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The beasts are restless inside, powerful. The scent of blood, the honing in upon a target.
Closer, closer, aim, trigger–
His arm (that godsforsaken limb, gilt covered, guilt ridden) flexes.
The sound scrapes over wood, over soft plush velvet. Different sounds, different textures.
A whine, a rip.
–Bang.
His fist clenches hard against the lid.
It is not pain, it is awareness.
(It is the belly of the beasts churning.
...Restless, restless.)
Will I ever find rest?
Another bang. A crack, a splintering.
Light seeps in, refracting off secret sins of gold. It settles on matted ebony hair, reflects in pools of crimson blinking slowly. Sanguine eyes take in the dark suit, compact muscles (always ready, a faint voice whispers; coiled tight, hard and heated), chestnut hair and lines. So many lines.
Deepened into unfamiliar grooves.
He hisses, and it sounds bestial. He averts his gaze, catches a separate glimpse of gold as he turns.
His treacherous limb grasps forwards, ripping at cloth, beading blood under the clutch of claws and the snap of a chain, “What- is this?”
He holds the ring up to the other like a sacrificial murder, polished gold on tarnished metal, voice cracking from no use. The old man (old man!) in front of him shrugs, ignoring the bright trickling paths making their way down his shredded torso.
“It didn’t fit anymore,” and he holds up a left hand, bone smooth, unblemished, but for a faint glow nestled within the depths.
Matching grotesquery. Inhuman.
They always were a shade of inhuman.
“You married?” It is little more than a hiss, yet dangerous, reverberating peels against stone walls, “Where-?"
Not who. He is not going through that again.
"Dead.”
Hazel eyes as hard as stone flicker imperceptibly as his strangulated laughter echoes through the basement lair.
[Personal File//Valentine012]
The Department of Administration & Research received news earlier.
One of our own, dead, following a basic patrol mission within Sector 3. An embarrassment enough by itself - rookie died at the hands of a domesticated Grashstrike, for Leviathan’s sake - it was further revealed that the owner of said Grashstrike had been in cahoots with a known arms dealer. With no back up, the target escaped this wannabe city of Midgar with enough ballistics to fuel another civil war should Wutai be so disposed.
Probability: highly unlikely, given ShinRa interests.
To say the Chief and her Short-Stuff Shadow were concerned is a fair assessment. Not that they showed it. Just set about implementing new operational regulations. Namely, no member of the Department is to work without a partner. Partners to be paired up on a name by name basis. Personal skill-sets have been ‘taken into account’.
Funny how these things work out.
Vincent arched, his body twisting leverage upon the smaller man effectively locking him hard against the floor. A limber leg broke free of its confines, and, with a vicious jerk, he drove a knee directly into the groin of his new partner.
Veld’s howl choked into non-existence, his fingers tightening against Vincent’s wrists as he resisted the urge to curl up tightly against the nauseating waves coursing through his body. All that was uttered was a sharp groan of pain encasing the words as he held on, vice-like, assessing, “You… utter bastard .”
Vincent merely smirked towards his oppressor before bucking again, obtaining enough leverage to throw Veld across the room. Deceptively languid motions had long fingers wrapped around a standard issue firearm, propped over his chest, aimed and triggered out – one above Veld’s skull, the other directly between his legs – before the other man had a chance to move from his sudden sprawl or to unleash a return attack.
A low chuckle emanated from the other side of the room, “Admit it, you’re just fascinated with what’s between my legs, aren’t you Vince?"
Then, as if to prove a point – or perhaps it was to alleviate the pain in his balls – Veld spread his legs wider and cupped the heel of his palm over himself. Vincent rolled over onto his shoulder, the one opposite to his cocked gun, and used the momentum to stand. Pointing the barrel towards Veld he stalked forwards, eyes dark as he sniffed with only a small measure of humour, "My name is Vincent .”
The last thing Vincent remembered was the clattering sound of a gun ricocheting off the ground and another chuckle, as the edges of his vision turned black.
“I’m here to ask for your help, Vince.”
Granite will always crack, slowly but inexorably, over time. Fracture lines spun from timeless webs of deceit over those features; deepen, deepen, to something deeply unfamiliar. Something…
Human.
He snarls at the sight, around those words, vortices swirling under the surface clamouring to emerge in retribution, “It’s Vincent. ”
Such a familiar argument, countless times made. It issues forth in an alien tone, only to quieten to a growl at its own strange timbre, “I’m not a Turk, not anymore."
Not even human. Not anymore.
"You-" A dark accusation, a reminder. His blood sings with the voice of an angel. Her voice joined over years to meld monstrous sounds flooding his veins, ”-put pay to that.“
A touch comes suddenly, smooth and cooling, firm against his cheek before tangling into his hair. It commands, even as it speaks silent apologies. It is honest, even when speaking lies.
Once a Turk, always a Turk.
"I’m not asking as a Turk, Vince.”
“No. You’re lying…” He spits, sniffing the air like the beast he is, crimson cloak breathing in whispers around him. Inhale, exhale. “A Turk waits behind the door. I recognize the stench.”
The smell of blood and starch and determination and gunpowder residue. So familiar, so understandable, so–
He nuzzles into the touch, and it feels like...
belonging.
Like hunger.
“Gods, Vince…” A shallow breath flutters, tilting the axis.
Sudden rage slams hard inside of him and he slams hard against the other, sending them both to the cold and heartless stone below. He pitches overhead, gauntlet sealed against the fragile skin of an exposed throat and roars , “I don't need your pity!”
He feels the ebbing slackness of submission beneath him, the stifling of a fight pulsing thick sticky ambience into the room. He feels his own sinuous strength forcing out choked sounds from the sinewy column of flesh below, hands tugging helplessly at the gold metal vice-like grip, “Vince- Vincent…”
[Personal File//Valentine015]
Two days I was out of training. Holed up in the office with a stack of paperwork my partner dumped over the first chance he had. Shorty’s got a cute idea of discipline.
Two days. Not a long time in the grand scheme of things, but plenty long enough for changes to be made. You see, Veld’s the Chief now.
Some people might say that there is no need for a whole Department dedicated to the facilities of Administration & Research, but we maintain a decent team. Even with the high turnover. Truth of the matter is, those people don’t have a clue.
And we’re going to utilise that fact to build upon the department now that Veld is Chief and I’m his shadow. It’s time for a change, and we’re leading the charge.
Ladies and gentlemen and xenos alike... welcome to The Turks.
“Heads up.”
Thock-
The small red ball emblazoned with Shinra’s golden diamond bounced off the wall at an obtuse angle. Vincent, laid back in the chair with one leg folded over the other, raised his hand without even looking up from the file and caught it in his palm, “Hm?"
Vincent was never much for speaking out loud but that soft noise spoke plenty enough to Veld. Over the years they had perfected the art of minimalist communication.
Ker-thock-
First the floor, then the other wall.
It seemed to say: What’s gives? When are we going to see some more action?
Veld caught the ball neatly, rolled it between his fingers then tossed it over again with a little more force.
So damned impatient, it replied.
Ker-thock-thock-thock-
A three wall bounce. Vincent always suspected Veld was a bit of a show-off around him. But if that was what it took to work together, he would deal.
Because now they worked together damn fine.
Vincent was fluid where Veld was economical. Vincent specialised at ranged offence where Veld had always preferred close quarters on the field. And as Veld’s reputation was to the ability to wield words as well as any weapon, Vincent reflected on things in silence, reputed more for his physicality and aim.
Both men understood their differences, and knew that one weakness could be shored up with the other man’s strengths. The second time they had met in the training room, each parry and blow was slowly matched, felt out, clarified and synthesised.
Within a few weeks they were a well oiled machine.
Within months they were synchronised in form and thought.
Within the year they moved as one. Sheets cast off, teeth and skin bared.
Thunk.
The ball smacked Veld dully between the eyes. Vincent tipped his head downwards to hide his smirk behind his fringe. Nobody should try to best him with projectiles. It amused him vaguely, in that college-boy way, to know that Veld still tried.
He supposed it could be considered one of their own in-jokes.
Dread anticipation for the worst words possible comes, then passes.
He could not have stood to hear a plea (surely he wouldn't. He would never beg).
He could not have stood to hear another apology (I’m So Sorry, I’m So Sorry: she repeats those words, over and over and over ).
Brief relief piques until he hears, "My Daughter.”
…another child!?
There is a sickening crunch, and he withdraws from the warm body beneath him to the cool confines of a corner, the thrum of impact vibrating through discordant armour. Silence broods first before the sentences start to swarm.
Missing histories abstracted, detached, meaningless. Delivered with subtleties of callousness, Ockham-sharp, that set about redressing the other man. He listens and watches. He watches from the shadows and no longer touches.
He no longer trusts.
“Ultimate Summon materia-” It carries on, delivery brief, robust, sharp. Snippets of things he had been kept apart from, “Zirconaide fragments-"
He fights to keep the beasts in check.
[Personal File//Valentine042]
This will be my last entry on this thing.
No doubt it would be deleted, encoded or some such shit.
Technology was never my strongest suit.
Fucking - - - - - - - - -
"Nibelheim."
A folder passed hands, neatly, from Veld to Vincent. The Chief in Command of the Turks rolled his shoulders back and stood stock still, hazel locked in as effective as any sniper sight. Vincent drew himself up to full height with an unfettered grace that belied his true capacity for violence, looking down to hold Veld’s gaze for a mere moment before lowering his eyes further to scan through the contents.
The actual parameters of his mission were laid out, hidden beneath the stark black and white of the text. Bodyguard duty to the scientists occupying the Nibelheim reactor, a base located in an old mansion at the back of the small country town. Miles away from anywhere. Miles away from Midgar and ShinRa HQ.
Miles away from Veld.
"Tch-” Vincent shrugged, knowing that Veld could read him just as well as he could read his partner, yet keeping up an appearance of nonchalance, “Why me?”
“You’re the logical choice. I will oversee the installation of the Gongagan reactor, but there are certain elements surrounding the Nibelheim mission that marks it as yours.” Veld’s tone brooked no argument and was inflected at just the right moment to put his exact point across.
“Science & Research.”
Veld gave a short nod. Vincent could feel the heat of anger rise in his torso, cursing under his breath at the euphemistic nature of their records, “Bodyguard duty?”
Veld’s eyebrow twitched upwards. It was just the two of them in the office, but they had become ever more cautious about their levels of speech and gestures when on ShinRa property, “That’s what the mission file states, Vince.”
Vincent made another annoyed noise and turned away, roughly pulling out his desk drawer before he set about stocktaking.
First, he break-loaded the specialised three barrelled revolver he picked up after their third field mission together. Vincent had called Veld insane that day. Veld had just laughed and replied that his words might have been a little more convincing if Vincent himself wasn’t covered head to toe in someone else’s blood. Then he had passed over this absolute beauty of a gun from the raider’s cache.
Snapping it shut with a smooth wrist flick, Vincent slammed it on the top of the desk, “Dammit, Verdot. I didn’t follow my father’s footsteps for a reason.”
He drew in a deep breath sharply before continuing. Next he assembled two standard handguns that he had augmented himself, pocketing mostly basic rounds interspersed with a few specialised magic-based ballistics. Finally he walked over to the office wall, his back to Veld still, and plucked off his favourite rifle from the stands. As he hoisted it onto his shoulder and started to recalibrate the sights he added, lower still, “I’m not a scientist.”
Veld watched his partner as he went through the practiced and highly-skilled motions, knowing not to interrupt Vincent in his tasks. He knew it calmed Vincent; the smooth slide and clicks hypnotic, the singular focus familiar.
What Veld actually did was move slowly around the corner of his desk, one sure and quiet footfall at a time, until he leaned himself against the edge, in position, “Right. You’re a Turk. You get no say in this, Vince.”
Vincent growled, “But you call the shots, Veld."
Even his stance holding a rifle was absolutely unique to Vincent; legs pushed apart on a 180 degree angle, his body switched to a single armed extension that followed the shape of the gun. All in alignment and beautifully vicious. The barrel was nudged against Veld’s forehead.
Veld did not even blink. In close quarters he had the upper hand. It was something they both knew. It was even something that could be called one of their in-jokes.
He tells Vincent as such, delivered with little humour, after he had made one swift continuous motion to incapacitate. An arm block to the barrel, he uses the momentum to knock it out of Vincent’s grasp whilst simultaneously destabilising balance. A leg sweep underneath to turn, twisting his partner’s arm up his back, he forces him over the desk and pins him down.
Veld hisses at his ear, and there was no way any mics could pick up on the hyper-directed tone, "You forget I know you, Vincent. I can predict what you are going to do before you do it with remarkable accuracy.”
Vincent could feel Veld shift slightly to obtain a greater hold before continuing, tone slipping dangerously into an unfamiliar tenor of emotion, “I know your stances, I know your preferences. I know how you like to watch me whilst I’m sleeping. I know you track my every move when we are apart. I know you are an intense, changeable bastard, yes, but I know you in all your forms. You cannot stay here, and you will not. You're going to Nibelheim.”
Vincent struggled against Veld, pushing up against the hard line of his partner’s body, the beat of his heart thumping a rhythm through the hard wood below his chest.
“Are you telling me this is personal?”
He could feel Veld tightening the hold, his breath ragged as his vision started to spot. Then the grip relaxed. Vincent gulped in a deep breath, as Veld shook his head and turned on his heels to walk out the office door - drawn in and rigid and cold.
“No Vince. This is professional.”
“- Proto-materia.”
Even when spoken from a bloodied mouth of raw flesh and smeared teeth, his eyes flash with pious cognizance at the words.
Clarity, sense memory. His (true) history from the darkness snaps him to attention whilst Chaos swells and wails inside.
Vincent had not laid eyes on anybody before that was so beautiful. The scientist in her lab coat, the lady beneath the professional white. Her delicate clothes and accessories were entirely more provocative than any standard dark-blue clean cuts of a Turk uniform.
She was feminine and soft, clear human emotion written across her fine features. Gorgeous cascading hair fell past her shoulders, chestnut curls bound up with a sunshine ribbon. He stilled to drink in the vision, a man parched for something so separate from the world in which he found himself.
He absolutely refused to think of Veld. How could he? Dr. Lucrecia Crescent was nothing like the man who had sent him here.
Opening his mouth, he was stunned to find his voice caught between professionalism and an uncharacteristic gentleness, “Vincent Valentine reporting for duty, ma'am. I have been assigned your protection.”
He was so dazzled by their differences, Vincent did not see her tell-tale gasp of recognition.
He did not see how similar they could be.
...His vision is hazy, the sterile banks of computers, the cold metal under him and wide leather straps biting at his limbs. He looks at his hands and they are those of a Galian Beast. He lets out a blood-curdling scream...
(That was my sin.
And this…
This…
Is my punishment.)
The words are bondage, tethering his soul. Binding him to this stone, this coffin, to the memories that repeat, that repeat, that repeat . He hears those murmurs spoken in his own voice. It is a mantra of the damned, “This… This is my punishment.”
A different voice is carried into the room. Small, yet persistent. The sounds of bullets piercing through his contemplations further, “Sir? We’re under attack. Avalanche, four of them by last count and more coming through.”
He blinks, blood red bleeding. Another touch is felt at his shoulder.
It grounds him as the sound of gunshots calls to him.
Bang- He grasps, guiding the body behind him.
Bang- He moves, each particle expansive.
Bang .
It is done.
He retreats to the silence. Stone cold, fierce heat. The familiar sight of another beside him. He almost laughs.
“I heard voices, Veld. Many people have been here since-”
“I know." Veld interjects. Silently suffixed - I know you.
He shakes his head, matted mane tangling around the nape of his collar. Counterstrike -
Used to know me.
“I’ve heard many things, Veld. You can perhaps find what you’re looking for… Here.”
Fingers clasp, slipping secrets between still strangely human touches as bass whispers pour into the tender conch of a slightly nicked ear.
He pulls back, draws his limbs into order and turns towards his imposed imprisonment.
“Leave me now. I will not rejoin you. This is my punishment, and I must atone. You wouldn't understand-”
"I do."
He freezes at the words and feels a final touch. A press that leaves a simple band of gold caught between closing hands, ”…This is also my punishment, Vincent.“
The darkness returns.
Amongst wood and plush velvet he covets the gold circle tight against his chest.