyway. One hundred percent track record still untarnished.

"For Shiva's sake, I thought I told you not to call me that!" Now he'd realised his life wasn't in danger, Mitchell was beginning to return to his usual self.

"If you're joining the ranks of the Turks, you will not go by any of your aliases" Vincent informed him. "And for the record – 'I thought I told you not to call me that, Sir'."

- - -

Late that night, Doctor Hojo once more found himself in the basement laboratory. For some reason he didn't seem to need to sleep as much these days. Instead, he preferred to spend as much time down here as possible, close to Jenova and the comfort she provided him with.

His lab stool was drawn right up close to the specimin tank, and he leaned against it reassuringly, absent mindedly caressing the glass structure that housed the Ancient.

Jenova herself appeared inanimate, oblivious to his ministrations. Yet in his mind she talked to him constantly.

"The female is progressing well" the creature informed him. "She has the ambition I need and the seed has been planted in her mind. Already she is warming to the idea of becoming the host, though she does not yet know it." A note of satisfaction edged into the mental voice. "Things have been more acceptable without the Turk to hinder progress."

Hojo's face contorted at the mere mention of Lucrecia's partner. "Him! He has been nothing but trouble since the beginning! We are far better off with him out of the way." His voice dropped to a malicious whisper. "Out of the way permanently would be even better…"

The Cetra, having taken over Hojo's thoughts long ago, knew well his hatred for the man Vincent, and was pleased by it. "He will return. Eventually" she stated, "and he will not like what he will find here." The doctors response to that was plainly visible, even to one who did not have access to his brain. "He may have to be dealt with again. Perhaps" continued Jenova sweetly, "perhaps I shall give him to you this time."

There was no real need for her to increase her hold over Hojo, she already had him as pliable as she could ever desire. But to ensure his continued devotion and loyaty, she found it was always helpful to throw the occasional bone for her puppets. It made them love her all the more, drive them to even greater heights… Or depths. So she observed the scientist grovelling and fawning for a while, amused by his obsequiousness and willingness to serve.

"Make the suggestion to her in two days time" she instructed. "If she has not already thought of the idea herself, that is."

Both human and Ancient chuckled, in their own ways. They knew full well that Lucrecia would not agree to the plan of her own accord, that the extent of her co-operation in this part of the Project was controlled by Jenova. Certainly, she would think she'd made the decision herself. But the reality would be far from that assumption.