17.
Vincent Valentine regarded the small crystal punch cup with a wary yet thirsty eye. Normally he wouldn't indulge, but this evening found him in need of refreshment: the journey here had been long and difficult, made more so by construction on the overpass. He'd followed Cloud and Tifa after figuring out that Kadaj and his droogs must have been behind this hair-brained reunion, and it didn't please him to learn that he was right.
In fact it never pleased him, and he was usually right.
"You're not gonna drink that, are ya?" The question came through without need for words as Galian Beast spoke on a more instinctual level, rather like a supersized purple Pekingese.
"It does seem rather out of place," Vincent observed, studying the foamy concoction. "One would think they'd have set up a bar…"
"Dude, I wouldn't drink that if I were you," gurgled Hellmasker. "In fact, why don't you stab yourself in the leg, and then I would be you, and I wouldn't drink that."
"Oh, great," moaned Galian Beast. "I'm in agreement with the nutcase."
Ignoring them both, Vincent raised the cup and drained it in one go.
His pallid features contorted; he struggled not to spit the stuff back into the cup. "Damn, that shit's nasty!"
The Jenova cells flowed down Vincent's throat, held captive in their frothy lime delivery gel much like frog eggs caught in a riptide. They would have to wait to disperse: the mutated punch would not be quick to break down, but Jenova had always been patient.
As the odd and indecipherable aftertaste hit, a vague expression of "uh oh" flitted across Vincent's face.
"Stand back, kiddies. I'll handle this." Chaos locked the other Vincent-squatters in their existential crates, then displaced his host with all the delicacy of Barret Wallace playing full-contact badminton.
Chaos focused inward, concentrating his substantial life energy on the contents of Vincent's gut. He sensed the Other biding its time as the thick lime sherbet-based beverage began to do battle with Vincent's chronically-excessive stomach acid. Damn fool needs to learn how to relax or he'll give himself an ulcer, Chaos noted.
How best to proceed? Regurgitation was out of the question: the stuff would activate on the way up, a very nasty scenario. Much simpler to absorb the alien matter into himself, purify it through the protomateria, and convert it into simple energy. The gaseous byproduct would no doubt stink to high heaven, but that would be a small price to pay.
Chaos braced himself, then tucked in with all the gusto of a five-year-old on a plate of Brussels sprouts.
The Jenova cells in Vincent's stomach sensed something had gone very wrong.
The Jenova cells in the punch bowl pretended to be invisible lest this unpredictable force decide to go for seconds.
Upstairs, Kadaj hesitated, certain he'd heard something.
Chaos muffled a belch and made a face. He cast about, desperate for something to take the taste away. What, this human doesn't believe in booze?
He closed his eyes and concentrated on his sense of smell. Like a shark honing in on blood, he made his way to a rather large, locked pantry. Claws made short work of the door; inside, Chaos found an assortment of hard liquor, pony kegs, and a wine rack. He surveyed the labels, selected a nice Chianti, and headed out to the yard to congratulate himself on a job well done.
As though drawn to Chaos by the bonds of fate, yet having forgetten to set his watch to the correct time, Weiss came into the buffet room several minutes after Chaos had left. He noticed the shattered pantry door and moved cautiously to investigate.
"Woot! It's Miller time!"
Behind him, Nero considered his options. Beer? Wine? Something harder? He paused at the wrecked pantry door and turned back, his attention caught by the intriguing green glow emanating from the punch bowl…