A nice fat chapter for you today. Started a brand-new job on Monday, to where I will channel some of my creativity... but not all!
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Itching, adj. an irritating sensation of the skin; restlessness or the desire for adventure or activity; a longing or desire to do or possess something.
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The rich indigo uniform scratched at her skin like hell, and she wondered how the soldiers could stand to wear them every day while on duty. She bore the suffering without much fidgeting – it was all in the interest of subterfuge, after all – and stuck to the plan, keeping watch on the upper deck of the cargo ship bound for Costa Del Sol.
It was encouraging to note, in the chaos, that Aeries, draped in an identical soldier's garb, was nearby. Vincent had subtly made himself known too, though she'd had to be a little less than subtle to identify herself to him in turn. After all, all the soldiers looked the same, faceless in their helmets.
"I don't know how you managed to get out of wearing one of these damn things, "she grumbled in her itchy uniform, secretly savoring the rather delectable sight of Vincent in a dark blue, well-tailored suit, complete with black leather gloves, and matching black tie. Yes. Please.
"the opportunity came to ah, liberate, someone of it, and it's because," He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I am not quite as well-known as you are in these circles."
Of course, he was referring to Avalanche's core members, herself and Barrett largely, though Cloud and Aeries were arguably the more recognizable and notorious pair.
"What opportunity would that be, then?" she leans in, keen to know how exactly he ended up back in Turk garb. The fabric retained a certain familiar scent, and she noted that the jacket's breast pocket contained a pair of sunglasses.
"For revenge, of course." his ruby eyes glint a little. "I really did almost literally stumble into our bald friend. Rather a fish out of water he was, without the read head."
"You didn't?! Vincent is he-"
"Shhh!" he hushed her, ensuring they were not overhead. "Rude will live to see another day, I promise you. I merely relieved him of his uniform and left him with a small parting gift he may feel for a few days. After what he did to you I'd say he had it coming."
She smirked beneath her helmet, lifting the visor momentarily to make eye contact. "My hero!"
He admonished her for the small lapse of caution, though as he leaves her on the deck, excusing himself so that he can perform some reconnaissance in the passenger seating area as planned, he grants her a rare, shit-eating smirk.
"I saw that," Aeries mutters from beneath her visor, poking Tifa in the ribs with the blunt end of her rifle.
"I hope you've got the safety on," Tifa hisses in response, rubbing at the sore spot and immediately wishing she had not, for the fabric caused a renewed bout of itching. "And what are you talking about?"
"You're a total flirt, you know. And I don't buy his whole noble 'I just want your friendship' rubbish either." Tifa had given the Ancient a brief rundown of their conversation in Gongoga, omitting occasional details (such as Galian's action in the forest) to preserve Vincent's dignity as well as some of her own.
"We can discuss the finer points of Vincent in a suit at a later date – we should get back to posturing."
"Fine! You're no fun at all."
The levity of this moment was quickly forgotten as events unfolded, hundreds of miles out at sea. Yet it became a precious memory to return to; one of much simpler times.
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So much blood. Vincent's guts turn to ice upon considering the broad, sinusoidal trail that spread before him, smearing most of the lower deck; as if the creature, or whatever it was, had simply absorbed all bodies in its wake, excreting the blood in a macabre slug trail.
Pushing such dark thoughts aside, he continues his reconnaissance, keeping his body low and in the shadow of the cargo crates in the hold.
He is in the lower deck, having overheard the distress messages being broadcast in the captain's cabin. He finds scenes of total carnage, and his heart leaps in his chest upon the discovery of each Shin-Ra solider corpse. With trembling fingers, he checks beneath the visor of each one, barely allowing himself to feel relief upon noting he recognized none of the visages of his comrades beneath them. Without any form of communication, he did not know the fates of any other members of Avalanche.
His search leads him to a section of the hold which stands in total carnage. A particularly hulking crate stands shattered in, sharp, jutting fragments, burst apart with some considerable force. The mangled, deceased bodies of a few soldiers and deckhands, clearly having been in the vicinity in the wrong time, or perhaps had been investigating a disturbance, lie discarded. He recognises the pattern in their final expressions, each man and woman wearing a fixed mask of horror, evidently the last sight they ever saw the very thing which sent them to oblivion. They all bore large, slice-wounds, inflicted by something much thicker than any sword.
A brief appraisal of the exploded crate leads him to no conclusions, other than whatever had been transported was intended to look like normal cargo; for within the unadorned wooden packing crate, a much more solid, metal sarcophagus lay, bearing upon its dull, brushed steel surface biohazard warnings, and a digital display. Whatever it had shown before, the readings now were blank. The metal had been torn as easily as paper.
He hears a sound several rows back in the cargo area and freezes, weapon drawn at the ready. He lowers it upon recognizing Cloud's trademark hair, clashing violently with the indigo uniform. He carried the helmet under his arm. "Vincent, it's you! Did you find anything?"
He jerks his head towards the wreckage he had previously been evaluating. "This appears to be the source of whoever- or whatever – got loose."
"I don't like this one bit." Cloud grumbles in reply, straightening up following a brief examination of the crate's contents. "We should go and find the others."
"You have not spoken with any of them?"
He nods, though the frown that creases his forehead doesn't dissipate fully. "I found Yuffie and Cait on my way down here. I told them to wait up top."
The twist in Vincent's gut tightens.
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His relief at having discovered her alive is short-lived, for Tifa is asked to accompany Cloud to face the 'silver-haired man' that had been spotted onboard; a man whose footsteps they have been dogging since the Shin-Ra Building. They knew he was real – they had seen his handy work in the assassination of the president of Shin-Ra, had seen the corpse of the Midgar Zolom, skewered like it was no more than a mere worm on a fishing hook. But to face him, now, was madness, suicide even.
Perhaps thankfully, it seemed Sephiroth was not in the mood to fight, instead setting them against what had evidently been recently liberated from the cargo hold. Jenova.
The fight had been a trying one, though she came away unscathed, only sweat-dampened skin to show for her exertions.
Vincent hesitated briefly before approaching her, stood by the ship's edge and facing toward the approaching shoreline. Her eyes are closed, enjoying the warmth of the Costa sunshine beating down upon her skin, upper body shirked free of the itchy fabric of the soldier's uniform, letting the overalls gather at her waist. The helmet she gripped in her gloved fingers, moving it from one palm to the other absently.
It seemed they had given up on subterfuge for the time being.
Upon noticing his approach, she tucks the helmet under her arm.
"Well, things keep taking a turn for the worse," She remarks, wiping at an imaginary smudge upon the helmet's visor with her thumb. Worry clouds her visage. "I never thought I would see him again. I thought… I had hoped that all the signs… that it wasn't true."
Vincent can definitely relate to those feelings, though he says nothing on the subject. "We must face him, sooner or later."
"I thought you were only here for Hojo." Her smile returns, if a little uncertainly, and he is grateful, even if the mirth is at the expense of his discomfort.
"I…"
"Ha. Got you." She plucks at his lapel gently. "It's going to be a real shame, not seeing you in this get-up, you know? I have so many questions all of a sudden."
"Questions?" His tongue seems to thicken in his mouth. "What sort of questions?"
"Oh, plenty of sorts. But we should get ready to disembark. I don't want to hang around on this ship for another second."
On that, they were agreed.
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They made for shore as soon as the ship docked, helmets donned once more to ensure they lost themselves in the disembarking crowds, usual apparel safely stashed in Shin-Ra issue duffel bags.
They do not linger in the port – indeed the heat was so intense they all naturally gravitated toward the shade offered by the side streets.
She felt grateful to be on land once more, her slightly wobbly knees thanking her for the stability in brought, yet in absence of a next step she feels exposed; their plan so far had only brought them as far as the deck of them ship.
Whilst it had been months since their number had had what could be called some down-time – or perhaps more appropriately given their recent journey, shore leave – she felt that recent events rendered it the worst timing ever for them to be resting on their laurels; sun, sand and sea be damned.
"I've never felt so disgustingly sweaty in my entire life," she complains to no-one in particular, though of course Vincent was in earshot, gratifying her comment with a laugh, coughed into his palm.
Aeries, de-helmeted and grinning, the sun beating down on her angelic features, skips ahead to draw level with Tifa. "There's a hostel up ahead. Cheap, but there'll be showers."
"You tease me," Tifa huffs, shucking her upper body back out of her disguise. "I have rather forgotten what luxury clean running water is."
"I do not tease!" Aeries adopts a falsely scandalised expression, before leaning in, whispering loudly behind her fingers. "I even managed to procure some soap. Will you be joining us for a shower, Mr Valentine?"
Vincent's expression of excruciating discomfort is priceless, unhindered by his usual cowl. Tifa howls with laughter, whilst an amused Cloud shakes his head upfront at the Ancient's teasing tongue. "She doesn't mean together. Unless..."
Vincent shakes his head, striding forward to level his steps with Cloud. "We should scout the area. There were many high-ranking Shin-Ra officials on-board – safely locked away from all the trouble, I might add – I should find out where they headed. It might turn up something useful to help us determine our next move."
The blonde nods, all previous amusement abandoned. "Good idea. Perhaps myself and a few of the others can join you. Tifa, Aeries, can I leave you with Yuffie? I fear she was rather... suffering back there. Some fresh air might do her good."
Of course, he was referring to the Ninja's trademark travel sickness.
"Of course. But we want to help-" Tifa's protest is cut across by Vincent.
"It's too dangerous for the both of you to be seen."
"I agree, but why does Cloud make for a less conspicuous recon partner than us?" She retorts.
"We don't have time for arguing. We shall sweep the area and reconvene in one hour. Besides," Vincent adopts a shadow of his earlier smirk, primarily for her benefit. "I thought you were looking forward to your shower?"
"Are you trying to say I stink?" She wrinkles her nose mockingly.
Their repartee had allowed for Cloud and Aeries to catch up with the rest of the group, leaving them lagging behind in the shade of a courtyard. His pupils dilate a little as he fixes her with an intense stare. Her insides reach boiling point, and for a moment, she imagined she had seen him run his tongue along a rather sharp canine.
She bites back her curiosity for the later date she had threatened him with, not aware that an opportunity would come rather a lot sooner than she had anticipated.
"We should get going. Just don't be mad if I use all the hot water."
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She releases a long groan of relief as the stream of water hits her skin. All the unpleasant sensations of itching, stickiness and discomfort are forgotten in the wake of a good soaping and the shower's jet of clean, cool water. For a few moments at least, she allows herself to forget that not hours before, she had come face to face with Sephiroth again for the first time since Nibelheim.
Her relief, however, was destined to be short lived. Donning the loosest, floatiest item of clothing she had in her pack, she then sets about starting the arduous task of combing out her wet hair. Sat upon the edge of her bunk in the hostel, bare foot jiggling to a tune she hummed absently, her solitude is broken as a rather flustered Barett bursts in. She smirks upon noting he still wore the sailor suit.
"Have you heard of knocking?!" Aeries exclaims, peering around the edge of the bathroom door, wrapped in a towel. "We could have been naked or peeing for all you knew!"
Yuffie, meanwhile, slept through the whole ruckus, snoring gently in her bunk.
Barrett, it seems, has little time to be embarrassed. "Tif, we got a problem. Cloud radio'd to say they'd spotted Hojo on the beach. Vincent is on his way, 'n' He sounded real mad. I dunno, you seem to know 'im best."
She needs no further instruction, dropping her comb and grabbing for some shoes, and her fighting gloves, stomach filling with dread. The last thing they needed, she thought as she raced after Barrett out of the hostel, cutting through side streets toward the beach, was Vincent massacring Hojo on the beach, whether in human form or otherwise.
Her arrival preceded Vincent's by only a few moments. She releases a sigh, though does not let herself feel relief just yet.
"I don't know how we're going to get out of this one," Cloud grumbles, hand find the back of his neck as it often did when he was uncertain. She bid him to stay out of their way for now and, hoping she would not need to ask for his help in restraining the Ex-Turk, she turns to consider the challenge before her.
She has never seen rage like it, on Vincent, nor any man or woman for that matter; His jaw is pulled tight, eyes narrowed to a fine point, the crimson hues of his iris seem to gleam in his fury; he doesn't even acknowledge her presence, nor her gentle attempts to attract his attention.
Only her fingers, gripping his shoulders tightly, force him to tear his eyes away from his prey, oblivious to the danger he was in, lying several hundred yards away on a sun lounger, and inexplicably surrounded by women in skimpy swimsuits.
She has purposefully positioned herself directly between Hojo and Vincent, interrupting, as best she can in all her five-foot-four glory, his line of vision. His shoulders are rock-rigid beneath her fingers.
"Vincent, what are you thinking?" She asks firmly.
His brows, fixed into a deep-set angle of utmost loathing, twitch slightly. "I am thinking about all of the ways I want to hurt him before I kill him." The vitriol in his tone almost causes her to recoil slightly, though she stands firm, feet planted solidly in a blocking stance.
"Is that really wise?"
"What?" He looks at her then, giving her his full attention.
"You can't hurt him here, not in front of all these people. There are children on this beach."
She gestures behind her, and Vincent's resolve seems to flicker upon noting that, indeed, she was correct. Small children, wearing bright swimming attire and sun hats, raced along the breakwater, tossing colourful beach balls to one another, or brandishing buckets and spades.
"I can take him somewhere no-one will hear him scream," He moves as if to push her aside with his left arm, bracing his palm on her hip, but she stands her ground, shucking off his touch and burrowing her fingers further into the flesh of his shoulders. She knows she is probably hurting him a little, but perhaps it would bring clarity to his hazy frame of mind.
"No! Shin-Ra would be all over us in seconds. We have to lay low for now, otherwise we'll never know what their next move is. Please Vincent," Tifa decides she is not above begging. "We will find him one of these days, I promise you that. It may be weeks or even months from now, but when we do, I promise I will not stand in your way; You can do as you like. But for now, we just need to lay low. Please come back with me."
He growls, a deep rumble that she feels reverberating in his chest and a war rages upon his face.
"Fine." He jerks free of her hold, turning his back to the beach and striding away with speed, as if he worries what he might do were he to linger.
Her relief is palpable. Cloud shares a look with her that says, rather you than me, and she responds with a roll of her eyes and a face that says, lucky me, eh?
Not wanting to linger on the beach, and suddenly aware of the glaring sun burning her unprotected shoulders, she makes after Vincent, keen to ensure he does not renege on their agreement. He is headed in the direction of the hostel, thankfully.
Tifa wonders if she might find a little time later on, after all the intel gathering and preventing of public lynching, to walk on the beach and feel the sun-warmed, ocean-drenched sand between her toes. She is so lost in this thought that she does not notice Vincent has stopped in his tracks, and walks into his stationary back.
"Oof - Sorry, Vincent! What is it?" She wonders why he has suddenly halted, halfway from the beach and halfway to their accommodation, hoping to hell that he hasn't changed his mind.
He turns to her, moody expression still, though his shoulders are slumped in defeat. "I need a drink."
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They choose a back-alley sort of bar, which suits her fine. Out of direct sunlight, though still with a terrace so they can see the comings and goings in the backstreets. Blessedly, it is empty. The whisky is cheap, she notes, though the glasses are clean and that is a good enough sign.
They sit in silence for a short while as the bartender clinks and rattles their order, so she takes the time to study him, to really look at a man she was rarely likely to see so exposed.
He had given up on the tie, somewhere between the beach and now, the top button of the crisp white shirt undone. He had tossed the jacket carelessly upon the seat beside him, right shirt sleeve rolled to the elbow. The left remains resolutely buttoned at the wrist. She wonders at that.
The red bandana that he habitually wears, to push back the swathes of ebony hair, is absent, and here in the quiet of the bar, with a ceiling fan revolving slowly to move the stuffy, soupy air around, a false promise of reprieve from the Costa midday sun, she notices a small scar at the apex of his forehead, disappearing into his hairline. The scar upon his jaw she had first noticed in the forest in Gongoga appears to dip beyond the rise of his collar.
With a heaving sigh, he presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, elbows upon the table before him, crown tilted towards her.
Instinctively, she reaches out to wrap her fingers around his wrists, gently prising them free. He raises his head, opening his hands so hers slide into his open, leather-encased palms.
"I know how you feel," She offers, running her thumbs over his knuckles.
There is flash of something – disbelief – in his eyes at her words, though he says nothing in response.
She lets her hands drop, folding them across her body.
"When I was sixteen, Solider came to my home town. I was excited – General Sephiroth was famous all over the world. I met him – posed for a photograph even – in the square in front of the mansion. He was everything I thought he would be; cool, aloof, tall, and so handsome... Not to mention scary, with that big sword of his..." Vincent notes that her fingers absently curl into her chest, between her breasts as she says this.
"Something went wrong after we reached the reactor. His mood seemed to shift, and for days he locked himself in the mansion, speaking with no-one. When he finally came out... he set fire to the village, and killed everyone who stood in his way. My father... he tried to stop him, and just like everyone else he... he cut him down."
Vincent opened his mouth to speak, to say some words of comfort, but found nothing suitable.
"I found my father's body lying beside Sephiroth's sword, discarded, as if it hadn't really mattered to him. Like my father was just a fly he swatted out of his way."
She pauses as the barman returns with their order; a bottle of whisky, some water, two glasses rattling with ice cubes. She pours the amber liquid over the ice, the silence filled with the pop and crack as the cubes contract.
"I've never wanted to kill someone before. I felt a rage unlike anything I've ever known consume me, from my toes to my fingers, and to the roots of my hair, even. I wanted to watch him die, slowly; I wanted to tear his limbs from his body with my bare hands."
She takes a sip of her drink, her gaze lowered to the surface of the table, where she swirls her finger through the ring of condensation her glass left.
"I almost died that day. And I learned the power of cold fury. Of biding my time. And of waiting."
"I did not know." He said quietly, reaching out to still her hand atop the table's surface. Her skin is cool beneath his left hand.
"Speaking of waiting…" She surveys his normally-gauntleted appendage with interest. "I've been curious for some time. Why do you wear that thing?"
He shifts, a little uncomfortable.
"Keeping things close to your chest, huh?" she notes the withdrawal of his hand. "How about a little bit of a game?"
"What sort of game?" He considers her across the table, full whisky bottle dangling from her fingers in a tempting gesture, coy and in a position of power. He cannot help but entertain, with a small, internal smile at her ingenuity once again, that perhaps she had had this in mind all along.
She would have made an excellent Turk.
"All questions have answers. They don't have to be truths – they might be lies. We don't always want to tell the truth, and we have our reasons. The lie is the back door. But it comes with a risk. You tell a lie, and I call you out, you drink. The truth, however, can still remain unsaid. Or-"and she raises a cautionary palm. "Silence is always an answer. Automatic shot if you choose that option."
"Isn't silence telling?"
"It depends," She smiles coyly, filling each glass with practiced ease, making it up with a little water. "To lessen the peril," she says.
"Ladies first," He gives a small, ironic tilt of the head.
"Very well – let's start somewhere easy. Tell me about what it was like to wear the Turk suit. I want the juicy bits."
"Hm." He leans back in his seat, resting his arm along the back of the booth, apparently mulling over her question. "Well, I worked at Shin-Ra for two years as an administrative assistant before I got the position as a Turk. I excelled in training, completing the basic and advanced courses required to qualify for their ranks inside of a year – this is largely unheard of. Needless to say, being given the suit and wearing it for the first time? - It was a big moment for me."
A small smile quirks the corner of him mouth, his gaze focused somewhere else, another time even, perhaps. "There was a big party. Turk bar, up on the plate. I think it's still there now. I walked in, all new and untainted, eager to take on my first contracts... But for that night, I was the center of attention. Generally, Turks were people with an edge of mystery, or at least, they used to be. Turk bars were always, ah – haunted – by ladies looking for a man with a little danger to his name."
"Sounds like it would have made getting lucky rather an easy task," She remarks, chin resting in her upturned palm.
"That it was. It got a bit boring after a while – doesn't that sound terrible? For some, it was perhaps the only perk of the job. Fighting, rather literally, against danger, with every contract and assignment... returning to something as familiar as the smoky bars and taking home a woman was a predictable comfort, a routine, when not on the job."
"And for you?"
"I... For a time, maybe. The shine rather quickly wore off." He leans forward, his attention once again upon her, and this moment. "You seem awfully interested in my previous life. Why is that?"
She chooses to take a shot – silence – but adds, coughing in the afterburn of the whisky, "Can interest simply not be enough? Why do you question my motivations?"
"Because I cannot possibly believe them." he replies, with a quirk of his brow.
"Is that because you doubt my better nature? Or because you believe yourself unworthy of them?"
He opens his mouth, and closes it, reaching in silence for the shot glass. "My silence is because I don't think I know the answer to that – I suppose that means I should even things up a little." Then, "I believe it is your question."
"Ok – where did you get this scar from?" She reaches out an index finger to gently trace the slightly shiny patch of skin by his left temple.
He smirks. "Bar fight."
"-and your nose?" Her thumb brushes the slight bump on the bridge.
"Same – but a different – bar fight. He came away worse off, though."
"And this?" Her palm comes to cup his jaw, thumb stroking along the fine slice-like scar that bisects his jaw and streaks along his neck.
The smirk is gone. "Shotgun shrapnel."
The silence hangs. It should be his question.
"And your gauntlet – why do you wear that, Vincent?"
He takes a shot, paying his toll for silence.
"Why aren't you afraid of me?" His exhale warms her palm, still in place at his jaw.
"You've given me no reason to be afraid."
"That's a lie – when I changed into Gallian the first time... you must have been."
She considers what he has said, and agrees that whilst she might have been afraid at the time – hence taking a shot in acquiescence – She no longer did. "I was. But I don't think you have it in you to uphold the scary front all the time. I think it's only there to prevent anyone getting closer. What I can't work out, though, is why?"
"I... I can't answer that."
"You can't or you won't?" She pours him his third shot, which he takes like bitter medicine.
"Won't." He wipes his mouth on the back of his palm. "What I want to know, is why you stopped me, back there on the beach?"
She tilts her head in consideration, while the ceiling fan whirs overhead. "All the reasons I stated earlier. And... I think you would regret it."
"Impossible."
"Revenge is a perfectly normal thing to crave, but to actually get it? To execute a man, no matter how vile his crimes against you, without giving him the chance to fight back... it will take something from you that you will never get back."
He doesn't know how the temperature could drop so, in a place so humid, yet it does, in the wake of her words. "I am already a monster, Tifa. There is nothing further for me to lose."
"I don't believe that," She shakes her head vehemently, strands of hair tumbling about her beautiful, troubled face. "There is always something more that you can lose."
He stares at her, hard, as though she might burst into flame. "On the ship..." His voice almost fails him, all resistance fading away and leaving anguish behind, left hand trembling a little. His longed-for drink remains forgotten at his elbow. "Every Soldier's corpse I found… I knew you had been up on deck, but I could not shake the fear that I would find you… not anyone else beneath that helmet. I thought... if Sephiroth had gotten to you, before I could..."
It is her turn to fall into stunned silence.
So he did care; Part of her had always known that, truly, hence her earlier observations regarding his character. Yet, she had not considered where this could take her, could take them both.
"So killing Hojo was not just an act of revenge, but proof, if only to yourself, that you are unworthy of friendship?"
"Now it's my turn to say, I don't believe that, no."
"We should have set a punishment for denial, shouldn't we?" She attempts the joke, but it falls flat. Many things had been said, boundaries had been pushed. The dust was still up in the air, waiting for the breeze to die before it could settle once more.
"Either way, we are even. Let's take one for the road, shall we?"
They drink their final measure in cool silence.
All while the ceiling fan whirs overhead.
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