Author's Note: Man, so it's been a few months, I know. I've been overwhelmed with work and had originally not planned on continuing this series, but I actually received a few e-mails from y'all asking me to go on, and I was really touched by that...so here you are. As always, keep reading and reviewing, and thank you all for your support!
"...These fragments I have shored against my ruins..."
~T. S. Eliot, "The Waste Land"
The Valentine Chronicles
Episode 3
One's Own, Part I
These papers I am so extensively laboring over will serve as my testimony, my inditement, and my confession all rolled into one. If they should ever come to light, perhaps the reader will be encouraged to look at Shinra, Inc., Midgar, and this precarious world upon which we carve our existence a little differently.
Midgar and Wutai were going to war again. Well, to put that more precisely, Shinra Incorporated and the various syndicates that dominated Wutai and most of the western continent were going to war again. It was a profitable relationship for both; the syndicates needed a powerful common threat in order to spur the habitual unifications that occurred from time to time, and Shinra used wars to both spur a stagnant economy and get rid of a lot of dirty laundry.
The common enemy this time was the charismatic young leader of the Pale Flower syndicate, a hard-nosed killer by the name of Rito Hachimaku. He'd unified the syndicates under his direct control by calling a meeting of the syndicate heads in his own house, blowing the house to the ground with a few well-placed explosives, and arriving five minutes late. In this particularly neat and ruthless fashion, Hachimaku had ascended to leadership of the combined syndicates. As the self-styled "Shogun of Wutai," he had provided Midgar with the perfect opportunity to go to war again, and wars meant money, power...and the chance to tie up a few loose ends.
One of those loose ends was a SOLDIER 1st Class by the name of Rafe Callahan, commander of Midgar's 3rd Recon Battalion stationed on the western continent, near the small village of Nibelheim. Callahan was a superb soldier, a brilliant tactician and beloved by his troops. Unfortunately, Shinra had found a little too late that he was also something of a moral man, and morality was one of those things that clashed with the corporation's basic ideology. Callahan had repeatedly skirted orders involving the interrogation of prisoners and the destruction of small villages that might be used as supply bases by the enemy, and two weeks ago he had refused to comply with an order from central command to execute the twenty-three Wutai soldiers he had captured. Shinra command had then ordered Callahan's XO, one Major Garrett Tablaine, to place Callahan under arrest and carry out the executions himself. Tablaine had told command that not only would he not comply with that order, there wasn't a single man in Callahan's command who would. That had been the last communication between Shinra HQ and the 3rd Recon Battalion.
Enter the Turks, which means me. I had been summoned to the 67th floor, Midgar's Department of Intelligence and Investigation (DII.) The orders were simple and direct, travel to the Western Continent, find Callahan and Tablaine, and execute them both. I'd also been given a sealed envelope, with explicit instructions not to open it until I'd successfully completed my mission, but to open it before I returned. A scant forty-eight hours later I was ashore on the western continent, fairly close to the mining city of Corel. I bid farewell to Buck, who had convoyed me over, with instructions to wait not longer than twenty-four hours for me before immediately heading back. He agreed, although I knew he probably wouldn't obey - Buck was as loyal (or disloyal, depending on how you looked at it) as they came.
So it was just me, my pack, and my guns along for the ride...but admittedly, it was a pretty nice ride. Shinra had a few combat motorcycles available for privileged employees and I had just so happened to snag one for the mission, so at least I would be murdering people with a stylish ride. I dropped a GPS beacon near the beach in case my sense of direction failed me on the way back, kicked the bike into gear, and rolled.
I'm not a big fan of assassination jobs, although lord only knows I get enough of them. If you're like me, there's an omnipresent sadness that marks all your actions leading up to pulling the trigger. There's an inexplicable feeling that goes along with knowing you're about to take a life...knowing that that miracle which has been granted, you now plan to rescind. And these were the worst ones, those killings with no self-justifications... "He's got it coming..." or "He's a bad person..." or anything. So that entire four-hour ride, whipping through the night on treacherous mountain paths and dusky plains, was filled primarily with sadness. I'd learned not to try and rationalize with myself in order to alleviate that sadness...it was something I accepted unto myself, as a condition for who I was and who I am. I am a killer, a murderer, and one day I will be called to account for my sins, and there will be justice. No use trying to avoid that.
The 3rd Recon Battalion was stationed in the mountains north of Nibelheim, a series of tents that wound their way up the mountain path towards the peak of Mt. Nibel. Having come from the other side of the mountain, I stood at the peak, overlooking the encampment. So many men...trusting and believing absolutely in their leader, following him blindly down whatever path he chose. What was it that inspired that kind of devotion in men? And what kind of man was I, to so callously be willing to take that life? I skipped that. I already knew what kind of man I was.
The sound of crunching gravel interrupted by reverie, and I slipped neatly behind a bush while a tag team of sentries strode past, stopped to look around for five or six seconds, then moved on. I shook my head in disapproval, I would have made it ten at least. I slipped out behind them and put a trank dart in both of their necks with my .38. I might be here on an assassination mission, but I'd be damned if I was going to make this into a massacre. Another massacre, I really should say...I seem to trail massacres wherever I go. I snuck quietly down the mountain towards the big tent at the very northern tip of the encampment - the obvious command tent. After a quick survey of the surrounding area, I climbed up a nearby rock formation which provided a nice up-to-down view of the tent and its perimeter. Then, slowly, methodically, I opened my pack and began to assemble.
While putting together the rifle, I was struck by how much I really didn't want to do this job. I usually got hit with the sadness and the doubt when I was assembling the sniper rifle, but this particular time it hit me pretty hard. I really, really didn't want to kill this man. I idly wondered if that would make him feel any better, then realized he'd be dead anyway, and then I didn't want to kill him even more. In rereading this, I realize it may strike the reader as a little odd that I never considered not doing the job, even for a moment. No matter how much I hated the assignment, there was never any doubt that I would carry it out. I was a Turk, and a Turk always did his job. Always.
I checked my special clip one last time. My special clip was comprised of one tranquilizer bullet at the top followed by fourteen very real bullets loaded below. Satisfied for the last time that I hadn't messed it up, I popped the clip into the rifle, snapped on the scope, and my instrument was complete. I braced the rifle against a rock and turned it down upon the encampment.
The plan was a simple one.
The command tent was ringed with blue-uniformed guards, stern and alert in their vigilance of their commander. I picked one of the juiciest targets - one of the two soldiers directly in front of the tent's entrance - and put the trank bullet right in the back of his neck. He dropped like a stone. Now all I had to wait for them to do was to follow procedure and attempt to evacuate Callahan, and I would have him.
The soldiers reacted predictably. Shouts of alarm, lots of bumping and jostling, and the other soldier at the entrance immediately dashed inside the tent. I knew what would happen now, they would organize what they thought to be a safe evacuation for their commander and get him to a secure area. They would think that they were saving him, but in reality they would be killing him. I shifted my weight slightly and trained my rifle on the tent's entrance.
Then, however...things stopped going to plan. The rest of the soldiers had reacted to the best of their ability, some of them were trying to scour the area, others had taken cover in tents and whatnot, and a few brave ones still stood guard in front of the command post. But no escort and no Callahan emerged from the tent. After a long while, I saw that same soldier who had gone to warn Callahan emerge from the tent and bark a few orders. The nearby soldiers looked surprised, but they all saluted - and then, to my astonishment, the entire lot of them simply left the area. Every damn soldier who'd been guarding the tent just packed up and got the hell out of there. Thirty seconds later, there wasn't a soul in sight. My brain buzzed.
Was it some kind of trap? Would they really leave their beloved commander completely exposed to an unknown assassin - as bait? Or maybe the commander wasn't there at all, and some sort of trap awaited me inside the tent? But how would they have something like that already set up? And if Callahan wasn't in there, why the hell did the soldier run inside? Perhaps Callahan was just holed up inside the tent with his best men, waiting it out and presumably calling for reinforcements. But then, a savvy soldier like him would know that an assassin would simply torch the tent without ever entering. The only reason I hadn't in the first place was that it was always better to get a positive ID on the kill.
...just what the hell was going on here?!
I waited on that rock for five minutes, rifle trained in the tent, debating what to do. On the one hand, I couldn't believe the battalion would just leave their commander to his fate inside the tent. On the other hand, I couldn't figure out what the hell else could've just happened. Finally, I figured, the hell with it. If Callahan had set up some sort of improbable trap to save himself and deal with me by sending his entire guard detail away, then he was the better man for it and my life would be forfeit. I set my rifle to one side and exploded into action, breaking cover and bursting out in a zigzag sprint, headed for the tent. If Callahan really did have the one up on me and had a sniper in place already, I wanted to give him his money's worth. But I heard no shots as I barreled down the mountain and finally tucked into a roll, diving forward at the tent. At the same time, I snagged my knife from its ankle holster and sliced a neat vertical incision in the side of the tent, coming to one knee on the other side and training both pistols on the interior of the tent.
Maps, charts, chairs, desks: I took them all in as an aside; my eyes and weapons were trained on the man seated at the head of a small conference table, his back to me. Had he been holding a weapon or had he made any sudden moves, I would've shot him on the spot - but he did neither. We stayed like that, in frozen tableau, for probably five seconds.
Finally, he very slowly swivelled to face me, and I got my first look at SOLDIER 1st Class Rafe Callahan. He was an imposing figure, with a dramatic white slash highlighting his otherwise jet black hair and piercing light blue eyes. He had a large build and a strong jaw, but there was an aura of strict morality about the man, the only kindness that can be afforded to men of war. The way he sat in that chair, arms on either rest, feet firmly planted, made me feel slightly less in control of the situation than I had expected.
I didn't pull the trigger.
Instead, I growled, "Keep your hands where I can see them. No sudden movements, please."
"So you've come?" he asked. "Never mind...I know you have. I've been expecting you."
"Expecting me?" I asked. It sounded stupid.
"But of course." He flipped a palm. "You don't disobey a direct order from Shinra and expect them to just laugh it all. I knew they'd send someone."
I felt foolish. Of course he'd know that. "Why'd you send away all your guards?"
"I didn't want you to kill them," he responded simply. "The odds were, if they sent someone to...deal...with me, it'd undoubtedly be someone who could handle a few standard-issue troopers. They don't deserve to be responsible for my...personal feelings."
I hadn't moved my gun an inch, but my tone had eased slightly. "...Why'd you do it?"
"Do what?" he asked.
"You know. Refuse your orders. Refuse to execute those soldiers."
He laughed, suddenly, but there was a timbre to the laugh I couldn't place, some emotion whose name wasn't coming to me. "Soldiers? Is that what they told you?"
I blinked, caught at a loss, and he saw it. Callahan didn't miss much. "So they didn't tell you. Well, that's not unexpected, I suppose." He shifted a bit in his seat, apparently getting comfortable.
I wasn't so sure what was going on. "What are you talking about?"
He cleared his throat. "Up until two weeks ago, a small detachment of syndicate forces had been occupying Nibelheim...just an advance legion, really. But they had weapons and materia, and the townspeople had none...so they were pretty much in control, though there weren't too many of them. They picked the seven nicest houses in the town to live in and generally just acted like barbarian conquerors."
I shook my head, uncomprehending.
He smiled sourly. "House number one held a husband, a wife, and their two daughters. House number two was just a husband and his wife. Number three was a widowed wife and her two grown sons. Number four? Husband, wife, and five children...two boys, three girls. Number five was a newlywed couple and their ten-month old boy. House number six was two brothers and a sister, all grown up, living together. And finally, number seven was the mayor's house, he lived there alone."
I closed my eyes. "...Twenty-three in all."
"Right." He nodded. "After we drove Wutai out of Nibelheim, Shinra accused them of 'aiding and abetting' the enemy, and sentenced them to death. Killing prisoners of war is one thing, I probably wouldn't have done that either. But this was another story entirely. There wasn't a man in my command who would stand for such an order, from my XO on down to the lowliest private. So we cut off communications and resolved never to take orders from Shinra again."
I was fascinated. "So what have you been doing?"
"Fighting the syndicates, as before," he replied. "Our mission hasn't changed, the people of this continent still need someone to protect them from Hachimaku and his damned monsters. But we don't do it in the name of Shinra anymore."
There are a variety of reasons why a person keeps his mouth shut, but the best one is that he just doesn't have anything to say, and I didn't.
His tone became businesslike. "So you're a Turk, I'm assuming. Sent to kill me, I take it?"
I nodded, my tone barely audible. "And Major Tablaine."
The barest hint of a smile. "I figured as much, so I made sure to get him to a safe location. You won't find him."
Again, I had nothing to say. I really didn't want to shoot this man.
I think he could read it in my eyes. "...You're just doing your job, aren't you, Mr...?"
"Valentine." I don't know why I responded. "Vincent Valentine."
"Well, Mr. Valentine, I want you to promise me something before you kill me," he said. "Leave the men under my command out of this. I, at least, am dying for a legitimate reason. Not a just or moral reason, certainly...but there is a reason. I knew that when I disobeyed orders. But my men have done nothing wrong. Leave them out of this."
I thought back to my orders. "My orders are specifically to find and eliminate Soldier 1st Class Rafe Callahan and Major Garrett Tablaine. They say nothing about the men under your command."
"It's a promise, then?" His eyes probed me.
"...Yeah. It's a promise."
He nodded, and settled back in his chair. He closed his eyes, briefly, then opened them. "All right, Turk. Do your job."
So I did.
It hit me, later, that the special tone to his laugh had been compassion. For me.
Later, back at my original rock, disassembling my rifle and repacking it, I came upon the sealed envelope. I went back and forth on it for a while but then decided that my basic mission was, in fact, fulfilled, so I slit it open with my knife and drew out a folded sheet of paper. It read:
Special Agent Valentine:
If you're reading this, presumably Soldier 1st Class Rafe Callahan and Major Garrett Tablaine are dead. Here are your followup orders. Information has been covertly leaked to the Wutai syndicates that the 3rd Recon Battalion will be moving west towards the western shore in preparation for an invasion of Wutai itself, and that they will be departing sometime tomorrow morning. Consequently, they have set up an ambush along that very route which, if sprung, would lead to the annihilation of the entire battalion. Your orders, therefore, are to forge a set of orders from Callahan and distribute them to the men. The orders will be to march, as expected, straight towards the western coast. You are then to stay and observe the total destruction of the 3rd Recon Battalion and eliminate any survivors. They have betrayed their country and they must pay the ultimate penalty for their betrayal.
I sat there for a long time.
That night, asleep behind my rock, I had two dreams:
Vincent is strapped to some sort of medical bed, writhing in desperation. Hallucinations and visions torment him, in his hallucinations he is changing, growing, mutating...he stares in horror at his limbs as they distort and elongate, he feels the very elements of his soul and his sanity being ripped to shreds, and he knows, somehow, that this is no hallucination...
I didn't remember the second dream very well. All I remember is a woman, a woman so beautiful that I hardly knew what to do with myself, and even then I couldn't remember any features. I couldn't even begin to describe her, except to say that she had been the encapsulation of everything that is wonderful and everything that is terrible in the world, and that she would be my salvation or my damnation, and that I would not be able to tell which was which. But I had a name, whispered on the winds, left resonating within me even as I slowly returned to the waking world.
"Lucrecia..."
Author's Note: This was originally supposed to be one story, but it got going so long I'm splitting it into two parts. Hope you all enjoyed, please read and review, I'm always open to comments, suggestions, or donations. Thank you all!
