The Nightmare Recurs

"Sometimes the more you wonder why/ the worse it seems to get"
–She Runs Away, Duncan Sheik

I never deserved the chance I received.

It was all too true, Vincent realized as he strode across the spindly bridge between jagged, pointed mountains, almost a full day's hike from Rocket Town. He done too many things wrong with the life the planet had granted him, long before dooming Sephiroth with his silence, and now the very Lifestream that had crafted him into being was rejecting him, denying him the final peace it had given even to the three clone brothers that had so recently tried to destroy it.

If there is anything I deserve, he thought when he reached the ramshackle mansion that had housed his nightmares for thirty years, it is to descend back into suffering.

Nibelheim mansion was unchanged since his recent visit, dusty and heartbreakingly elegant with exception to the deep claw marks marring the ceiling and walls from his battle with Deepground's crafty spider–robot. The chandelier was a web of cracks and barely hanging, inches off the floor, a deep layer of dust covering every available surface, preventing the crystal from shimmering in the faded light. At least the sewers aren't crawling with vermin. He smiled wryly to himself, striding up the rickety stairs, skipping every other one as had been his wont even when he'd spent months here, torn between duty and his desperate courtship. His long legs carried him toward the upper bedroom on the right, the familiar squeak of the floorboard by the chair both comforting and haltingly painful. He stopped in front of the false wall, fingers questing for the latch before sliding it along the track it rested in, and as he descended the twirling planks, it felt nostalgically like coming home.

He'd left Rocket Town in the middle of the night, after spending a day watching Cid and Shera struggle with the throes of newfound parenthood. Altogether, they made a balanced team, and Vincent was confident Colin would grow up as happy as any child could. But all the same, he could not spend another night in someone's household; he could feel his nightmares and the violence that ensued with them pressing into his brain, between his brows, shooting down his temples and into his jaw like an oncoming migraine. And he would not subject his dearest friends and their baby to that horror; in fact, he'd decided to not unleash those beasts on any of them anymore.

So Vincent stood staring down at the coffin in the center of the locked room of the mansion, where he'd been destroyed and remade and destroyed again, soft, deep violet velvet lining of the coffin both inviting and recoiling, beckoning him back into the tsunami that was sleep and what he'd come to realize were unavoidable nightmares. He reached out, brushed the dust from the lid lying askew next to the coffin, crouching next to it and reaching out to squeeze the plush built–in pillow. It had been something like peace, to lay here and sleep, reveling in those nightmares and the things he'd never be able to change. But how much peace could he have, now, knowing there were those who would miss him, search for him, people whose lives were hinged with his? Lucrecia, he thought, if you truly wanted to come back, you should have contacted those who knew how to live, instead of one who only knows how to feign death. He lowered himself into the black, polished coffin, slamming the lid shut, the key to the room's door pressed tightly into his palm. Because our punishments remain unchanged. He stared into the blackness, convinced his confinement was the only way to reassure those he had come to care for, Lucrecia included, would be safe from harm. But something tugged at the corner of his mind even as he closed his eyes, letting that built–up pressure flood into him and Hojo's deranged laughter fill his mind.

It really hadn't been so bad, being with all of you…

But approximately eight hours later, he cracked his eyes open again, shoving the lid off the coffin violently as he watched Sephiroth's face contort into Hojo's, the laughter becoming high–pitched and tinged with the phantom memory of torture. So when he sat up, gasping, and noticed the fresh gouge marks inside the lining, cotton stuffing bulging out, he realized that despite what he wished, he may not be able to sleep like he once had been able to. And part of his mind understood why, although he wanted to deny it. He had slept with the hope that maybe she would speak once again, lull him out of his despair with renewed promises and reassurances of her desires. But she had remained silent still, and he had torn apart his surroundings, and sleep no longer seemed like peace, because he knew he would wake only to be reminded of her missing presence, a gift he never should have received within his dreams. It was ruining him now, this hope he had let seep into himself, poisoning him with its unrealistic whisperings. Because it was there, he could not be consumed by his despair, could not let himself feel the tortured peace he'd been craving, the only peace he deserved.

He spent the rest of the day wandering the mansion, eradicating all traces of Deepground's presence, until it looked like it had when Cloud and the others had woken him. He deciphered the upstairs safe, following Hojo's convoluted game, amazed that the man had had the gumption to come back to this mansion to craft such a puzzle when Vincent could have risen any minute and obliterated him. He must have known that I was too locked in my own regret. Hojo had not been the brilliant scientist he fashioned himself to be, but he had certainly been a master of manipulating emotions. As most of the power hungry are. He even sat down in front of the dilapidated piano with its missing keys, and plucked out a few notes, pondering how such chords could have the power to disintegrate solid crystals. He did not, however, wander into the lab. It is vivid enough in my nightmares.

But when night fell, he descended the stairs, resting in his coffin again, believing that tonight he would slip back into that timeless sleep. And yet the next morning, that poison spark of hope woke him again. And so the days passed, a mirror of the one before, and Vincent would not let himself believe the rest of his life could be any different.

She smiled down at him, and between his shame at slacking on the job and the flicker of joy to be discovered by her, all he managed to do was stammer her name, but then she laughed, and next thing he knew he was gasping into her neck as she dug her nails into his back, long, blissfully painful scratches, and one flailing limb knocked over the bottle of wine and her long hair and the crushed daffodil shining against the grass, a dark red stain spreading over the light–colored blanket, and they lay trembling together, and he pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes, only to peek them open again as she placed her hands on either side of his face. "Vincent… Don't close your eyes." She stared up at him, her own eyes a thin ring of honey around wide pupils blackened by the throbbing that coursed between their exhausted bodies. "They're the most amazing thing I've ever seen." And she crushed her mouth to his, the kiss so rough that their teeth chipped together, all traces of tenderness gone, and he knew it was some sort of goodbye.

And she was speaking to him, telling him in that harsh voice that whatever they had was over as he stared at his father's Shin–Ra employee file on her computer screen, telling him to stop it, to just stop it, and the next day he walked into the lab to find her and Hojo pressed against each other in an embrace, one painfully similar to the one he'd shared with her on the hilltop, and three weeks later it was announced she was officially joining the Jenova Project as both a test subject and a scientist after they returned from their honeymoon.

Oh, gods, the pain, almost worse than her rejection as he watched the blood drain from the hole in his stomach as he lurched toward Hojo, vision swimming black as the long–haired scientist stood back and laughed, and everything blurred into a mixture of glass and injections and the feeling of his joints being torn from their sockets and tendons ripped from bone, wires replacing the nerves in his left arm then abandoned as a futile effort, covered by the claws and a gauntlet. Always the laughter, the laughter echoing against her soft sobs and screams, filling him with loathing and despair and madness, louder and louder and louder and louder…

And Vincent woke, the lid of the coffin on the other side of the room and Cerberus pressed not into his temple but into his chest, and it wasn't until his jaw snapped shut and silence filled the small room that he realized he had been screaming. His ears buzzed and his throat was raw, and he clicked back the hammer on his revolver before wondering why it was pressed into his chest. The protomateria, he realized, and he wanted to laugh at his subconscious conceding to his anguish. If that were destroyed, I'd be unable to control Chaos. And thus I'd be free from my nightmares, in some fashion. He flopped back against the coffin, right hand still holding Cerberus hanging over the side, staring at the rough ceiling. It was still there, taunting him from the sack he'd tossed to one side, the crystals he'd promised to deliver to Hargo reminding him over and over again that he'd weakened himself into believing he could atone. Another night wasted, he thought as he rose, shaking out his cloak behind him.

He climbed the planked steps toward the mansion's proper, and on the third step from the top he heard a creak and the wood underneath his foot gave way, cracking out from beneath him, breaking off from the wall. He began to lose his balance, claw scraping against the rock of the wall, and he slipped, falling backwards toward the hole the broken step created. It clattered toward the ground far below him as he snagged his claw into the step in front of him, his body straddled between it and the fourth step. He gazed down at the long fall before he glanced up and pulled himself across the gap, brows furrowed together, eyes focused. From his vantage point level with the floor of the bedroom, he'd spied a box shoved into the far corner under the bed, blending in with the dust that permeated the room. A wooden box that looked suspiciously familiar.

Vincent pulled himself to his feet, crossing the room before kneeling to drag the box out from under the bed. It couldn't be…

It was a small box, maybe a foot wide and a foot long, a few inches deep, completely nondescript except for the expensive and long–vanished weapons dealer logo branded into the hinged top of the wood. It is.

Vincent sat on the bed with the box on his lap, lifting the lid gently to reveal the revolver he'd believed to be long gone. It was a top model, only a handful made in Gaia, a Hermes WR with three triple–powered materia slots along the mythril long–barrel and an inscription carved into the design of the handle. May your days as a Turk be long and rewarding. Welcome to the company, son. – G

He'd almost never used it at first, since he'd been issued a gun along with his acceptance into the Turks, an efficient and adaptable model capable of the many functions of a gun–toting Turk. But he'd used the one his father gave him on the range, marveling at its superior smoothness and finely–tuned abilities, touched by the gift but knowing it was only because he'd joined Shin–Ra, although not as a scientist like his father had planned. Indeed, his father has been livid when he'd learned Vincent had accepted the invitation to the rigorous training grounds, the place where he'd either wash out or be sworn in for life. They'd argued and screamed harsh words at each other, his mother cowering in the kitchen crying as her husband told her only son he was a useless waste of life, suited to the dirty deeds he knew the Turks committed, going to his deserved and early death. Vincent had stormed out, determined not to speak to his father again, but then received the gun after his first successful mission. A few weeks later, as he was planning to return home to thank his father in person and attempt to amend their differences, he received word of his father's death, due to a "lab–related accident". He'd thrown himself into work, reading the devoted letters from his mother but refusing to attend the funeral. He didn't want to watch as others spoke of his father's goodwill and scientific achievements when all he'd known of him was his absence and harsh admonishment except for one gesture right before his death. He handled his guilt and grief with his missions, throwing aside the company issue semi–automatic for the Hermes WR, each bullet shot from it a reminder of the failure that was his relationship with his late father.

Vincent ran a hand over the revolver, polished, cleaned, and loaded. I did not leave it in this condition. Unused bullets littered the rest of the box, and he reached his hand in to grab a handful when his knuckles knocked into something else in the box. He wrapped his fingers around it, pulling out a small, leather bound book. He turned it over in his hand, examining its black cover, a thin strap of leather threaded through the back cover and wrapped around a shiny metal button on the front, holding its pages closed. Vincent unwound it slowly, an uncanny dread filling his heart. The leather binding creaked as he opened it and read the inscription on the first blank page:

This book belongs to Dr. Lucrecia Crescent. If found, please return to…Vincent flipped to the next page, its heading clearly that of a personal journal.

And quickly slammed the heavy cover shut, rising to his feet and returning to the stairs, determined that it had not been placed in that box unintentionally. He was going to read it and put an end to that hope that woke him up each morning.