Disclaimer: Don't own Final Fantasy VII, or Vincent, or Tifa, or any of the other Final Fantasy VII characters. Just inserting them into the machine of my imagination and watching what pops out.

Destination: Choices

by: thelittletree

(Sorry, not much happening in this chapter. Just filler, basically, until I can get to the next plot point, and just to establish a couple of things. Yup. Sorry it's short, too. And that it took me a few days. And...wait, nope, that's everything. Thanks for reading and reviews! Love you all!)

'The self is not something ready-made, but something in continuous formation through choice of action.' -- John Dewey (1859 - 1952)

Vincent was leaving the hospital. With Tifa resting in her room and the son who was not his son sleeping in the natal ward, untouchable for more reasons than simply the presence of the incubator, he had no reason to stay any longer. Had no reason to be anywhere else, either, but at least he could smoke most other places. And right now, that was a strong enough reason to leave.

As he walked through a corner waiting room, heading for a staircase he recognized from earlier, he happened to glance up. A strange thing, since he hadn't been paying any attention to his surroundings until then, but perhaps something had alerted him. Something barely familiar -- a breath of a scent, a sound, a subconscious glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

Cloud was hunched in a chair, one hand making finger tracks through his hair. And, almost against his will, Vincent recalled the boy-leader they had all listened to.

Sometimes in over his head, trying to stop the world from going to hell with a only group of nebulous followers for help. But always fueled, always a strength of hatred, of revenge, spurring him on. Spurring them all on. Like a stench radiating off of him, and it had probably been so complicated.

He'd probably ended up looking to the General, a man Vincent had seen once as a baby, and only heard stories about afterward -- a fairly cold man, brought up in the atmosphere Vincent himself had breathed in that basement coffin for thirty dissipated years -- for the guidance he hadn't had from a father. And then betrayed by the same man, and left searching for something to hold onto in a world that had probably seemed constantly and unchangeably precarious.

Always searching, and revenge never brought everything back. Not even love could do that. And Vincent could almost relate. Could almost feel a sort of pity.

Almost. Except for the fact that he never would have forced Lucrecia to feel guilt for the love that had failed. Even for the pain she'd caused him, he'd never accused her. Never would've abandoned her the way Cloud had abandoned Tifa, no matter how it had ripped him apart inside. And never would have put himself in her path again if he'd found her living happily somewhere. Would never have let his search for peace make him selfish enough to ruin her life.

And that was the difference between them. What made Vincent angry enough to continue walking past when Cloud looked up at him, features lined and haggard with worry.

"Is she all right?"

Made him angry enough to ignore him completely.

"Vincent, I just want to know if she's all right!"

But Vincent knew what Cloud really wanted. And sometimes, in a moment of anger when you knew you would never get what you wanted, you could do terrible things. You could decide that if you couldn't have her, no one would. Vincent had known those shameful feelings, once upon a time.

But he would never have been so weak, so selfish. Maybe he'd done a lot of things in his life that were unforgivable. Maybe it had been his hesitation that had killed Lucrecia, when it had been too late to try and save her. But at least he knew he hadn't pushed her to it.

That was something Cloud could feel guilty about, even if he hadn't caused her accident on the stairs. He had taken away a younger Tifa's happiness, health and desire to live. And now he seemed ready to try and convince her to leave a life where she'd found some peace, some happiness, to fulfill his own selfish hope -- the hope that, this time, it might be what he needed to be whole. And he didn't even seem to realize that he was doing it.

They were going to leave, Vincent had decided. Once it was possible, they were going to leave North Corel. Leave this all behind them. Because Tifa -- so vital, and both stronger and more fragile than she herself probably realized -- deserved so much more than that.

And he started down the hospital staircase without a backward glance. Because there was no reason for any of them to be looking backward.

Cloud didn't follow him. But Cid met him outside.

"She's awake?"

Vincent shook his head. "She was in some pain. She needs her rest."

"Poor girl." He was staring at the emergency entrance, puffing leisurely on a cigarette as he watched a group of paramedics perform their orderly scramble to get a woman on a stretcher out of the back of an ambulance. She seemed young and she was giving some disoriented whimpers as they moved her. "Must be a hard job," he commented quietly. "Life and death, in and out everyday, and you're just tryin' to get your paycheck so you can go home and kiss your wife and feed your kids."

He hadn't had a wife and kids, no one to feed or shelter but himself. But, in the end, most of the time being a Turk had simply been a job, just a paycheck. Just life and death, clocking in and out everyday.

But then he could also remember smoking sometimes on his balcony in the early, early morning, looking out over the parts of Midgar he could see. And smirking at the idea of all of the families, all of the children and mothers and fathers who took it all completely for granted. All of the false security in front of him, all of the false immortality. All at the mercy of his employer. And sometimes, in that gray area after he'd arrived home, before he'd finished his cigarette and had gone to bed, it had gotten to him.

"Vince?"

Even then, amidst the jokes of some of the others -- jokes made mostly out of jealousy or fear, when even co-killers had been disgusted by his detachment -- it had gotten to him. Some of them were old, old nightmares.

"Vince, you okay?"

And he took a breath. "A hard job," he admitted quietly, "to see evidence of your own mortality everyday."

And then there was another, older woman being helped out of the ambulance. The girl's mother, maybe, crying and holding the hand of one of the paramedics as he led her into the hospital after the stretcher. And Vincent caught the moment between them as the man leaned down to say something to the woman, and the woman nodded and shifted her grip on his arm a moment before glancing at him. Maybe gratefully. And then they were gone from sight.

"But it probably has its rewards."

Cid took another drag, still looking after the man and woman. "Yeah, I guess."

And Vincent felt the subtle shift, knew the change in routine, in his recent emotions, had wreaked some havoc on his internal schedule. Knew he would have to go hunting again, just to be sure. Knew it would have to be soon.

And wondered if someday it would be about more than the blood and the paycheck. Because he'd had to admit some pleasure in knowing Lily was proud of him for getting rid of the monsters around Kalm and Nibelheim. It was a job of life and death, to be sure, but now on the acceptable side of the spectrum. And strange that he'd never thought about it like that before.

"They're going to be making supper soon." Cid took a last drag and flicked the spent butt into the grass. Squinted at the sky, and Vincent had a feeling it was an old piloting habit. "You wanna make an appearance? Reeve's supposed to be leaving tonight."

And Vincent thought about it for a moment and shrugged a little. Pulled out a cigarette and rolled the question around on his tongue for a second or two before deciding to ask it. Even though he knew it was the kind of question that people tended to reciprocate.

Tifa had told him once. And he hadn't wanted to acknowledge it then. But he knew now she'd been right. He couldn't hide forever.

"What do you do in Rocket Town?"

Cid turned to him suddenly. Surprised, Vincent thought, by the personal venture on his part.

And then the pilot smiled and reached for his own package of smokes. Banged one out into his palm and slipped it between his lips. "Careful, Vince." Muttered around the cigarette, and then he was reaching for his matches. Held the flame out when he was done so Vincent could light up. "Someone might start to think you're lookin' to have a conversation."

And though Vincent made no reply, he learned more about planes and spare parts on the way back to the hall than he would ever have cared to know.

And Cid learned about a way of hunting that had nothing to do with guns.