He didn't remember falling asleep and didn't know for how long, when his hyper-sensitive ears picked up the sound of shifting sand at the mouth of the cavern tunnel. He was on his feet in an instant, grabbing his gun from the ground beside him. Silent as only he could be, he moved to the deeper shadows where the tunnel mouth opened into his little cave. Listening intently, Vincent could make out the individual treads of a dozen people, three with an unusual gait that he took to mean they were injured. It was a few minutes more before the leader of the group made their way into his line of sight. Vincent found himself holding his breath, dreading their discovery of him. The leader held a torch out in front of him as stepped into the cavern. Vincent squinted at the harsh orange light.
''I mean you no harm," he said, holstering his gun and stepping out of the concealing shadows, "My name is Vincent. May I ask yours?'' The leader started violently, almost dropping the torch, making the shadows flicker and dance. He turned, brandishing the torch, swinging it in an arc at Vincents' face.
''I didn't mean to startle you.'' Vincent said, stepping back hastily, bringing his hands up, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. Too late, he remembered his gauntlet, a comforting, ever-present weight at his side, but a source of fear and uncertainty for everyone else. The leader inhaled sharply, stumbling back a few paces, and brandished the torch even more fiercely.
''Easy. It's just a gauntlet. I can take it off if it'll make you feel better.'' At the leaders stiff nod, Vincent slowly moved his right hand, and with the leaders sharp grey eyes on his every movement, undid the buckles and let the gauntlet slip to the ground at his feet. The tense lines around the leaders' eyes relaxed a trifle at the heavy thud and loud clatter Vincents' gauntlet made when it hit the stone.
''John.'' The leaders' voice was deep, husky, as if he didn't talk much. Vincent quirked an eyebrow at the offhand manner of introduction.
"There's water," Vincent said, gesturing toward the back of the cave with his left hand, "There isn't much, but you are welcome to it." Saying that, he scooped up his gauntlet and made his way to his pack, setting the heavy glove on it as he sat down. The leader, John, eyed him warily before gesturing to his followers to come into the cave. Vincent watched from behind his fringe as everyone straggled in. There were thirteen all told; the strange gaits of the three turned out to be due to a heavily wounded man on a stretcher. A short boy, maybe midway through his teens, stumbled along beside it with one hand clutching the bloody hand of the man on the stretcher. Vincent found his gaze drawn to the boy. Children were usually kept well protected in this wasted land. To find one traveling was highly unusual. The boy had dark hair, hanging in limp dreadlocks to his waist. When he happened to glance in Vincents' direction, he was startled to see that the boys' eyes were a clear bright green, with elliptical pupils. Vincent was reminded uncomfortably of a certain SOLDIER general. Aside from the boys' hair, he was the spitting image of Sephiroth, right down to the little quirks he remembered from the few times he'd seen the silver-haired son of his murderer.
"His name is Jacob." Vincent turned at the sound of John's voice. He spoke softly, but Vincent had no trouble hearing him. The leader raised his head and met Vincents' garnet stare with his own steel grey.
"I apologize. I didn't mean to stare.'' The leader snorted softly at Vincents' statement.
"I know you. You're wondering why we have a child out in the Wastes. You're wondering where his parents are. His mother is dead, and his father is dying," he gestured to the injured man on the stretcher, "As to why we have him out here, he's a danger to everyone."
"So you are just going to leave him." Vincents' tone was icy, his bloody gaze colder. John shrugged, a nonchalant gesture.
"The boy was nothing but a burden on his village. He is no good at anything and what he does try fails miserably. Why, what is it to you?"
"Nothing." Vincent said, getting to his feet. He grabbed his belongings and headed for the cave entrance and hopefully solitude. The rock hiding the cave was bathed in scorching sunlight. Even for him, it wouldn't take long to succumb to heat stroke. Idly, he wondered how Johns' group had traveled through the searing heat of midday. Thankfully, there was shade under the rock. Vincent tossed his pack down and stretched out beside it, using it as a pillow. He closed his eyes, heaved a sigh and got comfortable. It was going to be a while before he could continue on for the night, so he might as well get some rest. He dozed for a few hours and woke an hour before the sun went down. Standing and stretching, he paced around a bit to restore circulation. Taking a deep breath, Vincent stretched his arms above his head, held the pose for a few seconds, then let his breath out as he lowered his arms. He noticed then that his left arm felt lighter, and looked down at the scarred limb. The myriad crisscrossing scars, and puncture marks stood out starkly, disgusting purplish-red against creamy pale. He grimaced in distaste and looked to his pack. His gauntlet stared reproachfully at him from its place on top. He strode quickly to it, snatched it up and buckled it on. He took a sip of water from one of the skins before shouldering his pack. Glancing at the setting sun, he judged it to be almost 8:30; he snorted abruptly. Even after so long, he was still thinking in terms of clock time. Shrugging to settle his burden, he stepped out into the ruddy evening sunlight and started southwest, heading for the next oasis.