Chapter 6

Vincent awoke to find himself floating.

Not the comfortable kind of floating, where you're suspended in water.

No, this was the kind of floating where it felt like you had been dropped into outer space. Moving his limbs did nothing to affect his position, and he had no indication of where he was: all that he could see was a featureless white expanse. Used to the darkness as he was, his surroundings actually hurt his eyes. He closed them after a moment of uselessly trying to find something sharing that space with him.

Am I...dead?

Suddenly he felt solid ground beneath his feet, and opened his eyes.

"What the..."

He was standing in a rather nondescript room, with plain wooden floor panelling and slate grey walls. It appeared to be a boy's bedroom, as there was a bed along the far wall with soccer-patterned sheets, and a toy rifle propped up against a cedar chest on the adjoining wall. There was a window on the far wall, just above the bed, through which Vincent could see that it was daytime; the sky was vividly blue, with only a hint of wispy white clouds.

As if by magic, a small boy appeared on the bed just as Vincent noticed the window. He let out a small noise of shock, as he recognized the boy.

"That's...me. Then this is my room...?"

The boy was wearing gym shorts and a white t-shirt, and was apparently waiting for something as he sat on the bed. He was humming some sort of tune that Vincent couldn't place, and was kicking his legs over the side of the bed. The boy looked perfectly normal to Vincent's eyes, though he also seemed to have a serious expression on his face that looked quite out of place on someone so young. The boy turned to look straight at Vincent, and for a moment he thought the boy's brown eyes had turned just as crimson as his own. The boy smiled.

"Father!"

The exclamation confused Vincent. Was the boy talking to him? Then he heard footsteps behind him; before he got a chance to turn around, someone walked through him. He didn't feel a thing. This person had walked through him as if he were a ghost.

The man turned aside slightly, and Vincent recognized him instantly. It was Grimoire Valentine, his father. "So that boy really is me...is this my past?"

Grimoire looked a lot like adult Vincent. They both had the same pallid skin and long dark hair, but his father's features were broader and softer. He had a kindly appearance about him, and was often seen smiling, as he was at that moment. It clashed dramatically with his clothes, which had a flair for the dramatic that Vincent had copied as an adult: he was wearing a long black cape and a red bandanna about his neck, a black shirt, and black leather pants. He suddenly remembered that the kids in his neighborhood had often called his father a 'friendly vampire'. The recollection brought a pang of sadness into Vincent's heart, something he knew he was going to have plenty more of if this was the incident he was thinking of.

"Vincent, my boy! It's so good to see you again...you were asleep when I got home last night, so..."

Vincent the boy smiled. Vincent the man frowned; he knew where this was going now. "Father, mother wasn't here when I woke up this morning. I had to make breakfast for myself. Where is she?"

The smile instantly melted from Grimoire's face. "Vincent..." he approached the bed, kneeling down to the younger Valentine's level and placing a hand on his shoulder. "...I'm afraid Mother won't be coming back."

This was quite a shock to a ten year old boy, as was expressed by young Vincent's face. "...what? You're...you're lying, aren't you?" The expression of horror instantly turned to anger. "You're lying! Bring her back!"

Evidently his father had expected the outburst, as he straightened to his full height and shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry, I wish she had said something to you, but...she's gone. It's just the two of us from now on, son..."

Young Vincent broke down crying. At a loss for what else to do, his father patted his head comfortingly. Vincent just shook his head. At the time he was too young and foolish to understand, but eventually he learned what had happened. His father, being a top-class researcher for Shin-ra Manufacturing Works, spent much of his time either on research expeditions or working in the lab. Eventually the distance corroded his marriage, until one day Vincent's mother could take no more and walked out on the family.

He had never really gotten over that, his adult self realized, turning away from the scene and folding his arms over his chest. "...I don't want to watch this anymore," he said aloud, even though he knew nobody could hear him.

Closing his eyes once again, he felt the ground shift under his feet.

"...Veld?"

Shalua blinked. She had brought Vincent to the nearest inn, and since laying him on the bed he hadn't so much as stirred. She was a little surprised to hear him speak.

"Vincent? Can you hear me?"

There was no response. Whatever was going on was for his eyes only.

This left her with the thorny issue of what exactly to do with him. The bleeding had mysteriously stopped about halfway to the inn, but she had no idea what that meant. As a doctor, her first thought was that he had died, but the shallow rise and fall of his chest proved that idea false. At the moment she was trying to come up with the courage to undress him enough to get a look at the injury; frankly she was afraid of what she might find.

"...god, I'm being such a baby."

Her mind made up, Shalua quickly unfastened the belts holding Vincent's cloak on, and carefully lifted it up over his head. The shirt underneath was a little more complicated, and she silently cursed his obscure fashion sense, but was eventually able to figure it out after unbuckling several belts and a line of buttons running up the middle. Sucking in her breath, she then began to pull the two halves of the shirt aside to reveal Vincent's bare chest.

"Oh, Gaia..."

She felt her heart drop into her stomach as she saw what lay beneath the black fabric. Vincent's body was practically a network of scars. The largest was a straight vertical line from just beneath his collarbone all the way down to his navel, with the tell-tale hatch marks that Shalua recognized as the aftereffects of stitching. The others were all small but noticeable, showing a lifetime of trauma; from puckered circles that were old gunshot wounds, to tiny nicks and cuts made by knives and swords. Quite a few looked as if they had been made by a scalpel, the realization of which made her feel a little ill. She couldn't find any sign of the wound that she was so sure had been fatal, except for a diagonal line that looked fresher than the other scars; while the others were all pale and old, this particular line was red and inflamed-looking.

"What kind of monster could do this to another human being...?" she murmured, fighting the urge to button his shirt back up and pretend she hadn't seen anything.

It's my first mission all over again...

Inside the world of his own memories, Vincent found himself standing outside a seedy bar in the slums beneath Sector 6. Called 'Wall Market' by the locals, the small town had the distinction of being one of the nastiest parts of the slums. This was quite an achievement, considering that most people living under the plate lacked even the most basic of necessities, such as running water or electricity. Or a steady supply of food.

In Wall Market, the gangs were so entrenched that they made no secret of their control. Gun battles were frequent, and fatalities were mounting. Being slum-dwellers, of course, the Company didn't care how many died. It was the knowledge that the gangs were acquiring stolen military hardware, though, that finally forced the Shin-ra to act.

Imposing martial law was expensive, however. And so the Shin-ra had scouted around until they found a gang leader who was willing to keep order. They found such a man in Don Corneo, leader of the 'Don's Toughs' youth gang. He had the men, he had the drive, and he had the total lack of scruples to get the job done. In other words, he could have been a Shin-ra executive if he hadn't been born in the slums. The rival Cutter Krew gang comprised the only obstacle: with their heavily-fortified base at the border between Sectors 6 and 7, they had an utter stranglehold on the entire market. That money bought them a lot of hired goons, far too many for Corneo to break by himself.

And that was where the Turks came in. Inside the bar, Vincent knew that his past self was meeting with Corneo in one of the private back rooms. His supervisor, Veld, was with him as well.

The plan was very simple. The leader of the Cutter Krew, a man called Knife, had made an offer that Corneo couldn't refuse: pay a large cash ransom, or lose the right to exist. It was an offer he had made to all the other gangs in the area, and all had either paid with the cash or their lives. Corneo, however, had the Shin-ra on his side. Vincent was to escort Corneo into the meeting, while Veld snuck in from outside.

Vincent frowned as a small group exited the bar. He recognized his past self right away: all of twenty-one years old at the time, he nevertheless cut an imposing figure in the Turks' standard issue black business suit. His expression was cold and severe, a quirk he had quickly picked up from his commander. He had no visible weapons, but was instead carrying a large black briefcase that ostensibly held the ransom money.

His commander was standing nearby, and carrying a silenced submachinegun that was normally issued to the Army; since he wasn't going to be going in disguise, he had no need of concealed weapons. He was going to be breaking in the old fashioned way. Veld wasn't a young man, even back then: his face was deeply, perhaps prematurely, lined. He had obviously seen much worse than Vincent ever had, and at the time he had prayed that he wouldn't end up like that when he became a senior Turk. Veld's appearance was immaculate, his hair neatly trimmed, with long bangs hanging to either side of his face. The only deviation from the dress code was a short goatee that he had recently started growing.

Don Corneo, accompanied by two of his most loyal followers, didn't look much different than when he met Cloud some thirty-six years later. He was still short and fat, with bulging lips and beady eyes that gave him a distinctly fish-like appearance. He had a full head of blonde hair, however, something he seemed to take great pride in; Vincent groaned as he watched the gang leader pull out a comb right on the spot, an annoying habit of his that had driven the Turk up the wall.

Vincent followed as the small group (including his past self) set out for the Cutters' base, Veld quickly breaking off and disappearing from sight. By the time they reached the front gates, everything seemed to be perfectly normal.

"'ey, who's the suit?" one of the guards, a distinctly pig-ish looking fellow with greasy red hair and a pug nose, growled.

Corneo, if nothing else, was a gifted liar. "He's my accountant," he said breezily, as if stating the obvious. The guard paused for a moment, and Vincent recalled briefly wondering if it was because the man had to think about what the word 'accountant' meant.

"Awright, fine." Inwardly, Vincent remembered sighing with relief. The ensuing pat-down went exactly as expected, since nobody had brought any hidden weapons. They had even checked the briefcase, which had 500-gil notes in neat stacks. Thus disguised, they entered the Cutter Krew's base.

'Base' was something of a misnomer, it was really more like a mansion. As Vincent followed along, invisible and intangible, he noticed Corneo looking around appreciatively; he hadn't noticed that at the time, perhaps due to nerves. The foyer was as sumptious as expected, with marble tile flooring and gilded banisters. Their hosts led them up to the second floor and into Knife's office, which was behind a set of double doors made of purest Wutaian jade. In time with his past self, Vincent snorted with derision at the ostentatious display of wealth. At the time, he had correctly pegged Knife as an insecure egomaniac.

Inside, the leader of the Cutter Krew was sitting in a high-backed leather chair, arms folded behind his head and feet propped up on an antique hardwood desk. Knife was a mean-looking fellow, tall and lanky, with long and jagged scars on either side of his face. His hair was kept hidden behind a camouflage-patterned dewrag, and the rest of his clothes suggested a military air: a dark green wife-beater tanktop, camouflage pants, and army boots. It was only later that Vincent would learn that Knife was an Army deserter. His namesake weapon, a pair of very large and nasty-looking Bowie knives, were set out on the desk in front of him. His posse was there as well, two men on either side who were built like the proverbial brick wall.

Knife smiled with feigned generosity as the group entered. "Corneo!" he said as he leaned forward, removing his legs from the desk and folding his hands in their stead. "You're late." Any trace of mirth left his face in an instant, and Vincent watched as his past self glanced at Corneo; the fat man showed no trace of concern, apparently placing complete trust in his new allies.

"You know how it is, Knife. The ho's can't keep their hands offa me." Corneo grinned lasviciously. Both Vincents couldn't help but roll their eyes.

Knife shook his head. "I really didn't need to hear that from you, fatso," he said, voicing what everyone else in the room was no doubt thinking. "Now did you bring the money or what? I ain't got all day, and if I've got to gat you foo's I'd like to just get it over with."

Corneo's face fell when Knife mentioned his weight; apparently it was a sore subject for him. "Go ahead then, Vincent. Give him the money." Vincent resigned himself to his fate. He watched as his past self approached the desk, opening the briefcase with a faint 'click' as he set it down on the hardwood surface.

Knife briefly rummaged through the bills, spoiling their previously tidy appearance. "Five grand is all you got? Foo', I know I told you to bring at least ten if you wanted to keep your head. You tryin' to get your punk ass killed?"

Corneo simply smiled. Glancing down at his lapel-mounted microphone, Vincent's past self whispered the word "Showtime" before pressing a concealed button on the lid of the briefcase.

Before Knife knew what was happening, 500-gil notes were flying into his face as the bottom of the suitcase flew up on cleverly concealed springs. Barely an instant later, and the room was filled with acrid smoke from a canister concealed beneath the money (which was all fake, as Corneo would discover when he later tried to use some 'leftover' bills). "What the #?" Knife bellowed, coughing and flailing as the smoke blinded him.

Vincent's instincts were too good for that, however. Without missing a beat he turned the suitcase around and retrieved the other item concealed inside: a suppressed .45-caliber pistol. He closed his eyes, honed in on the nearest source of noise, and fired once. Knife immediately went silent, as a bullet pierced through his jugular with only a muffled 'whump!' from the pistol.

To their credit, the guards found their wits quite fast. Vincent could hear staccato bursts of gunfire; evidently they were firing blind. Ducking for cover behind the desk, he waited for the smoke to clear. Corneo and his gang had already retreated back the way they had came, leaving nothing visible in the room except for Knife's twitching and bleeding corpse.

"What the hell? Where'd that fatass Corneo go? Did he do this?"

"Couldn'ta been...he wouldn't have had the stones. Maybe the suit?"

"Don't be stupid!"

Vincent shook his head. Before his eyes, his past self dove out from behind the desk, landing on his side and firing twice before the guards could react; the first went down with a bullet in his brain and another in his chest, and before the other could comprehend what was happening he got two in the chest as well. To his credit, the second guard was tough enough to survive. Vincent could see his chest was still rising and falling, albeit erratically. He strode over to the surviving guard, pressing the tip of the silencer between the man's eyes, which were almost as wide as Corneo's stomach.

"D...don't kill me man! I got kids!" the man practically shrieked, bringing his hands up in a vain attempt to protect himself.

"..."

"Please! I swear, I'll never bother you again if you just let me live...I don't want to die!"

"..."

Vincent watched as his past self hesitated. He had never really killed anyone before, and the man's terror-stricken expression was causing him to doubt himself. Was it right to kill someone who couldn't defend themself? Was it neccessary for the completion of his mission?

The decision was taken out of his hands with a faint 'thwip!', as a shot from above pierced the man's skull and killed him instantly. Vincent's past self immediately looked up as a ventilation grate fell from the ceiling, and Veld dropped down with the submachinegun in hand.

"All floors cleared. Vincent, you hesitated." It was a statement, not a question. Vincent's past self looked at the floor.

"I know, sir. I'm sorry."

Vincent sighed, his eyelids dropping closed as if by guilt. After that incident, killing became easier and easier for him.

Author's Notes: Doing the math, in this 'fic, 'young Corneo' 36 years before Meteor puts him in his 50s during the game itself. So not only was he dirty, but he was a dirty old man. XD