Chapter 3

The darkness was his only cover as Reno crept across the rooftop, the gun in its holster, EMR in hand and two throwing knives concealed within his jacket. It was one thing to be brave, but quite another to be stupid. Reno was a Turk, and as such never walked into anything unprepared if he could help it.

It was probably about three hours until dawn when Reno reached the small house Vincent Valentine called home. It rose up, a dark silhouette in the gloom, slightly better maintained than most of the other houses in the area. A short, slatted roof offered cover and possibilities for entry, but the second floor window looked much more promising. The walls offered enough traction for climbing, and there were no lights he could see coming from inside. With any luck he'd be able to take Valentine by surprise, but Reno sincerely doubted that.

Vincent Valentine could best be described as a recluse. He lived by himself in a small, obscure home in the east of Midgar. No one around the place knew who he was or cared to find out; he was just another face in their daily routines that came and went without bothering them. He worked somewhere, presumably, since he caught the train at the station first thing every morning. Some evenings he returned with groceries, and others he didn't. Other than that, he was an unknown and that was all there was to it.

Outside the east quarter, however, he was something of a legend. The mysterious gunslinger had not only helped to bring down Sephiroth two years ago, but was also widely known to be the best shot in the city, and quite possibly the world. His abilities with his weapon of choice were almost mythical, and young boys who knew the story of AVALANCHE looked up to him and aspired to be just like him.

Besides that, however, no one knew much about Vincent. He kept to himself mostly, keeping as low a profile as he possibly could. None of his neighbours knew if he had any friends, and many would have been quite surprised to find out that he occasionally dropped by the newly opened Seventh Heaven bar to visit Tifa and whoever else happened to be around. He worked at a gunsmith's to earn his living because he would never have condoned living off of the money they'd been showered with just after Meteor. It was no small secret though that if he chose to he could put every sharp shooter in Midgar out of business.

The man would never have any such desire, of course, but it was the perpetual fear of every marksman. Reno found the whole thing vaguely amusing. His own knowledge of Valentine's current affairs was not much more detailed than anyone else's, although he'd experienced the amazing gunmanship first hand. Also, he was probably the only living person on the Planet, with the possible exception of Reeve, to have read through Valentine's files. He'd skimmed the past stuff back then, concentrating mostly on the profiles of known strengths and weaknesses; stuff that was vital to the mission. It would have to be enough.

Anyway, none of Vincent's doings bothered Reno particularly because of the simple fact that he was going to kill the man. First, he would find out in the most deadly and excruciating means possible why Valentine had killed Merdan, and then he was going to kill him. If Reno died in the process, well, that was just another possible outcome. Not that he intended to die tonight, but he was a realist and the possibility was always there.

The night hid Reno entirely as he scaled his way down from the overhang, finding foot and hand holds where to a less-trained eye there would be nothing. His dark jacket wrapped around him, the same color as the sky.

The drainpipe descended on his right, and went straight down past the window. Deciding to take his chances on it, he swung acrobatically across before sliding quickly and efficiently toward his destination. Kicking one foot out to carefully and quietly slow himself, he came to rest softly beside his target, about six inches from the window. Reno withdrew a tiny blade that was no wider than his finger. Ever so slowly, he reached across, balancing his weight on the narrow windowsill, before gently and expertly cutting a circle with a diameter approximating the span of his own hand.

Re-sheathing the tiny glasscutter, he eyed the window critically. The next movement would be dangerous, so it required all of his concentration. The window was a double and fairly wide, and the sill reached out about two inches all around the window. Nodding imperceptibly, he moved back to get the leverage he needed.

Using only the drainpipe and the wall, Reno swung away as hard as he could, using the momentum to swing up to the window ledge and grip it with both hands. In one deft movement he was up, setting his back up against one side of the window, and using his feet to keep himself from plummeting down.

Gradually, he leaned forwards. This was something Tseng had taught him years and years ago just before a stealth mission. While he'd mostly improved on a lot of the techniques and invented his own where that failed, this one had stuck with him. Very carefully, he placed his hands along the outline of the newly cut circle, thumbs and forefingers touching to seal off the crack entirely. He waited. Gently, the sensation of pressure building against the palms of his hands could be felt. He could feel the glass pressing against his fingers, and, with a half smile, he pulled steadily outwards. With only a small whisper, the glass fell softly into his outstretched hands.

There was no need for the extra glass, except to keep it from making sound, so Reno placed it out of harm's way on the far end of the window ledge before proceeding.

Although Valentine was a former Turk, he feared little in the way of alarms. Who would be stupid enough to try to break into the house of a former member of the group that saved the fucking world? Besides him, he meant. Anyone who didn't know what they were doing would probably be shot through the temple instantly by the resident, even if he or she managed to get as far as inside. No, there was little to no reason for alarms, so Reno reached his hand into the hole in the glass confidently and was rewarded with silence.

The latch on the inside of the window was easy enough to undo, and a quick survey of the slides found it easy enough to open and well greased. Reno had no trouble at all sliding it open and propping it that way to secure an escape route. It was not especially cold tonight, so there would be little change in temperature to alert Valentine should he still be awake.

A quick peer into the gloom showed nothing unusual, so Reno took a chance and swung his legs over and inside. His feet hit what seemed to be a wood floor, and he automatically adapted his steps to rolling ones to minimize unnecessary sound.

The house was well maintained. In fact, it looked hardly lived in. Reno noticed this peculiarity first, even amongst the shadowy furniture. He found himself in what seemed to be a study of sorts; all four walls were covered by mahogany bookshelves, with a coffee table in the center featuring a globe as centerpiece, a long, unused looking sofa and the door presumably just out of Reno's sight behind one of the shelves. Standing up straight, he kept next to the wall and took in everything he could. The furniture was expensive, but about the only thing that looked used were the stacks of books that were stacked on top of the table and shelved in perfect alphabetization along the walls.

Out of curiosity and a lack of any feeling of imminent danger, Reno took a step towards the shelves. Even just a quick appraisal of the collection showed it to be filled with books of every kind: fantasy, science fiction, biographies, and quite a lot of philosophy and medical science. He was rather surprised as his eyes ran along the spines of the hundreds of novels and collections; he'd never thought of Valentine as a reader.

"And what else am I supposed to do in my spare time, exactly?"

The cold, monotone voice that seemed almost to read his mind froze Reno where he stood. He fought to regain control of his legs, and turned to face his enemy.

Vincent Valentine stood in the shadows of one of the shelves, next to the door, blue moonlight falling across the part of his face not hidden by his cloak. Long, dark hair fell across his shoulders and across his face, especially black in the shadows. His crimson eyes watched Reno easily in the darkness, calculating.

"You might as well have used the door. I've been waiting for you."

Each sentence was crisp and unfeeling. Reno cursed. Valentine had been able to predict his every action, and accurately to from the looks of things. Reno thought quickly, his thoughts racing. The only way out of a tight situation was unpredictability; it had been his trademark and his saving grace more than once back when Shinra was still around. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on Vincent, a smile on his face.

"Oh, I don't know, Valentine. I kinda expected you to be out sucking people's blood or something." The tall gunner did not so much as blink. His face remained carefully unchanged, impassive.

"I believe you and I have something to settle."

Reno said nothing.

"Neither of us will be satisfied until the other is dead. You know this. I know this." He stared fixedly for a moment longer. "Let us commence." Reno watched him without fear, but with apprehension.

In the beat of a heart, Reno had rolled behind the thick, dark green sofa as the first carefully aimed bullet smoked into the floor where he had been standing only an instant before. Reno acted quickly, knowing fully well that survival depended on perfect timing. The couch afforded him little cover, and he probably had only seconds before Valentine would work out how to get at him while keeping himself covered. The problem was that there was nothing else in the room. Yes, Valentine had set this trap well.

What did he have that he could use? Not a hell of a lot. In the confines of his head, he swore violently. Did he have a chance? Probably not, but he was a Turk and Turks did not work based on chances. They worked for pride, for revenge and for the fight itself. There was no room in that kind of a world for chances. So now, time almost seeming to slow around him as he heard the muffled click of Valentine taking aim, his hand shot into his pocket and pulled out a small yellow and blue matchbook. Deft fingers repeating an action they knew too well at high speed, a match came alight and his hand shot out.

Vincent didn't realize what was coming at him when he saw the tiny light fly forwards; only realized that he was about to be hit and ducked out of the way. The three seconds this took were just enough for Reno to shoot forward from behind the couch, gun in hand and finger already closing around the trigger.

Silver fire blazed out, and the crack of each shot rang through the silence. Reno never stopped moving as he crossed the room with his back to a shelf, using the pistol for cover fire. It seemed to him almost to be slow motion as Valentine ducked down, cape billowing down around him, his own pistol at the ready as its muzzle came up to match Reno's own. He heard the answering shots; saw Valentine start to move as burning bullets streamed across the room.

The next move was his. Checking his motion suddenly with a last dire hope of throwing Valentine off, he virtually threw himself forward. Too soon the gun cracked again, and Reno dropped down instinctively, turning the pitched dash into a roll. He came up on his knee sharply against the coffee table, and let his ground-in instant reactions do the work. His hands and right foot darted out, and books went flying everywhere followed by another volley from the gun.

His foot connected almost agonizingly with the edge of the table, but it went up, and then he was down again, using his shoulder to push it up as a makeshift shield. He stopped only when it came to rest perfectly on its end, just a little under a foot taller than him. The only sound in the room was breathing. Valentine's, and his, he realized. The stillness lasted only a second.

Reno threw all his weight against the table, as time seemed to roar back with full force all about him. In the half of a second before he was moving again, he registered that he only had five bullets left in the cartridge, but there was nothing to be done.

As the table toppled over with an ear-shattering crash Reno took an all or nothing dive for the sofa again. Too late. He heard something from the right, and he lashed out with his left hand, shooting somewhat frenetically towards the sound as dove for the gap. How many bullets were gone now? All of them? He had no time to count as he went sprawling into the floor, using a desperate kick off from the floor to try to get completely out of range. The last thing he saw before he disappeared again from sight was Valentine stepping calmly back into the shadows of the shelf next to the door. Right back where both of them had started. Appropriately, Reno let himself silently swear violently, times two.

What was left? No time to check the gun. Better to assume it was empty, and only rely on it if things got really bad. No time to reload. All right. That left only one thing to try.

He was thinking like a Turk again, he realized dimly as he reached for the daggers. All motives were forgotten and only the battle, the moment remained. Tseng had told him that once too, hadn't he? That when it came down to the wire, it was what separated the true Turk from the pretenders. Not just the drive for survival, but also the drive for blood, for the struggle. The need to see the opponent's blood spattered against everything. Perhaps it was true. All Reno knew as he pulled his knee up was that this was life and this was death and this was what a Turk was.

All Valentine saw was the dark shadow erupt from the behind the couch, saw it twist towards him and a left arm go back for a throw. Somewhat caught off guard, it took him a fraction too long to swing the pistol around. What looked like liquid silver drove straight for him and he saw another one coming too. In that moment, all he could do was take the step he had room for and hope it was enough.

Down again, Reno heard the pointed thud of the daggers hitting… what Valentine? The wall? He stood where he was for the space of three breathes: poised, hidden. But all around him there was only the absolute silence of nothingness. No, there was nothing left for it but to take a chance and lay himself open to surprise attack.

Ever so slowly, he stood up. Eyes pierced the darkness, hunting warily for the deadly silhouette that was the gunman. He did not need to look far.

Valentine stood against the wall, closer to the door than he had been, almost statue-like in his frozen stillness. His cloak was pinned by two daggers, embedded deeply in the wall. He blinked, watching Reno carefully, although his gun was lowered. Puzzled, Reno stood up straight to face Vincent. He had missed, and he should be dead. Reno was unable to see the gunman's face now, lost in the shadow of the bookshelf as it was, but it did not matter. His eyes trained to the gun itself. It was the only thing that mattered.

Valentine's voice startled him.

"Nice throw."

Of course it had been a nice throw. You didn't waste your entire life the way Reno had without picking up a few tricks along the way. You were either competent, or you died. Vincent just nodded.

"I think we should leave." Reno just stared at him uncomprehendingly, gun held tightly in his left hand and fingers at the ready to test how many bullets he'd shot earlier. Valentine still showed no trace of emotion or concern in either his voice or countenance.

"We should remove to elsewhere. I fear that shooting holes in my furniture may be counterproductive." Reno stared at him for a moment longer before answering with a carefully chosen word.

"What?"

Valentine slowly stepped forwards, his gun always by his side to indicate he was no immediate threat unless menaced. The faint light slid across his face again, and his eyes burned into Reno's. There was no humour there, only a deadly intelligence whose intentions seemed highlighted by the bloody red of his gaze. Reno was beginning to feel definitely edgy. He coughed.

"Right, vamp-boy. Where did you have in mind?"

His own voice sounded papery to him; unreal and certainly nothing like the cocky bastard he was trying very hard to be right now. Valentine only watched him, eyes always reading, understanding. Reno hated it.

"Anywhere. Although I suggest the old highway."

Reno just let himself nod, not trusting himself to speak. He had no quick line that hadn't died in the bonfires of Vincent's ice-cold stare. He watched somewhat dumbfounded as Valentine turned his back on him and disappeared out the hallway door without a suggestion of fear. Looking down to stare at his own gun now, Reno neatly checking something he'd suspected.

He looked back up at the door and wondered if Valentine had known it was empty.