Author's Notes: Sure... this story isn't my main one, but I had to keep writing in it... the images won't leave my head... so, those of you waiting for the next chapter in Fear Not will have to wait.

I hope I expressed Vincent's personality as I thought it might be before he was 'changed' by Hojo... and I had Luciel sort of share the same traits, only so they might have some common ground.

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Vincent made me feel strangely privileged to hear his story. About his love for Lucrecia, about his Turk business. Yet hearing of his affair with Lucrecia was a torment, because his eyes filled with light and pain all at once, chased down by darkness with guilt. Only someone profoundly dear to a man could make a man's eyes do that. Vincent's eyes did this. For Lucrecia, and for Lucrecia alone.

My eyes watered toward the end of his tale. For some reason, I didn't know what to say. There were long minutes of silence before Vincent spoke again.

"Luciel," he said softly, leaning forward to touch my face. I wanted to shy away, but I felt compelled to hold still. "Why are you crying?"

"I-I don't know... I'm just.. a sucker for sappy stories... I mean, not to... demean what happened to you--"

"It's alright. I know what you mean. My tragedy is attractive to you. You are an artist, and you are entitled to your feelings, Luciel. Don't be sorry for them."

Once again, I opened my mouth to speak but, naturally, my creativity failed me as did my mouth muscles. So I closed it instead, the muscles rising with amazing ease into a smile. "Vincent... you're an artist, too... a murderer doesn't read poems and ancient dramas by dead playwrights who probably lived too long ago to even matter. But they do matter... and that's what we have in common, I guess...

"I should have been born in a time when there were chocobo-drawn carriages bearing kings and princes to distant kingdoms. But that's just... nonsense. Do you feel like that sometimes...?"

Vincent crossed one leg over the other in the manner I'd gotten used to when I have asked him a good question. He nodded slowly, his eyes fixating on a distant star beyond the city lights, making me wonder just what he thought sometimes about his own life. Did he think it was worthless? Was it terrible?

"Life seems too complex to think about but too irresistible to discuss. I have a theory that even if I was born where swords instead of guns were used, I still would have been some type of assassin at some point or another... circumstances rarely changes. If I had been born, as you said, in a time where it probably wouldn't matter, perhaps we would have still become somewhat as we are now."

"Hunh...that's a scary thought... maybe I would've been a bard instead of an actor. What's the medieval equivelent of a prostitute?"

"Brothel boy, perhaps," Vincent supplied with what I realized was a teasing smirk. My heart nearly lurched into my throat and I had to restrain myself to keep from jumping up and down and crowing my joy.

"And you," I chuckled, leaning forward slightly. "You would've come and rescued me from being forced to sing retarded songs that nobody likes... for a cruel, dumb lord of manor."

"And travel together, you lulling the dragons while I cut off their heads--"

"--And celebrating by getting roaring drunk in a tavern. And falling madly in--" Slow down, partner. I took a breath and laughed, shaking my head. My lie felt like a straight-jacket, limiting me to what I truly wanted to say. I felt I couldn't... say what I thought could happen. Because here, it wouldn't, and to dream about it was to be foolish.

That's what dreams were.

Foolish.

Vincent looked at me, and our little moment of laughter vanished. Like a pleasant buzz in a sunlit backyard lawnchair after a beer or two, it was gone in a jarring instant of realization. With dawning despair I felt my life twisting itself around my little lie. I was trapped.

"Luciel--" His expression was a torment to behold. I concentrated on his shirt instead, absorbing the finer details of it. If he let himself look past it, into where I knew he couldn't possibly go without promise of shame and guilt, I'd never forgive myself.

"Don't," I said finally. "It just slipped. It's just habit."

The gunman lowered his gaze, before turning his head from me, gazing past the city lights again toward the blackness of the sky. I squirmed in my chair, biting a fingernail.

A knock at the door made me almost jump out of my skin. I ended up biting the tip of my finger and cry out in grumbling agitation. "Don't answer it," I whispered, but he was already standing and turning toward the door.

The dim street lights did not mask the shadow that suddenly broke the glossy perfection of the bay windows in the living room. The curtains tore with a grating sound that seemed louder than the glass. Time slowed down when the figure, dressed in black, rolled to a crouch beside the coffee stand. The same instant, as though my world was a movie and it had been edited.

I couldn't remember how I came to end up on the floor. But my senses burned with alertness. I could hear the sound of the city below, car horns blaring, people shouting, the sound of bits of broken glass falling onto the carpet. Vincent crushed me to him, bent over me protectively behind the couch. His hand clutched my own as tightly as I ever clung to him in times of terrorism. His gaze fell easily like a warm ocean breeze, sweet and sad and deep.

His face bent close to mine and he whispered in a wavering manner, "Stay put. Don't move from this spot."

He released my hand, his body passing over me as he crept along the floor, reaching behind his back to grip a pistol I hadn't even noticed before. I sat up slowly, curling up against the back of the overturned chair, straining to hear what was going on. Silence, except for the sounds from outside and the dripping of the sink.

Gunshots cracked through the compromised shell of safety I had felt so keenly in the apartment. Several of them, in swift order, fired back and forth. I ducked my head, covering my ears until the cracks of thunder stopped altogether. I saw spots in front of my eyes. The only thunder remaining was of my heart pounding.

I peeked around the couch. My concern for Vincent mounted, putting aside my feelings although they drove me to look, to make sure he was alright.

Vincent pinned the intruder, sitting on top of his back with the other man's gun cast aside. I saw the man writhing slightly, a pool of blood leaking out from underneath him, staining Vincent's perfect carpet.

"He's not a terrorist," Vincent said, knowing I was listening. "He's from Shinra."

The man lurched one final time, failed to dislodge Vincent. "Which means--"

"There's more?" I croaked. "V-Vincent, we... we need to leave!! Y-You can't stay here... why are they after you anyway? That's--"

"Quiet." Vincent stood up, staring down at the man. "He's dead. But there will be more. I knew... I knew this would happen."

I came up beside him, touching his arm. "Th-Then we'd better leave... What will happen if they find you? Is it because of... her?"

Vincent did not respond. Instead he bent, casually turning the corpse over onto its back and ridding the assassin of the second pistol secured in a holster at his side, including four clips in a compartment adjacent to it. He secured them to his own self, grabbed his jacket and keys. I stumbled after him, shoving my feet into my sneakers as he headed toward the stairs.

That's right. If there are more of those guys, they'd try to kill us by cutting the elevator wires.

Gunfire met us almost immediately. Vincent jerked back, throwing his arm to push me back against the wall, returning fire and slowly migrating backwards. "Run closely behind me," he ordered. "As close as you can. Trust me... I'll get you out of here safely."

I nodded, clinging to his arm. Suddenly I wanted to cry. I bit my lip to keep from crying, gutting out my fear and my apprehension. My heart crashed against my ribcage where I thought maybe a ravenous beast ought to be living for all the fury it showed.

And down we ran. The furious bullets zinged, pinged off of the walls while I followed Vincent, the brave warrior, stoic and cold and merciless as his bullets met nearly every single one of their marks, bringing one after another wayward soul to the Planet's spirit count.