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'At the end, no more entreaties to God, no more pleas
for divine mercy. At the end, a bleak acceptance. A
name said lovingly, with regret and terrible longing but
perhaps also with a measure of hope. And in
the mind's eye not the cruel earth hurtling nearer or the
darkness after, but a cherished face.'
--Dean Koontz, Sole Survivor
It was blinding.
The light was no longer genial and warm; it burned, as if every inch of him had been set ablaze. It seeped into his every crevice, into every inch of his limbs, into every intricate curve and pattern in his skin - his very being was disturbed by the light, each part of him was both healed and destroyed by it. He could see nothing else, only the broken glass window and the cruel scorn of the light that spilled from its every fracture.
Then, suddenly, the light that had assaulted his every sense and his very being stopped... and there was nothing more.
Vincent felt his body jerk in response, in the surprise and fear that perhaps now he was actually dead. That thought was no longer pleasant; it was no longer welcomed. Long ago he wouldn't have minded the thought of total oblivion, nor the nothingness and peacefulness that the end would surely bring him. But there was more. There was Tifa. There had been, anyway. Hadn't she shot him? Hadn't she brought this hell upon him? Hadn't she tricked him so completely and so cunningly?
But hadn't she said that she loved him?
The vileness of betrayal never felt as horrible. Still, the slightest bit of disbelief nagged at the back of his mind, pushing passed the horrible dreams, which told him to give in to darkness and be rid of those troublesome memories and emotions. He wouldn't, he knew. He never could. He somehow tried to convince himself that this whole thing was some terrible misunderstanding - that Tifa hadn't shot him and instead Cloud had simply knocked him unconscious. This whole thing could very well be another of his nightmares.
It wasn't, and he couldn't truly convince himself otherwise.
She shot him. Tifa Lockheart, his own little light, had shot him. And what would he do about it if he somehow survived? Would he hurt her in return? How about a little touch of irony, Lockheart? I'll shoot you, too. Then we can die together. A small laugh forced its way through Vincent's lips and he immediately realized that he would do absolutely nothing, if given the chance. He would have died for her and, if whatever the hell was up there commanded it so, he would die by her as well. I never would have thought. Tifa... I suppose you made your choice. But how will you handle your Cloud Strife? If you can't have either of us, then you will kill us both? God help me, but I think I love you even more.
He heard a faint giggle.
Laughing at me, too? Never would have imagined... At least, not from you.
No, not laughing...
Crying? Yes, crying. Vincent was certain. And he knew it was Tifa - he'd know even if he was deaf. Kill me, then cry for me? What a world.
"Vincent?" It was a small whisper from frightened and quivering lips. It could barely be heard, but it was spoken. He couldn't make out the small smile in her soft voice, the one she often had at times when she spoke to him. He came to the startling conclusion that her smile just wasn't there. He still tried to find it, however, not entirely certain that she was crying for him and not laughing at him instead.
He would have answered her, maybe even chuckle at her foolishness, at her arrogance and her confusion, all at once. But his mind was too hazy and wouldn't allow his lips to work properly. Yes, Tifa? Forgive you? All right. Just as long as you promise not to shot me again...
He felt something warm and soft against his cheek. His cold skin instantly melted and he smiled to himself when she kissed his still lips. Such a strange girl, killing and kissing all at once. Vincent didn't jerk away and he didn't kiss her back, not that he could have done either. His own body refused him, wouldn't permit him even the smallest chance of just whispering her name.
"I'm not scared anymore, Vincent."
He wanted to hold her at that moment, cradle her and tell her that everything would be fine. Nothing would be again, he was certain, but the terror and the sorrow in her voice made him come to the most definite conclusion any one man could possibly have. It was almost enough to force a few tears from his eyes, as well, because he knew he had always known - he just couldn't make it seem logical before. Tifa Lockheart, his Tifa Lockheart, could never have shot him.
***
Vincent slid an eyelid open. The bright rays of the new morning were no longer bothering his eyes; in fact, there was a shadow over him, as if the sun had changed its mind and crawled back beneath the earth. That couldn't be so, but he wanted to believe it. Perhaps if the sun could go backwards, so could time. A little twitch of his right arm, a new wave of pain overtaking him briefly, and suddenly the sun no longer mattered. He breathed in sharply when he tried to move again and felt something warm slide down to his right hand. His fingers curled into a loose fist, like he wanted to grab his blood but couldn't quite hold a fist tight enough to do so. Vincent was fairly certain that the dead could not bleed, so it was a most welcomed feeling, this sharp and bitter reminder. At least it was, until a new feeling gnawed away at the only proof of his existence.
"Did you just shoot me, Lockheart?" He whispered hoarsely.
Tifa, his shield from the morning's glare, stared at him for a moment, as if she was trying hard to think of something at least halfway to logical. Finally, she simply lowered her head and said softly, "Yes."
So much for a definite conclusion.
Vincent felt himself chuckle. She could have lied, too, and maybe he would have believed her. And how he wished she had lied... "You can't shoot me and then kiss me, Tifa. It's not very logical." He pushed himself upward, wincing slightly when his right arm was suddenly pierced by thousands of invisible fingernails. Immediately his eyes were caught in the brilliant lights of the stained glass window. Everything was green, then he shifted and everything was red. But red was better than the opaqueness of black, so he gladly stayed in that position for the moment.
She lowered her head and a waterfall of brown slid down her shoulders and onto his legs. He could feel each strand as it fell softly on him, as if his legs were bare. "I didn't shoot you, Vincent."
It didn't make sense, of course, but he almost wanted to believe her. As if in response, as if just to contradict her, the pain in his arm grew worse. "You just said..." he managed before his teeth came together so forcefully that even Tifa could hear them clench.
She reached out and brushed his hair behind his ear; a few strands of black stayed on his forehead, glued there by blood and sweat. "I mean... I didn't shoot you, Vincent."
Vincent didn't let his lips drift apart to answer her with a very sharp "Yes, you did shoot me, Tifa Lockheart." He simply looked over her now drooping shoulders to the twisted and fallen body behind her.
No, she hadn't shot Vincent. She had shot Cloud Strife.
Both pity and immeasurable joy filled him, and it was such an odd combination that he felt his skin crawl with the very thought of it. Tifa didn't shoot him; Tifa had chose him, after all; Tifa had saved his life when a second more would have quite possibly resulted in the death of both men. But with that, no smile came. If his mouth could have worked to form one, he would have fought to keep his lips still. It didn't seem fair, but not even that one truth, the only thing that actually mattered to him, would allow him even the smallest of smiles.
He didn't realize at first, but Tifa was still talking.
"...the bullet went through him and hit you," she was whispering. Even as she spoke, her voice remained with the same eerie calm her face had once held when she first fired Vincent's gun. "I never thought it would have, but I guess I was too close to him."
Vincent's right shoulder burned for a moment, then went pleasantly numb. Tifa was still rambling on and the more words that tumbled from her lips, the less calm her face grew, until tears began falling down her cheeks and her bottom lip, once held in place by her teeth, was now quivering slightly. Vincent felt himself smile. He knew it was the worse possibly time to do so and that there was no logical reason behind it, other than the fact that Tifa, with blood soaking into her white tank top, with tears streaking her face, with the fractured light behind her, never looked so beautiful. Finally, her body gave in to sobs and she fell against his neck and cried; she cried for her bounty hunter, for the puppet that she couldn't have possibly saved, and for the world that she had let change her.
Vincent weakly placed his claw on her back and it rose up and down with her quiet, rhythmic sobs. "Don't waste your tears on the dead," he said softly. His words made Tifa's sobs turn to calmer sniffs and gulps, and finally she steadied herself against his neck.
"I can cry for whoever I want to." She spoke it forcefully, although she knew he was right; who cries for ghosts?
"Vincent!"
Tifa didn't move from off him, even when the owner of the voice and its companion finally came into the same room, the clattering of weapons and boots following after them. She simply laid there, her cheek resting comfortably against his neck and her left hand pressed firmly on the bullet wound in his shoulder. More blood wet her hand and it glided smoothly down her arched fingers.
Cid stopped by the doorway to catch his breath (he had gotten more exercise than he ever hoped to tackle in one lifetime), and Barret behind him pushed passed his hands, which held either end of the door-less frame.
"Tifa?" Barret softly questioned, stepping carefully around the fallen body of Cloud Strife with no more than a quick glance in his lifeless direction. Too much thought on Strife and he would have pitied him; but there was no more time for that now. He knelt down besides her and pulled her away from Vincent. "Hey, girl," he whispered, a pained smile on his face. "You're causin' more trouble than I'm worth." Tifa weakly rested against her friend's broad chest.
"Barret, what I'm going to do?"
"You're doin' nothing. We're gonna fix things here and then we're goin' home."
She smiled faintly; it was good to have Barret there to reassure her, especially since Vincent was in no position to. Right now, home sounded like heaven.
"Aw, shit, Vin. What the hell happened here?" Cid sat besides Vincent with a loud thud, leaned his spear against the wall (which slid off seconds later and fell to the floor), and poked the wound on Vincent's shoulder. Vincent opened an eye and glared at Cid. His friend only ignored the sharp stare, prodded the wound some more, then finally sat back and sighed. An unlit cigarette was taken from his mouth and placed quickly behind his ear, all the while the expression on his face stayed somber.
Vincent didn't like that expression.
But Cid simply shrugged it off. "I missed all the fun." That caused a most unpleasant glare in his direction from Tifa and Barret, even if it was said only to lighten the mood. "You should've waited for me."
Vincent smiled slightly. "Fuck you, Highwind."
"See? No goddamn appreciation for your own friends." Cid slid himself across the floor to the other side of Vincent, carefully pulled his claw over his shoulder and lifted him halfway off the floor. Vincent managed to straighten himself and find his balance enough to shrug away from his friend. Cid crossed his arms and watched Vincent's lethargic moves disapprovingly. "The faster we get our asses back, the faster Jessie can fix you up."
Vincent flattened his back against the wall and undid the first few buckles of his cloak for more breathing room; each now unbuckled side folded over itself like a collar. "I'm not going back yet, Cid."
Cid's expression didn't change.
Barret snorted. "You're a damn fool. I ain't wastin' my time here. We're goin' back and you're comin'. Got it?" The big man was a moment away from reaching over to physically move Vincent along with them.
"Barret." Tifa was still between the men and she knew Barret wouldn't do anything as long as that remained so. "What about Hojo?"
"What about ‘im?"
"He's the reason why Cloud's..." She stopped herself before another lump could lodge itself in her throat. "We can't let him get away with it. I can't." Not only that, but Vincent had a claim in everything, as well. And though she wouldn't say, she was staying for that reason as well. "He was here, Barret."
"Tifa, even if that was him, he's prolly long gone by now. And... we have to bury Strife, Teef. I think it's best we do it soon." He stroked his friend's hair. "Besides, there ain't no point in lettin' Valentine here bleed to death. Unless ya wanna bury two bodies." He waved his left hand with feigned indifference towards Vincent. "Like Cid said, the faster we get back-"
"I'll see to it that Hojo pays for what he did, Tifa," Vincent said calmly. He tested his arm with a quick roll of his right shoulder. A dull ache was all that followed the action and Vincent felt his dizziness subside momentarily. He pushed himself off of the wall, away from the bullet lodged inside it and away from the puddles of fresh blood. The rain coming in from the broken window felt good against his hot skin; his strength wasn't back entirely, but it was better than nothing.
Tifa smiled bitterly. "I don't give a damn what you're doing, just as long as I'm there, too."
Vincent reached down and picked up his revolver in his claw, which felt terribly awkward wrapped around the smaller gun. He waited a moment for the new wave of dizziness to subside, then silently stepped closer to Tifa. With one fluent motion, the gun was back in her hand and the red band around his head was off. It was interlaced with his fingers and it was difficult to tell where the cloth strip began and where the blood ended. He, too, handed that to Tifa. "Wrap it around my shoulder; it'll do for the moment."
Silently, and after sticking the revolver halfway passed the belt of her shorts, she wrapped his red band tightly around the bullet wound. It wouldn't do much good, she knew, but there was nothing else that could be done.
With his claw, Vincent pushed Tifa closer to him, until there was only an inch’s worth of space between them. "You're not coming with me," he whispered.
Her fingers pulled against his cloak and her nails dug into the fabric with obvious disagreement. "The hell I'm not."
Vincent didn't expect any other response. There was a smile on the edge of his lips and it felt sour; he couldn't do anything to stop her, even though he hated the idea of her there, dying with him. "Tifa, life will go on after I'm gone. The world won't die and disappear."
"Yes it will. For me it will!" Tifa's sudden cry filled the ancient room and echoed long after it actually left her lips. She knew it sounded childish, but the very idea that he would leave her now was not an option, even if her being there besides him wouldn't stop what was to come. She closed her eyes and lowered her voice, although her tone stayed just as sharp and forceful. "I'm coming with you."
There was a gentle tug on her belt and Tifa numbly realized that he had taken back his gun. With a small smile brushing his lips, he leaned closer and kissed her softly; there was something lingering sadly upon her lips when they finally parted with his. It wasn't like his other kisses, like his usual feel whenever he touched her. It wasn't a kiss she ever wanted from him, either - this sad, haunting kiss goodbye.
She knew then. She wasn't coming with him. The sudden feeling of helplessness, of this ugly exposure now that he was halfway to gone, left her feeling unexpectedly alone in a room where she was otherwise surrounded by loved ones. Tifa crossed her arms before her chest, if only to try to fend off the sensation of endless cold. "No," she simply said. "It won't end like this. I'll come back and I'll find you. I don't care what I'll find, but I'll come back for you, in the end."
Vincent knew she would. After all, he was her bounty hunter.
She spun around, not wanting to see the expression on his face, if there indeed was one. She hoped he wouldn't answer her with the obvious, with the rational, with the truth she so despised.
Vincent said nothing, not that his words could have possibly been of any comfort. He moved away from her, leaving Tifa's back and a baffled leader of Avalanche to themselves. Barret didn't say anything else; he only shook his head with a scowl, his eyes never once falling on Vincent.
Cid followed the bounty hunter almost pensively, scratching the back of his head and furrowing his brow in expectance. "Vincent..." The ex-pilot shuffled next to him. "We're gonna work with Avalanche, right? I mean, when this is over."
Vincent scarcely nodded.
Cid smiled. "Damnit, Vin, you better hurry up and get your ass back, then." He shouldered his weapon and shifted uncomfortably to his right foot. "Don't take forever with this, okay?"
Another nod.
Cid cleared his throat and waited for a moment. Not getting a proper response, he breathed out quickly. "Say something!"
Vincent turned around and placed his claw on his friend's shoulder; it felt heavy and awkward there, as if that very thing never should have been to begin with. It wouldn't have been, either, if not for Hojo. Vincent nodded his head back towards Tifa. "Watch out for her, Cid."
Cid's eyes became slits and his mouth opened slightly. He didn't say anything for a while, only watched his friend hesitantly. And he stayed like that for a moment more, before he nodded quickly. "Hell, it's not like she needs to be looked after-" The hard look within Vincent's eyes and the permanent frown on his lips startled Cid. He looked away and sniffed. "Sure, why the hell not? Until you get back, that is."
Vincent's heavy claw left Cid's shoulder. The ex-pilot looked tired and worn, in need of a good rest, just like the two Avalanche members behind him. Barret still was scowling and Tifa still wasn't facing him. Vincent felt himself smile bitterly; it wasn't like he was expecting anything else from them. Tifa wouldn't say goodbye, he knew. Better to pretend that he was coming back; better to live at least with a little hope, no matter how false it was.
Vincent turned away and disappeared through the back door of the room.
***
He had left the small room through a window in the back. It was the only place that the professor could have went - even though it sounded insane the more he tried to rationalize it. So he simply didn't think; he just numbly acted. There was a ledge leading away from the window, like a small bridge, sticking out idly from the church; remnants of what had once been there barely clinging to memory. The new ground was slick with the rainwater that pounded against it and the blood that ebbed from his right arm was washed away before it could ever fall solid upon the ledge. His feet moved carefully against the puddles of rain that threatened to take him over and make him fall to the more solid ground, far below.
Through the now steadily falling rain, Vincent could just barely make out something at the end of the ledge, at the very edge, standing darkly amongst the raindrops and teetering on the tip of oblivion. Vincent raised his left arm, and though the gun fit awkwardly in his claw, he held his weapon firmly. At the opposite end of the barrel, a few feet away from Vincent and but a few inches from the fall, stood Hojo.
A surge of long forgotten rage filled Vincent suddenly, as if through this whole time he had only numbly cared about Hojo's end, as if the very name of the professor hadn't even matter once until this very moment. But quickly, before he could act on that temporarily misplaced thought, Vincent silently pushed it away; he couldn't kill Hojo without first knowing why.
The professor was staring out over the city, watching the bright colored lights from below. The glow lit up the bottom of his face, making the shadows slide away quietly. "There... used to be a bridge here," he said softly, almost like he was trying to recall an uncertain, long ago childhood memory. There might never have been a bridge, there might never have been a memory that said so, either; just the simple hope that perhaps, once, there could have been.
Vincent, with an easy twist of his wrist, flipped out the cylinder of his revolver. He would have smiled, wanted nothing more than to smile at the strange little dilemma Hojo had gotten himself into - after all, he had practically sacrificed his life to watch his puppets destroy themselves. What a stupid, irrational thing to do, just to see the end of it all. But Vincent couldn't even manage a small grin of superiority. It all seemed so pointless now.
A slight turn of the gun and Vincent let four of the five remaining bullets fall onto the ledge and roll away. Quickly catching the fifth bullet, he watched as the rest slipped away into the rain. "I have... a question for you." Vincent managed to bring up his right hand enough to clumsily slip the bullet into one of the six chambers. The sound of metal on metal made a sickening scraping noise. He spun the cylinder and slammed it back into place. "You are allowed six chances, professor."
"Vincent." Hojo's voice was barely a whisper, but it could not hide the scornful tone buried beneath it. He still sounded like a snake. Hojo had two options; both, undoubtedly, ending with his body falling towards the rain-soaked ground. He knew it. Still, he couldn't help but find the situation oddly amusing. "Vincent, isn't it? Whatever you want, you'll not find it here. This - this is now. You can't change that." He slipped his hands into his pockets. "So, Strife is dead, I suppose? Pity."
Vincent moved a step forward, the gap between the two made smaller. There was a sudden slip, a sudden loss of balance on the rain-covered ledge. With a switch of weight to his right foot, he was under control again. Vincent squeezed the trigger without hesitation.
Click.
Empty.
Vincent frowned, neither pleased nor disappointed. "Five chances, professor."
"What do you want, exactly?" Hojo glanced over his own bent, slender shoulder. He swung his head back a moment later, strands of his black hair messily thrown across his forehead by the rain.
"I want you to answer a question."
Hojo's brows knitted together and he turned around pensively, a small smile on his thin lips. "All this way for an answer?"
Vincent pulled the trigger again and Hojo remained unmoved with the empty click that followed. "Four. Answer my question." The professor watched him with a slightly turned head, the light from below causing his glasses shine, as if his eyes were nothing more than two large discs of light.
Even still, Vincent somehow managed to penetrate the glass and catch a quick glimpse of Hojo's eyes beneath the light. Behind the mask, behind the nothingness, there was dread. Vincent was scaring him - some part of him, at least. At one time that alone would have been enough to make Vincent feel even the slightest bit victorious. He held the gun tighter. "Why?"
"Why? Why what?" Hojo snapped.
"Why did you do it?" he asked breathlessly, as if it was the most simple thing, as if the answer he wanted would make all of the pain and all of the horrible memories disappear.
Hojo shook his head again; it was an almost uninterested gesture, like all this was simply some bothersome issue that he had to deal with before he could go back to work. There was a fleeting smile on wet lips. "Don't speak the words of fools, Vincent. You know very well why I did what I did. You don't need me to explain what is already obvious."
Behind his raised hand, Vincent's eyes narrowed. "Humor me."
The professor closed his eyes and breathed in the wet air around them. He shivered, the cold of this now fading night seemingly chilling even him to his very bones. Or perhaps it was something else that made him shiver, ever so slightly. Opening those small, dark eyes of his, he said with unforgotten bitterness, "Because of her. Always because of her."
A small, wry laugh was forced passed the lump in Vincent's throat.
Hojo's face twisted, all of his calm, all of his composure melting away. "She is the reason for all of this, Vincent! Does love still blind you, even now? If you hadn't meddled in things..." His words trailed off with a hiss and he breathed in quickly, calming his nerves. The composure returned and Hojo twitched slightly before continuing coolly. "She is your reason, Vincent. What we love has the tendency to hurt us more than anything else ever could. But I'm quite sure you have figured that out."
"What you did to me... It wasn't just because of her. It couldn't have been." Vincent spoke slowly, as if trying vainly to make the professor understand. He never would, he knew, and his words fell on deaf ears. Vincent held the gun tighter, for a moment wondering senselessly if his tightly wound claw would shatter the weapon in his grasp.
"You should thank me for ridding you of your humanity. Humans are weak. Look at what Lucrecia once did to you." Hojo idly turned back around, hands still in his pockets. "The night is fading fast, Valentine."
"Look at yourself, Hojo!" Vincent's words pushed passed clenched teeth and he felt his head pound forcefully. A moment later, and the pounding was gone. "You're a dying man helplessly clinging onto his last shred of life; you know what is coming and you cannot stop it. Not all the science in the world can change that."
"Don't tell me you've come here simply to exchange insults with me?" The smallest of smiles pulled at the edges of Hojo's lips when he twisted his head around and towards the bounty hunter. He watched him eagerly, smiling his faint, ugly smile. "No? That's what I thought."
"I came here to kill you."
"And yet I still live."
Vincent's head tilted to the side slightly, the rain rolling down his face. He hadn't noticed, hadn't cared, until now. It nearly blurred his vision, but he refused to blink the water away. "Tell me you did it out of revenge. Tell me you did it out of anger, out of jealousy. Don't you dare stand there, so close to death, and tell me you did it for my own good." He squeezed the trigger again and the empty click pulled him out of his own nearly hypnotic stare with a sudden jerk. Vincent regained his calm quickly. "You better tell me something, professor. You only have three chances left."
"I loved her." He said it without emotion, without any real sentiment. It was almost as if he was simply stating what should have already been known. Hojo took the glasses from off his face and with an annoyed expression threw them off of the ledge. The distant shatter of glass came a few moments later. "And you... You were a Turk. You were replaceable. They all were."
Vincent felt his head throb again and his arm ached numbly. "Even you."
The professor's eyes flashed in clear disagreement. "Except for me! No one else could do what I did!" He outstretched his hands, taking in the whole city with one quick gesture.
Another throb. "You played God."
A small, bitter laugh. "I did things that took God thousands of years to perfect. I made people."
"No." Vincent's head weakly move back and forth, stray beads of rain running down his cheeks. He barely felt the water that slid along his skin; every inch of him was numbed by the freezing rain, which mirrored the colors of dawn. If anything, it made the moment even more unpleasant. "Second. You were always second."
"The day I shot you - the day I killed you was the day God lost all claims to you." Hojo breathed in calmly. It wouldn't be much longer, he realized, before he bored of his own little game, before his chances grew thin and a bullet would end it all. "I brought you back. I made you. I own you."
"Then tell me not to kill you."
Hojo laughed, a high-pitched, strange sort of laugh. "There's a difference between owning something and controlling it. Strife is a good example of that. Amusing, don't you think?"
Vincent stepped closer still, this time the barrel of his gun pressing gently against Hojo's back. The professor filched, then his shoulders relaxed once again and slumped forward. Vincent could feel his smile, still there, mocking him. For a moment, the throbbing in his head grew louder and he could barely hear his own words as they left frozen lips. "You find amusement in putting rat heads on bird bodies. Whatever possessed you to think that she could ever love you... it sickens me."
"Ah... But a part of her did love me. And you brought it all on yourself, you know. You should never have interfered." He looked down on the city below, watching as the manmade lights grew to nearly diminish the glow of the coming dawn and the fading night. He glanced behind his shoulder to Vincent; there was an almost somber look in Hojo's eyes, but it disappeared quickly.
"But why did you do it to her? Why did you...?"
"Experiment on her? I never forced her hand. Not once. She wanted it - she wanted to forget, I think." He only shrugged and turned back around to the end of the ledge, away from Vincent's accusing eyes. "She died. You know that, don't you? Her body wasn't strong enough to endure what I wanted it to. You couldn't have stopped her, no matter what I did to you." His tone was icy, and he sighed nearly wistfully as he watched the sun rise through rain-blurred eyes. "And that's all I can offer you, Vincent Valentine."
Vincent felt the edge of his mouth twitch. He didn't want to understand why, not anymore. Rainwater filled his mouth and the taste on his lips still remained bitter, but he smiled nonetheless. "She would have killed us both, in the end," he whispered hoarsely.
Silence answered him; not the awkward silence of two rivals and two enemies waiting for their own deaths, but the calm silence of when the sun rises and for only a sudden, still moment, the world watches breathlessly.
Vincent didn't see it, but when he pulled the trigger to his gun, when the bullet left the barrel and found its way into Hojo's back, the professor was smiling. His body jerked automatically, but no noise passed Hojo's lips, no scream from the hot pain that quickly paralyzed him, no gasp of surprise. Nothing came from him to shatter the dawn's silence. The professor's body crumpled over and fell forward, off the edge. Whether the bullet actually had killed him, it didn't matter. The fall surely did.
There was one last throb in Vincent's head and everything around him went black quickly. The world spun ruthlessly. He felt his own body jerk backwards, he felt his feet slip from the ledge and his body suddenly become weightless. Now there truly was nothing, just the feeling of cold rain against him, stabbing his face like tiny knives, and the small, obscure sensation of complete darkness.
He was falling.
Vincent opened his mouth in a vain attempt to draw in air, but the world was gone and there was only shadows for him breathe. There was nothing around him to prove that he was falling, so perhaps he was floating in the middle of everything. But he had to be falling, didn't he? He couldn't float in midair. Perhaps he was falling through time and space, falling forever. He could think of nothing else. But how could the drop be this long? Vincent suddenly felt the weight of something on him, pushing him down further, and before he could gasp for new breath he hit the ground hard.
For a moment, everything was eerily silent. Vincent tried to move, but he wasn't sure if he was still inside his body. Had he fallen so hard that his mind was now separated from the rest of himself? It sounded so incredibly absurd, but Vincent began to believe it. It was either that or his body was completely paralyzed, and the thought of absolute helplessness didn't sit well with him.
There was something there with him, he was certain of it; something he couldn't see. His teeth were clattering so loudly, his heart was beating so loudly, he was breathing so damned loudly... It was what would give him away, he knew. Give him away to who? He didn't know. Hojo, maybe? No... he was dead. But then maybe not. Wasn't he God? Wasn't that what he said? No. There was no God. He was sure. He was so sure...
He slit his eyes and he finally realized that his body was there with him. Something was so bright and it burned his eyes. Immediately, he blinked them shut. He couldn't stop shivering, couldn't stop his teeth from making that damned noise, couldn't stop the pain that engulfed his body like water and poured into his every limb and every crevice. But in all of this, he was still laboring to breathe. And that was the only good that he could think of; he was alive. For the moment, it was all he needed. As for everything else... He could remember nothing save for a beautiful face that he had to return to find. Death could not claim him. Death would not claim him.
He felt his body freeze.
When he opened his eyes again there was darkness. The light was gone. Something inside himself panicked. How would he find his way in the darkness? This wasn't the same as before. He could see in the darkness of the night, in the darkness of an unlit room. But not this. This was a darkness so complete, so utterly... dead. He could see nothing.
I can't... breathe.
For a moment, he tried to steady himself, thinking maybe that he could adjust to this new spasm that was overtaking him. No, he was never that lucky. Slowly, painfully, his life was slipping away. He smiled bitterly. Wasn't it always that? For so long he wished for nothing but the completeness of darkness. Now, when he finally realized that there was life again outside of his little world of self-pity and self-loathing, finally when he learned that there really had been something left to life for, it would be taken away from him. The very thought made him struggled against whatever was holding him down.
It made him thrash out violently, as violently as his invisible restraints would allow. A new wave of pain overtook him, clamped down on him and made him scream. So not like him, he realized. But he couldn't help it - and it wasn't the pain that made him scream. It was the hopelessness, it was the despair. It was...
It was never seeing her again.
And, damnit, it wasn't fair.
I can't... I can't...
He gasped so suddenly that he nearly choked on the air that flooded into his lungs. But just as fast, it left him. And it left him with even less air than before; it left him numb once again. It left him so deathly cold.
He felt his body shiver.
I can't breathe.
Someone laughed.
...Stop it!
"Still having funny dreams, Valentine?"
Vincent tried to see in the darkness, tried in vain to make out at least the shape of the person with him, but the opaque shadow would not lift. And he remained sightless.
"I used to wonder why you tortured yourself so much. I guess you thought you deserved it, deserved us."
He almost immediately recognized the voice - he may have lost his mind to his own misery and he may have been abandoned inside his never-ending pain, but he knew that voice. He shivered again.
"You made us, remember?"
Finally, he stopped struggling. Vincent felt himself sigh deeply, more precious air leaving his lungs. "I remember." He wished that he didn't.
"Open your eyes, Vincent."
He did.
He blinked.
He could finally breathe again.
There was someone - more like something - standing over him and watching him intently. It took a moment for Vincent's normally sharp eyes to regain their precision. Once they did, they only confirmed what he already knew. And it was of very little comfort.
Vincent closed his eyes again. "Chaos."
If he had his eyes open, he would have seen the demon nod.
He really did lose his mind. "Funny, meeting you here, at the end of everything." Or maybe it wasn't funny. Vincent couldn't quite tell anymore and found himself smiling. With a jerk, he sat upright, his frozen body screaming in protest. Whatever moves he could make were rigid at best. But at least he could move. And he could see better, as well; he was on the ground, mud and rainwater all around him, the rising sun sheltered from him by the tall church. He craned his head upward. Had he really fallen that far?
He certainly felt as if he had.
"End of everything? You're always so damned melodramatic. End of everything-" There was a contemptuous snort from the demon. "Hardly." It bent its ugly head closer to him, its large wings curving around its body.
Vincent quickly jumped to his feet and his claw went for his holster, but he found no gun there. He searched beneath his cloak for his Winchester, which had been strapped underneath as well. There was nothing; no weapons, no guns to defend himself with, only his own fists. Vincent smiled bitterly. That would have to do.
Chaos raised a leathery brow. "What are you doing, Valentine?"
Vincent lunged at the demon awkwardly, still not able to find his footing against the slippery ground. Chaos easily sidestepped him the first time, then was briefly caught off guard when Vincent lunged at it for the second time. Chaos simply flapped its wings and knocked Vincent onto the ground once more.
The demon snorted again, something gentle in its husky voice. "I'm not here to fight you."
Vincent glared up at the creature, then quickly rose to his feet again, exasperated. "Then why are you here? How are you here?"
"Look behind you."
With a cough and gasp for more air, Vincent did as the demon told. He felt his jaw unhinge and his lips separate; so very uncharacteristic of him, he realized. So the jaw tightened and his lips became a thin, pale line. He was still somewhere between denial and acceptance, and yet somehow it made sense. What was behind him, lying on the ground like he was one of the dead, was the still form of Vincent Valentine.
He really was separated from his body.
Vincent felt a chuckled threaten to push through his tightly closed mouth. "I'm unconscious? This is a dream?" It wasn't really a question; it was more of a statement said in complete desperation. There was another option as well, other than that terrible unconscious thing, but Vincent would rather have not asked that one.
Chaos simply grunted.
Vincent stayed on the ground, his legs on either side of him and his shoulders drooping forward. "Planning on taking me over?" He asked wryly.
"Take you over?" The demon towered before Vincent, its shadow causing a chill to race up and down the bounty hunter's spine. "We are you."
"You can't be." Vincent felt himself sink with defeat. How many times had he spoken those words? How many times had he fought so pointlessly for his freedom from them?
"You made us out of pain, out of misery, out of desperation. Your desperation. Stop fighting us and start calling on us when you need us. It's much easier that way, not having to fight you in order to help you." Chaos' voice grew weaker and for a moment, Vincent could see through the demon, like it was the last piece of the fading night. The demon bowed its head, its golden eyes closing and leaving the soft glow of yellow for the dense shadow of darkness. The light of morning was sifted and beaten and finally dulled by more darkness and more shadows. Chaos opened its eyes, the faint yellow glow returning. "Darkness is looking for you, Vincent. Not even I can help you with that."
"Good. Let it take me then."
"But what of heaven?"
Vincent's head jerked upwards, a look of complete disgust etched onto his face.
"Didn't that girl want to take you there and show you something?"
That girl. His face softened. Yes, that girl. What was her name again? Vincent's mind grew hazy. That beautiful face and that soft, caring voice that he had to return to... Her name was on the tip of his tongue and on the edge of his mind, but he couldn't focus enough to form the words. Where was his light now, when he really needed her? Gone again, he supposed, much like everything else. Vincent watched as Chaos thinned and faded and out of alarm, he looked over his shoulder quickly for his body, which was still lying peacefully on the ground. Someone was over his body now, nothing more than a shadow in the dull light of dawn (was it still dawn or was it just the light fading?). He couldn't make out who it was and the sudden feeling of familiarity that had came with the shadow now disappeared completely.
"It's not the end of everything, Vincent. It's just the end of you."
Vincent turned around and Chaos was gone; only its husky voice echoing softly was any proof that it was once there. "It can't be. I won't let it," he whispered softly.
"Then what are you waiting for, Valentine?"
Vincent rose to his feet pensively, cautiously, as if any real movement would result in his body breaking into thousands of pieces. Well, not his real body. His real body was behind him, lying on the ground, with someone over it, protecting it. He had a good idea of who that protector was - he just couldn't remember the name. But that didn't matter now; she came back for him. Vincent outstretched his right hand, expecting a numb ache as reward for this very foolish action. He felt nothing, however. This ghostly reflection of himself, this dream, didn't have the wounds of the fight from before.
He still felt dizzy. Extremely dizzy. And before he could walk towards his own body, before he could reach that shadow that was protecting it, he felt everything begin to fade. The Church, his body, that strange shadow, all turning to darkness, all fading to nothingness. Vincent opened his mouth, but there was nothing for him; no air, no voice, no sound.
The darkness had finally found him, and there was nowhere else for him to turn, nothing for him to fight against.
Something wet dripped onto his face and he numbly realized for the first time since he had fallen that it was actually still raining. Each raindrop fell, softly, onto his still face. It wasn't the harsh storm of before; the violence was gone, replaced now with a child's apprehension. It was as if it didn't actually want to rain, but, with circumstances as they were, it had to. Vincent understood then that the dream was over - he was back inside his body, the body that he probably had never left to begin with. More drops fell against his face and a soft voice whispered something, but his ears couldn't understand.
And Vincent felt himself slipping away.
"Vincent?"
She was just a beautiful dream his mind was creating, she had to be. How could someone reach him here, in this horrible place between heaven and hell? But even still he wanted to open his eyes, if only to see her face and remember it before the darkness took him. He wanted to twitch to show her that he was still there. But all Vincent could do was listen.
He listened as everything around him faded.
"But don't you see? You flew."
Funny... I thought I couldn't.
The girl laughed, an anxious and melancholy sound. "It's not fair, Vincent. Why didn't you take me with you?" He felt her head rest against his chest.
I remember...
"Vincent."
Tifa... Yes. That's your name, isn't it? I remember now.
"Why didn't you let me fall with you?" Out of frustration, her fist pounded hard against his chest. His body remained still, however. She did it again, if only just to prove that truth wrong, and soon Vincent felt her lips against his.
She breathed.
"Why won't you...?"
She breathed into him again.
"Just breathe, Vincent..."
He felt something snap into focus. He felt everything snap into focus. Something was so painfully clear and he wondered why he never saw it before. There was light suddenly. A fist found his chest once more and something stirred. There was a gasp and a flood of something bright into every part of his body. There was a sharp stab of that usual, familiar pain and the scarce realization of the world beneath his fingertips. There were two gold and red orbs opening in the dull light of dawn. His eyes found a beautiful face, and it smiled down at him.
There was something he had to return to find, he realized. There was something so very real about that dream...
"Vincent..."
Something threatened to pull his lips upward.
"...Just breathe."
- fin -
2003-2005
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