Deceit
"Please just save me/ from this darkness"
– Make This Go On Forever, Snow Patrol
There were very few things Vincent Valentine simply could not face. As he stood on the edge of the pit at the center of the crater, looking down at the sandy expanse untouched by the biting winds and drifting snow, he was unable to deny the fact that what had happened here over three years ago might be on that thin line. The wind whipped across his shoulders, blowing his hair back, snapping the tattered ends of his cloak. But his face felt no gusts of air; the grains of sand below him lay smooth and flat, not in the dunes it should in such a blustery place. Vincent felt a deep chill creep down his spine. This place was so… unnatural. He remembered the feel of the planet's pulse around him, the sprays of light green as it tried to fill the holes left by Sephiroth. My lover's son… He swallowed, hard.
It was one thing he wished he'd been able to explain to her, have her chestnut eyes show understanding. I knew what crimes I was committing, every step of this. I knew what I was destroying, and I chose that path. He dropped his head back to stare up at the grey blanket of sky, wind once again blowing across his nose, snowflakes catching in his eyelashes, making him blink. I knew he might've been…
He shook his head against the thoughts. No. She wouldn't have lied to him. So many things lay twisted, wrecked, and unspoken between them, yet he knew that was a boundary she wouldn't have crossed. Yet the haze of doubt, that deep–rooted fear he couldn't shake still followed him, persisting that he examine just how much of a monster he really was. Any more of a monster than she was, knowing full well what she was doing? Are we so frail that we destroy everything around us, thinking we're protecting ourselves?
Filter crystal, Valentine, He reminded himself, Stick to the basics and retreat from this crypt. He scanned the sanded bowl, hoping to spot one. They had been no where else in the crater, but this was where the most trauma to the planet had occurred, and according to Hargo's theories, the place he'd most likely find the sought–after crystals. He crouched on the edge of the drop–off, pointed tips of his boots hanging a few inches over, one hand gripping the rim. There, a glint from the fragmented, shifting light, half–buried on the other side. Get it and go.
Vincent was poised to spring into the sand when he heard a soft tumble of rock behind him, and he was surprised that he'd underestimated the current generation of his previous employment, but not surprised enough to fail to dodge the sneak attack and use the momentum he already had stored in his legs to throw Reno cleanly over his head and into the sand. The Turk let out a muffled grunt as he landed, green eyes blazing up at Vincent as he landed next to him, planting one foot against the arm holding the magrod, pining Reno down. He cocked Cerberus, having drawn the revolver on the way down, off to one side and slightly behind him, pointed squarely at Elena's lovely face.
Vincent gave the blonde Turk a short glare, his core hardening against whatever fellowship he might have felt for these ungrateful people. She clenched her magrod in one hand, eyes narrowed, stance closed. He gave a glance to Reno, leaning hard enough on the redhead's shoulder to make him flinch when he squirmed. "Just what," Vincent pushed through clenched teeth, "Do you think you are doing?"
Elena chose that slightly inattentive moment to scoot forward, ready to jump to Reno's aid, and Vincent snapped his face to her, finger tightening on the trigger. Taking advantage, Reno flicked his magrod to his free hand with that assured dexterity Vincent had witnessed that morning. Before any of them had time to blink, a gunshot blasted out, a cloud of sand raining across Reno's still face, and Elena let out a stifled yelp.
Treacherous bastard, indeed. But Vincent could see the smug grin spreading across that face even as the sand obscured it. "Ya missed, Vampy!" He crowed.
Vincent remained unmoved. "I beg to differ."
And to their mutual surprise, the damaged magrod in Reno's left hand exploded into a million hissing, crackling, flaming sparks.
"Oh, shit!" Reno's smug expression vanished on the instant, sleeve of his suit jacket catching fire and quickly spreading up his arm, almost to the shoulder. He twisted against Vincent's hold, and the gunslinger lifted his foot, reaching up with one hand and undoing his cloak. Reno rolled against the sand, moaning in pain, and Vincent tracked next to him, gun still trained on Elena as she leapt down, and Vincent dropped the heavy cloak on Reno's fiery arm, smothering it in one fell swoop.
Vincent stepped back as Elena reached Reno's side, crouching next to him as he whimpered, her nose crinkling against the unholy scent of burnt flesh that rose in the air. Vincent kept them sighted down the topmost barrel. Elena pulled off the cloak, and Reno sat up, leaning against her side as she flicked a knife open, slicing the inside seam of the charred sleeve, peeling it away from his forearm tenderly. She glared up at Vincent as Reno sucked in a sharp breath as the cool air rushed against his burnt skin, bright red and blistering, peeling edges a crisp black. "He needs medical attention."
Vincent shook his head, pulling back the hammer. "Not until you explain why you attacked me."
Elena glanced down at Reno, who shook his head, green eyes bright with pain. She pulled out a spiral of clean, white gauze from her pack and began to wind it loosely around Reno's wound. When she was done, Elena furrowed her brows and turned to Vincent, helping Reno stand. "Rufus doesn't want you to revive Dr. Crescent."
Vincent caught a breath. "Why?"
"She has reason to hold a grudge, knows enough information to bring the company down." Further than it already is? She went on. "If she were able to exert that influence over you…" She stopped as Reno gripped her arm, hard, and she gave him a sharp glance.
"Elena…" He hissed out, "You still talk too much."
Vincent narrowed his eyes at the pair. "He fears an assassination attempt?" The waver in Elena's eyes told him all he needed to know. "When I could have killed him while Yuffie and I were evacuating Midgar?" He scoffed at them. "If I wanted that, I simply wouldn't have saved him." Absolutely trickery, that's all that man is made of. "With no more blood on my hands." He tightened the grip on his gun, rage pumping into his veins. And I am no better than them, for all the things I did as a Turk. He watched as Elena supported her cohort, the pair of them dangerous and intelligent and attached to each other in so many ways, and still completely unaware of the hardships ahead of them that they would undoubtedly bring crashing down on their own heads, likely leading to them turning against each other one day, because nothing was sacred inside the company, not the employees, not the planet, not the innocent, nothing but the never–filled pocket of the executives and the power they drank from. "Tell me," Vincent seethed, "Are you happy in your world that doesn't extend beyond the edges of Rufus Shin–Ra's lap?"
Elena looked up at his cold eyes, tugging Reno toward the edge, not turning her back. Cerberus remained level on the pair as Vincent watched Elena boost the struggling Reno up the ledge, and he remembered how she'd whimpered as he untied her from her bloodied chair two years ago, but the only words out of her mouth had been inquires of Tseng. Did he break? She asked, over and over.
I am not born a Turk, but I will die a Turk. He'd been twenty–five when he'd taken that oath, and he'd spent two guiltless years practicing manipulation and deceit before he'd learned his first hard lesson about life. And yet I did not die a Turk. I died as Vincent Valentine.
Reno wavered as Elena scrambled up beside him, cradling his injured arm, eyes beginning to glaze. "If it's any consolation, Vampy," Reno muttered as Elena dragged him back to his feet, "I wish you the best of luck."
Vincent gave a snort as Elena shot Reno a strange glance. "Let's get out of here, Reno." Reno gave an unbalanced nod, and she hefted him up beside her again and they began the rambling journey out of the crater.
Vincent tucked Cerberus away when they were out of sight, bending down to pick his cloak up, shaking the sand off. There were faint black streaks on the inside from the short–lived fire; he pulled Moogle from his designated pocket to double–check the doll remained unharmed. Seeing nothing wrong, he tucked it back into its pocket with care and buckled the cloak back into place.
Vincent supposed he could not blame Elena and Reno for their actions. Hadn't he executed similar betrayals without question or regard to morality? The foursome of them showed more potential for reprieve than the Turks had possessed as an institution for generations. But to attack the man who saved two of their men from further torture and eventual death? Because Rufus wants to tie up loose ends? He knew they had been investigating the crater, lying left and right about their intentions to snatch Jenova's head. But in the wake of Kadaj's gang's terrorism and Bahamut's attack on Edge, the unrivaled bravery and assistance of Shin–Ra had been invaluable; Rufus had thrown himself off a thirty–story building to try to destroy what he'd been so eager to get his hands on, and for the love of Holy, they'd even offered to lend Reeve a hand in both monetary and manpower issues involved in the excavation of Deepground, apologizing for the previous president's devious plans. But what are they planning that Lucrecia or I would get in the way of? Another Jenova Project? Vincent shook his head. They'd have more than just the two of them to handle; the entirety of AVALANCE and the W.R.O. would be more like it. Reeve had seen to it that while Shin–Ra would never be left wanting, but as a company, it would never see any sort of political or influential power again. Vincent glanced around, knowing it would be a day or more before he made it out of the crater and back into Edge; Reno and Elena would undoubtedly leave him stranded, hiking out the only possibility.
As he turned to glance back the way he had come, he caught the glint again, on the other side of the sunken bowl, and he was reminded of why he had come in the first place. He crossed the sand to uncover the object, prodding the ground with his pointed boots, hoping to stir up multiple crystals. What he found, though, sent a shock through his distracted mind.
It was the slender katana wielded by only one man; the once–glorious Masamune.
Vincent crouched, brushing the sand away from the rusty and slightly bent blade, picking it up solemnly. It had a peculiar and yet graceful weight to it, requiring inhuman strength and precision to handle accurately. As Vincent gripped it in one hand, its impossibly long blade picking up the faint strands of light, he remembered the viciousness Sephiroth had brandished it even in his last moments, filled with loathing. A loathing Vincent could understand all too well.
Vincent Valentine had been afraid that day, afraid to face the man he had helped create with passiveness and the monster he could have easily become if he had not clung to his desperate memories of happiness. What if he had lived a life void of all human warmth, unaware of anything besides battle and deception? Sephiroth had been bred to be a soldier, the ultimate warrior, and he was never given the chance to be otherwise.
Vincent stared down at the sword in his hand, sharp and deadly. I did not fight you to save the planet, or for my own salvation, or to create truth for Lucrecia. He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing he was pushing himself into avoided territory. I fought you, I destroyed you, because it was the only way I could save you. Cloud fought for vengeance, as did the others; they fought that last battle for the future and for themselves, but Vincent had discovered here three years ago that, in the end, none of that mattered to him. He had done it because it was Lucrecia's son, someone who deserved a fate far different than the one he had been handed, perhaps the truest victim of Hojo's and Shin–Ra's need for power. Another casualty of the company. All that had happened to him was no one but Hojo's, Gast's, Lucrecia's, and Vincent's own fault. I earned my demons; the ones you bore had been undeserved. I destroyed you because it was the only way I could find to put your maddened, unnatural mind to rest, to send it to the one place it might find peace, to the one person who would be capable of forgiveness. I did it for your sake, and for Lucrecia's, because while I killed my beloved's treasured son, I also brought you to justice and gave you rest. And the guilt from your creation and your annihilation is the cross I will bear for the rest of my unnatural life, something you will never have to experience, now. All I can hope is that your true mother will see that, and not hate me for it. So maybe there is salvation in this, and truth, as well. But if there is one thing she will never forgive… Vincent looked up at the sky, core heavy with whirling doubt, the hazy clouds and the snowflakes falling everywhere but the perfect circle he stood in.
Suddenly, the place looked like a graveyard.
Vincent strode to the center of the bowl, stabbing Masamune into the sand, half–way to the hilt, resting both hands on the wrapped handle. Sephiroth… "May humanity one day remember you as the hero you were meant to be," Vincent whispered with hushed reverence, "And let not another soul disturb your tomb."
Vincent stepped back, teeth clenched against the tide of emotion that filled him. Please, let me leave some of this here, so when I look at Lucrecia, I will not see her son's pain–wracked face instead of her smiling one. He curled his fist hard enough to leave half–moons carved into the heel of his palm. Why do we live while those that deserve this life die? He sucked in a breath, suddenly desperate to leave this eerie place. He shuffled his feet through the sand until he found several of the filter crystals, lying a few inches under the topmost layer. He slipped them into his pack and lifted himself back into the wind and snow without a backward glance.