Conversations with Lorelei
Author's Note: No...I'm not dead. One catastrophe after another, however, kept me from getting this up sooner. Included in this list are the breakdown of the computer I had it saved on, the flooding of my basement, and the refusal of my college internet to work. So...yeah. Here it is. Please don't hate me too much.
At any rate, this focuses on Barret, and continues the story of Cloud's daughter, as well. I think that I've gotten far enough by now that I don't need to write a disclaimer, so without further ado, onto the story.
The Cradle was Bare
When Lorelei made her way to the kitchen, that morning, she fully intended to find something at least marginally nutritious to have for breakfast.
"Well, that figures..." she muttered, as she opened the refrigerator, "The one time I try to care about what I eat, and everything's gone."
She looked up at the ceiling, spreading her hands in a shrug.
"Is this some kind of sign?" she asked, "God, or whoever...do you really mean for me to live on sugar? Is Vincent the devil incarnate trying to make me drink milk and eat mustard?"
The girl waited, holding the pose for a few moments as though honestly expecting an answer.
"Well, yeah, I guess that's fair," she grumbled at last, walking over to the door and slipping into a pair of battered tennis shoes, "If I wanted a quick, straight answer, I should've asked one of those eight-ball things."
She pried one of the floorboards up, taking out an old tin lunchbox, the design long ago worn off of its sides. She shook it, and sighed a bit at the rattle. It was where she kept her secret stash of gil, but from the sound of things, she hadn't remembered to stash away nearly enough.
Still dressed in her pajamas, her blonde hair by now more matted than tangled, a pair of oversized, unlaced shoes on her feet, and a few gill in the lunchbox she swung, Lorelei opened her door and walked out onto the main street of Nibleheim. If she was at all aware of how utterly ridiculous her appearance was, she concealed it well, indeed. For once, the stares of the small town's people did not quite manage to bother her. She made her way to the market, seemingly oblivious of what others might think.
Perhaps she had come beyond that point.
...Or perhaps she was simply too tired and hungry to care.
As Lorelei made her way to the Shinra mansion later that day, she swore under her breath with every step. Not only had she found it fairly difficult to carry her groceries home, but her entire secret savings had bought only enough food, she estimated, to last around three days.
'Oh well...'she told herself, though her attempt at optimism seemed disturbingly strained, even to her, 'Ian should be back, by then.'
She nervously fingered the gun holster hidden under her baggy sweatshirt, but found that the gesture actually managed to put her even further from being at ease.
"Why did I bring that thing to the market, anyway?" she murmured to herself, "I mean...it was just a little walk across town. I've walked there a hundred times, and nothing's ever happened. What on earth possessed me to wear that gun? If Mr. Terrings found it, I'd be in some serious trouble..."
The girl chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, looking back on her actions the past several days. What would her brother think of her walking right into the Shinra mansion? It was true that Ian had never forbidden her from entering the ancient building. Indeed, few of the parents in Nibleheim bothered to place that restriction on their children; it was simply assumed that anyone at all would know better than to open those heavy, rusted-iron gates. And what would Ian say about her going back to the mansion, and learning to use a weapon? The most strictly-enforced rule he had ever placed upon his sister was an order to avoid fights with others entirely. Did hunting the ghosts and monsters in the mansion, using them for target practice, count as breaking that rule?
Her steps became more hesitant, as she drew closer to the mansion. She stared at the overgrown weeds below her feet, and started when she heard the hoarse cry of one of the ravens.
"Just what the hell do I think I'm doing?!" she asked herself aloud, even as she stepped up to the door.
She leapt back a full six inches when the door opened.
"Whatever the answer to that question may be...you are late..." Vincent's voice told her, "Now, I suggest you come in, and keep me from having to hold this open for the rest of the day..."
Lorelei swallowed hard. She obeyed Vincent's command, walking across the threshold, and peering around at him. The black-haired man was mostly-hidden behind the open door, and closed it in a way that kept him from the sights of anyone who might have been outside.
Somehow, the pale man who seemed to move all too easily in the shadows unnerved her far more than the first time she had seen him. He seemed more foreign to her, now, as he closed the door, blocking out the sunlit world; the silence of his footsteps was enough to awaken fears that had previously been dormant.
"Miss Calldrick?" he inquired, his tone almost bored, no surprise in his crimson eyes as he looked to her, "Would I be correct in assuming I frighten you?"
"N-no," she said, unconvincingly, "Of course not, Vincent. I just-"
"...I see..." he responded, his tone unreadable, "Very well, then....You may return the pistol I lent you, and leave at once..."
"...you could at least sound a little disappointed," Lorelei said softly, pouting a bit.
"After what I have told you, do you honestly believe the simple absence of an uninvited guest can possibly shake me?" he asked, his voice smooth and cold.
"I-I guess not..." she said, staring down at the floorboards.
"...Well?"
The girl glanced up to see him holding out his hand, palm-up, his face as much a stoic mask as it had ever been. Her own hand seemed somehow heavy, as she reached for the gun, unclipping the holster from her belt and placing it in Vincent's outstretched hand. Her movements were slow and painstaking; she did not want to risk touching his skin, even by accident.
Without a word, Vincent began to walk away, doubtless back toward the staircase that would bring him to the mansion's basement.
Lorelei stood there awkwardly, for several moments, simply looking from the man's retreating figure to the door.
"Aren't you even going to say goodbye?!" she demanded at last.
"I see little reason to," he replied, without turning to face her, "You are leaving this place, and do not seem to plan on returning. I will remain here, and do not plan on leaving. I should think the farewell was implied."
"Maybe it is, but that...that just isn't the way you're supposed to do things!" she protested.
"This place belongs to me...or perhaps I belong to it...while I am behind these walls, I will do as I please. You are capable of several things, Miss Calldrick. Inspiring me to follow your orders is not to be counted in that number."
"It isn't polite not to say goodbye!"
"Nor is it considered courteous to make demands of one's elders."
Only when Vincent was out of sight, vanished once more into the shadows of the mansion, did Lorelei begin to run in the direction he had gone.
"Wait! Wait a minute!" she called out, "I didn't mean to say all that-or, well, I didn't mean to think it, and have you nigh-well pick it out of my brain! I just...I'm confused, is all!"
Lorelei gave a bit of a startled cry when she felt a light tap on her shoulder, and wheeled around to see Vincent behind her. He dropped the pistol at her feet, and took a step back.
"Gather your thoughts quickly," he told her, "For once, I have little time for your indecision."
"You don't have time?" the girl asked, puzzled, "What's that supposed to-"
"It means what I have said," the black-haired man interrupted, "If you plan to leave, the matter is none of your concern. If you plan to stay, haste is needed."
"You expect me to make a decision like this all at once?" Lorelei half-demanded, half-whined.
The cold look Vincent gave her could have been a backhanded slap, the way it made her wince.
"It is impossible to have 'enough time' to make any decision, Miss Calldrick, and always far too much time to regret the outcome. Life is a study in taking blind leaps across perilous chasms, if one ever intends to get anything done."
She bit her lip, wondering what sort of insanity had taken hold of her, and picked up the gun, clipping the holster to her belt once more.
"...You are more of a fool than I thought," Vincent said, even as he turned and quickly strode toward the staircase once more, "Perhaps you will be an asset, after all."
"Um...Vincent..." Lorelei began, jogging to keep up with Vincent's long-legged strides, "What exactly did I just get myself into?"
"If I tell you, the knowledge will only get in your way," he told her, quickly starting down the rickety, wooden steps, "Knowing your enemy is often an advantage...but occasionally, it is better not to know what you face."
"So pretty much," she surmised, "Whatever we're going to try to kill is way out of my league, but you want me to think I have a chance."
"Well...yes....those were my intentions..." he admitted.
"No worries," she grinned, waving a hand to dismiss any disappointment he might have found at, for once, having his plan so plainly read, "I try doing stuff I know I can't do all the time. Just last month I broke my ankle jumping off the roof and trying to fly."
"...I do not know whether I should be discouraged or heartened by that..."
"It's a good thing. If I didn't do insanely stupid stuff, I wouldn't have ever come here."
"Yet you ask me to see this in a positive light?"
"Whatever's going on sure makes you cranky," Lorelei observed.
As they reached the bottom of the staircase, Vincent turned to her.
"You would be in a mood no better than mine, had you awakened as I have."
He paused for a moment, and a hint of doubt and worry seemed to come to his crimson eyes.
"You have made great progress, in these past days...but you are still very much a novice..."
"Oh, come on..." she said, scoffing, "I'll be fine. If my utter lack of wisdom hasn't killed me yet, I doubt it ever will. Besides...so what if it does? It's not like you have anything to lose"
"Perhaps the wisest statement you have yet made," he observed, stopping before the door to the room that held his coffin.
"In there?" Lorelei said, glancing around him, despite the fact that the door was closed, and she knew, full well she would be unable to see inside, "Great! Let's get to it!"
She backed up several steps, nearly tripping over her own feet. She had been on the receiving end of Vincent's cold glares before, but never had his crimson eyes seemed to hold as much frigid anger as they did in that moment. She opened her mouth to scream, but could find no voice, as he drew his own weapon, and leveled it at her chest.
She knew the black-haired man never had the safety on.
"This is no game, little girl..." he told her, his voice not raised in the least, but making her tremble, nonetheless, "In that room...is a ghost beyond all you have seen in this place...the restless soul of a great warrior. He is our enemy now, but was not always so...You will regard him with respect, or you will leave this moment, to return only on pain of death..."
"I-I'll be good," the girl murmured, still wincing.
"Then prepare yourself," he said simply, turning from her and swinging the door open.
Lorelei thought, for a moment, that she was hearing a rather hyperactive echo. Gunshots burst through the air, impossibly fast, and it was not until she saw a half-dozen bullets clatter to the ground near her in the space of a few seconds, and then simply fade away, that she realized that this was a fight in which distance was not to her advantage.
Vincent had ducked into a roll that carried him, smoothly, to the other side of the room, giving Lorelei her first look at their opponent.
The figure was taller than Vincent by a full three inches, and much more thickly-built, his muscles bulging, stretching coffee-colored skin that looked all too real. One shoulder seemed locked in place, his other arm helping to brace whatever weapon he held in front of him. It seemed, for all the world, as though he must be holding a machine gun, judging from continual rattle of fire. Only every several moments did she manage to spot Vincent, and then he was only a flash of scarlet and black, somehow managing to dodge the ghost's fire.
Swallowing against a lump in her throat, her stomach churning, the girl raised her own pistol with trembling hands, clicking the safety off, aiming, as best she could, between the shoulder blades of what looked far, far too much like a living man, closing her eyes, and pulling the trigger.
The shot missed its mark entirely, streaking through the air and grazing Vincent's cheek. It was enough, however, to make the ghost turn on its heel, and, as Lorelei's blue eyes opened, she saw that there was, indeed, a sort of machine gun involved; it was attached to her opponent's arm in a fashion reminiscent of her mentor's claw. Where its eyes should have been in the ghost's broad, hardened face was only a blank, blinding glow, glinting off of the few gold chains around its thick neck.
The rattling shots came again, and her scream, this time, found a voice, as she felt agony rush through her left arm, the Quicksilver pistol clattering to the ground, even as the girl fell beside it, tears streaming down her face. A dark stain was quickly spreading on the sleeve of her sweatshirt, her cries turning weak and mewling, the whole of her body writhing in pain.
Perhaps she only imagined seeing the figure of her adversary lower his weapon, the blinding glow leaving him, replaced dark, soulful, horror-struck eyes. Perhaps she only imagined hearing him speak.
"I-I didn' mean...!"
The figure faded away, along with the rest of the world, and all the girl could hear were a few strange words spoken in Vincent's smooth, quiet voice...
She awakened with velvet against her cheek, lying on her right side, her left arm still throbbing. The girl didn't bother trying to move or open her eyes, just then.
"Vincent," she groggily murmured, "Why am I in a coffin when what I did wasn't caused by my own stupidity?"
"It wasn't?" his calm voice inquired, "...then I must ask...what caused your injury?"
"The ghost shot me. Duh," she said irritably.
"...and why did it do that?"
"Because I was fighting it."
"...and what made you think you could fight a ghost, Miss Calldrick?"
"The hell?! You told me I could!"
"...and just how did you meet me in the first place?"
"You've got to be kidding me...I came in here and met you."
"...and why did you decide to come into a haunted mansion?"
"...because I'm stupid..."
"It is good to see that you can, at least, be led to logical conclusions," he commented, his voice entirely lacking expression.
"Yeah, yeah, live it up," she said, groaning a bit, as she sat up, "Dammit, that hurt! Why did I do it?"
"...must we really go through that again?"
She gave him an expression somewhere between a pout and a glare.
"You're only getting away with that because I feel bad for shooting you," she muttered.
"And well you should...Shooting Barret's ghost at nearly point-blank range, while he had his back turned, should not have been a difficult task..." Vincent told her, seeming to be entirely serious.
"It wasn't that," the girl said, bowing her head, "He just...he looked like a person! The rest of the ghosts weren't like that...how am I supposed to just shoot somebody?"
The black-haired man turned away, at that, and silence reigned for a long while.
"...you deserve a bit of credit," he said at length, "For using a tactic I would never have been able to...it was you, after all, who banished his spirit..."
The girl looked distinctly confused, which seemed to allow the gunman to regain his composure.
"I...suppose I will have to explain why seeing you hurt...played upon one of Barret's weaknesses..."
Lorelei grinned.
"Yay, story time!"
"You grow more irreverent with every passing day..."
"Yep! Part of being a teenager; rebel against everything, write bad poetry...pretty soon I'll prob'ly start thinking about getting tattooed or pierced or something. I'm thinking of maybe getting a gold chocobo on my back. I hear it's good luck-"
"...may I continue, or shall I get a book to read until you've finished...?"
"Did anyone ever tell you you're a really bad listener?"
"No...but I have seldom been subjected to lectures on planned voluntary scarification."
"See, that's the trouble with you. You take fun stuff and make it sound all icky."
"Consider it payback, as the novelty of sleeping in a coffin seems not to impress you..."
"...so yeah," she said, rubbing the back of her neck with her right hand, "How 'bout that story?"
"Yes..." he murmured, with the slightest nod, "Where to begin...?
"Every man, however well trained, has a weakness; with many, the harder they train, the closer they come to having a body made of stone....the softer their hearts become. Barret Wallace was such a man. Before what history mistakenly called our great adventure, he took in Marlene, the daughter of a friend he believed to be deceased, raising her as his own. When Tifa met her own inglorious end, with Cloud's whereabouts unknown, Barret made Naomi Strife his second daughter.
"The arrangement worked almost perfectly for many years. Marlene enjoyed having a 'little sister', and raising Naomi seemed to lessen Barret's grief at the loss of a long-time friend and comrade. How strange it is that a man so efficient, who let himself become the epitome of a killing machine, who made a weapon of his body, could not bear to be away from a pair of little girls. How strange that a man once branded a terrorist was happiest nurturing children who were not even of his own blood...Strange, but true. I cannot say whether his path was right, in the end.
"Time marched along, and, in its cruelty, offered opportunity beyond imagining. Marlene, Naomi's elder by ten years, was given the opportunity to attend a training-school, at eighteen. She wished to become a teacher...such a simple dream. But simple dreams, the most natural, noble urgings of the human heart, are those that fate seems so intent on shattering. Naomi was told little of her father, and though, on those occasions when he returned, she forgave him outwardly, at no point in her life did she seem to lose track of some subconscious demon's voice--that demon, perhaps, being Truth--that told her she had been abandoned, betrayed, and that she must never let it happen again.
"I did not see what happened on the night before Marlene was to depart. My only knowledge of it comes from the testament of one broken witness, but this much I know...Marlene was found in her bed, her throat and wrists inexpertly-but effectively-cut....a life cut short...It was more than Barret could stand. Naomi was nowhere to be found...perhaps it is better that the she never met her surrogate father again. I...do not know what he might have done, had he found her. Barret came to this place...I believe he thought I would be able to offer some comfort to him..."
He looked to the girl, then, his look almost readable as an appraising one, as though he were trying to judge just what assumptions she might make.
"Go on," Lorelei urged him simply, trying to keep her own expression neutral, though the silent questions of a man in such straits would go to Vincent for support, as well as to what degree the red-eyed man was capable of such things slipped into her mind.
"He hung himself
three days later," the gunman before her said simply, calmly,
though the faintest hint of a relieved tone graced his satiny voice,
"In this room..."
"Oh...great," the girl stated,
looking to the man with raised eyebrows, "And you chose not to,
y'know, move your stuff to another room, because...?"
"Locations matter little..." he replied, looking over her to a stretch of blank wall as though gazing thoughtfully out of a window, "The knowledge of his death would be no less prominent in any other room, any other place on the Planet...This is the mistake too many make, and too few recognize...Barret came here knowing, in his heart, that I am not the sort equipped to sooth the grief of loss...he came here trying to distance himself from that loss...and could not. Grief, above all things, is a constant companion. The temporal manifestations of our sorrows-- a room where some last breath was taken, a monument that stands in some quiet place in a loved one's stead, a wilted rose, a tarnished band of gold-- are not the causes of our grief, nor even the primary reminders. Our sorrow clings to us, more constant than the tide, attached like some parasite to our very souls... However we try to forget, we cannot. Why, then, would I lie to myself, and say that by leaving this room, by boarding it up and never returning, I would ease the pain? No... if I must drink a poison of the soul, I prefer not to disguise its bitterness by dilution..."
"You're forgetting something, though," she murmured.
"...am I?"
"Yeah; poisons don't always kill you."
His eyes were on her once more, something behind them the girl couldn't quite identify, but knew she had not seen in them before.
"...Give me your weapon, Miss Calldrick," he said simply, holding out his hand.
"B-but I didn't do anything wrong!" she protested.
He only looked at her, his hand still out, and, begrudgingly, the girl took the pistol from its holster at her belt, giving it up for the second time that day, and for the second time both surprised and disturbed at the sense of loss it brought her.
Vincent turned his back, a slight, strange click sounding, before he turned smoothly once more, dropping the gun--now augmented by an orb of glowing green on the butt of the weapon--into her lap.
"Ice materia," he said matter-of-factly, "...this particular or is as fresh and in experienced as its new mistress...it is, perhaps, less appealing than fire, but far easier to control...Now lay your weapon aside, and repeat after me..."
When Lorelei returned home that night, she was too tired to even notice that she stepped on an envelope that lay on the floor, just inside the front door, as though it had been slipped under it. She did not notice that it bore the logo of New Hill Family Services.
"Some piece of me," she muttered, flopping down on a battered old armchair, rubbing her still-throbbing left arm, "Some part of my soul, or whatnot, is very winded right now. Grr, I don't like magic..."
She had thought, initially, that giving her the materia orb was Vincent's way of continuing her training without overtaxing her. She had thought he had, uncharacteristically, taken the events of that morning into consideration, and decided to go easy on her. She had been quite wrong. The girl was exhausted in a way she hardly understood; a sense of weariness seemed to flow from her brain to her heart like lukewarm liquid, and she was quite certain her first experience using magic was to blame. More frustrating, still, was the fact that her spell actually seemed to do less damage than her bullets.
"Sometimes, Vincent, I think you're just trying to get rid of me..." she murmured, her blue eye closing.
As she drifted off to sleep, her thoughts turned to the gunman's newest tale; to the loose ends of Naomi Strife, who had disappeared, so much like her father had.
"Hero or not, Cloud was no great dad, it sounds like..." she reflected to the empty room, "Glad I never had to deal with mine."
The envelope still lay near the threshold, a shoe-print seeming to cover all except the blood-red logo in the upper-left corner.