Chapter Text
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𝑪𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆.
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On the eve of the winter solstice, the leaves fall from the trees adorned in their pale autumnal robes, the bruised sky is tinted with an incandescent hue: the striking and unusual reddish softens into the deep gold of days gone by.
The color of blood paints the sky.
Dead leaves flutter in the breeze, falling with a listless whisper of anticipation: a promise, a reward, a new beginning; a bleak harbinger of a vengeful beginning.
Stained with blood, the sky cries, its tears mist the windows, its tears lash violently against the weak branches, the shadows in the forest sway, sharp and misshapen. Stained with blood, the sky is dark, bathed in shadows of a deep promise; shadows sway in the pale mist that covers the woods.
A promise creeps on the cold walls: there are scores to settle.
It might seem like a harmless feeling, but it creeps in like death, gloomy and inevitable: the day finally comes, today is special.
The Edgeworth Mansion is entombed in silence, its windowpanes misting with the storm raging against its walls, its ancient hinges creaking, lugubrious screeching spreading in the immensity of its dark corridors.
In its bleak setting, a warm fire burns in the hearth, casting shadows across the lonely main room.
A bolt of lightning shatters the silence, illuminating the interior of the room and, with its blinding brilliance, darkens the face of the portrait that rests on the hearth: Vincent Edgeworth.
The portrait is a simple mirage of the man in question, only lifeless strokes that seek to fill a space in the immensity of the mansion, a painting of gray and black tones devoid of emotions or feelings. The painting, although representing the elegance and attractiveness of its owner, has nothing but a void that persists in its brush strokes.
In the silence of the evening, the rain beats against the mansion, there is a constant echo of pattering on the misted windows; but everything is still deathly silent, so silent that it causes chills.
But, in the silence, the omen persists: promising revenge.
The golden chandelier, with its gleaming crystal prisms, generates points of light that creep through the darkest and most remote parts of the mansion. The chandelier, whose candles burn in their holders, casts a languid shadow that falls on a door hidden suspiciously in a corner.
The door creaks on its ancient hinges, behind the wood the feeble rungs of a ladder descend into the shadowy depths; the descent seems jagged and confused, descending deep until any sound dies away, the storm doesn't go that deep and the only sound that lingers is soft breathing.
Immersed in a gloomy and gloomy atmosphere, with flickering lamps as the only source of illumination, the vast basement of the Edgeworth mansion is made up of old stone walls and floors that absorb moisture and keep the room at a constant temperature.
The cold adheres to the walls, the frost is present on the stones, under the mansion, in the always forgotten basement, the cold is almost unbearable.
The basement, most of the time forgotten, is full of modern machinery: machines line the right wall, a tank with suspicious contents is full of long tubes that connect to the single cylindrical cryogenic chamber.
Frost covers the glass surface as a strange liquid hides the contents, but the edges of a humanoid silhouette can be seen up close.
The lamps flicker, prone to failure in the storm brewing on the surface, their irregular flickering turning the room into a scene of chaotic shadows; the metal shimmers, like a sudden flash on the expressionless face of Vincent Edgeworth.
Vincent Edgeworth—with steel-hard gray eyes and a strong countenance on his face—is the perfect personification of strength, power, and elegance rolled into one; Vincent Edgeworth, though unflappable and indifferent to many, stands in the basement today, shoulders stiff, carrying a weight that haunts his mind.
Today, in the midst of a raging storm, the time has come to take the next step, no matter how much it hurts, or how worrying it is, it is an inevitable moment.
Plans are inevitable, like thoughts, they find a way to seep through even the smallest crack; plans, made with an exact purpose, are essential to achieve specific goals, just like experiences, they are an essential part in the development of human beings.
In the silence, a cassette begins to roll in the cassette player, ambiguous and slow, the soft music is overshadowed by a male voice that says:
“Neuroscience is by far the most exciting branch of science, because the brain is the most fascinating object in the universe.
Each human brain is different, the brain makes each human being unique and defines who they are. The brain is the most complicated organ in the universe.
We have learned a lot about other human organs. We know how the heart pumps and how the kidney does what it does. To some extent, we have read the letters of the human genome. But the brain has 100 billion neurons. Each of them has about 10,000 connections.
For this reason, the human brain is the most voluminous organ of the brain. It occupies the anterior and superior sector of the cranial cavity.
Its main component is the hemispheres and the cerebral cortex that covers its surface, derived from the Forebrain. Especially large are its frontal lobes in humans, which are associated with executive functions, such as self-control, planning, reasoning and abstract thinking.
Everything we do, every thought we have had, is produced by the human brain. But exactly how it works remains one of the biggest unsolved mysteries and it seems that the more we investigate its secrets, the more surprises we find.”
With the recording playing in the background, echoing off the walls, Vincent—clad in a surgical gown—pulls on white latex gloves, pulling the mask up to cover the lower part of his face.
Sometimes it is necessary to take risks to achieve promising achievements, sometimes the risks may be unexpected, but although they get in the way, the end result is better than expected.
Today is the beginning of a new stage in his life, an indispensable moment in his future; today, it is wonderfully regrettable, losing to win is a calculated risk.
Vincent Edgeworth takes a risk.
“...Psychologists and neuroscientists generally agree that the hippocampus has an important role in the formation of new memories of experienced events, both episodic and autobiographical.
Part of this role in which the hippocampus is involved is the detection of novel events, places and stimuli.
Some researchers view the hippocampus as part of a larger medial temporal lobe memory system responsible for general declarative memory.
Severe hippocampal injury produces profound difficulties in forming new memories (anterograde amnesia), and often also affects memories formed before the injury (retrograde amnesia)..."
Vincent takes a shaky breath, the cold air pressing his metallic parts painfully into his chest, the words on the tape keeping his nerves on edge, his concern lingering; the worry remains in his chest, like a rough sea that cannot be tamed.
His biggest questions are one step closer to being resolved, the unanswered questions are one step away from getting answers, the doubts that plague his mind will get a solution born of his morbid need to take revenge.
The slimy, heavy, burning vengeance that consumes his mind, heart, and soul, there is nothing in his chest but the desire to retaliate against those who took his humanity from him.
What is left now?
With his humanity undone, with his dead and non-existent heart, with his metallic limbs, he has absolutely nothing left but one thing: his infinite, but reserved love.
Love locked in his memory, lingering in his memories intact, his deep love prevails even in the adversity of having been dehumanized.
In his infinite consciousness made up of wires and electrical circuits, the memory of love does not fade.
In his consciousness, deep within his metallic being, carefully stored in his memory core, important memories are treasured: Vincent, despite having been cruelly stripped of his humanity, can remember how to be one.
Vincent Edgeworth—stripped of his humanity, turned into a monster against his will, spat on and kicked by those he once trusted—is ready to sacrifice all he has left: Victor Blake.
Today, at sunset, in the evening wrapped in a gloomy omen, all trace of hope that throbbed in his cold and lifeless chest dies.
In the cold nightfall that frosts the ancient stone, deep in a place that lacks warmth and affection, a young love is lost in the gloom and finds no salvation.
Having spent days and nights planning every little detail of his intricate plan, Vincent loses hope and clings to the only thing left for him in these cold walls. Vincent, whose mind has been consumed by the insatiable desire for revenge, whose soul has been corrupted by insane and malicious thoughts, meets his downfall by burying what he craves most: the caress of love.
Oh, how unfortunate, Vincent Edgeworth is the personification of hopelessness and the fall of the human being to its most primitive aspect.
His thoughts are interrupted by a soft voice, a light in the darkness that haunts his mind and soul, warm and kind. "Dear, I can hear you thinking, you need to relax", there's a soft snort, and then: "Or things could get bad"
Vincent stops, frozen in place, the breath in his chest trailing off—he doesn't take the time to worry about pretending anymore—all his thoughts consumed by the possibility of failure, turned into something dark and sinister.
There is a thought that haunts him—day and night, lingering in his thoughts, a fear that bites hard and makes him bleed—resonating in his mind, louder and louder; a truth he doesn't want to acknowledge, a truth that can break his heart: he is willing to do anything for revenge, even if it means taking and destroying the memories of his love.
Vincent is being selfish.
But it's human to be selfish, and fate owes it to him, so why does he feel bad about what he's about to do?
There is a tired sigh: "Vincent, look at me"
He can't sit still, his cold hands won't stop shaking, he doesn't want to think about anything, he wants to forget everything and be a blank slate, ready to discover each of the wonders of the world and free from worries.
Vincent wants not to have to worry about those who, against his will, turned him into a monster thirsty for blood and revenge. Deep in his chest full of cables and complex technology, Vincent wishes to be as before, free from pain, free from the worries of harming others, free from the thought of being loathed by the one he loves.
But, with pain coursing through his body, he knows he can't run away forever, now is the time to face what he fears.
The center of the basement is an imitation of a surgical room, with large lamps and various monitors installed around a surgical table, vital signs are displayed on a monitor screen.
Vincent struggles to push away the discomfort, his hands trembling, he forces himself to look up.
The scene unfolding in front of him churns his insides, nauseating horror and worry seeping through his mind, he doesn't feel ready for this, but he can't stop.
Lying on the surgical bed, his limbs bound tightly with leather straps, dressed in a simple lab coat and electrodes attached to the sides of his forehead, is the cause of his concerns: Victor Blake.
In this dark setting, in the midst of his worries and fear, one step away from submitting to pain and giving up his precious memories, Victor Blake remains his usual self: calm, kind, sympathetic and always a firm and reliable constant in his plans.
In the darkness of his mind, Vincent finds a kind of solace in Victor's blindingly radiant personality; always smiling, always joking, always a beacon of light, Victor will never be like him, and yet he is willing to give up his happy moments just because Vincent needs to hurt others to feel better.
"Dear, you need to relax, I agreed to do this, so you don't need to worry", Victor keeps his voice soft, barely audible with the tape playing in the background, but confident. "It's cold down here, these bonds are uncomfortable and... This is necessary"
Vincent's indifferent expression breaks to be replaced by something more fragile, none of this feels right, he can't help but want to stop, but it's late, he needs to finish what he started.
Taking a deep breath, Vincent tries to hold back a shudder, hoping his worries will melt away, he fails miserably and the expression on Victor's face twists into a guilty scowl.
It shouldn't be this way.
“...No two memories are exactly alike and, by the same token, each memory is stored within a unique combination of brain cells.
No two memories are the same, each mind is unique, each memory is unique, there is nothing more complex than human memory.”
Vincent moves around the surgical table, correctly adjusting the angle of the laser light lamp before turning it on, at the sudden exposure of light directly on his face, Victor's pupils dilate, also causing the man to move uncomfortable in his place.
After a few seconds, Victor stands still, regulating his breathing until he seems calm.
Being silent, Vincent moves closer, peering at the man lying on the table; Vincent will be eternally grateful to him.
Now, a classical tune playing in the background, wasting no time, Vincent moves to place the oxygen mask on Victor's face. The oxygen seems to kick in quickly, and soon the man on the table seems beside himself, hopefully all his senses numbed.
Vincent hurries to the instrument cart, where a variety of tools wait to be used, he only grabs a syringe and a small vial.
He punctures the vial cap with the syringe, making sure to fill the syringe with only 3ml, a dark liquid churns inside, but he doesn't stop to think. With Victor's limbs immobilized, he has nothing to worry about when he sticks the needle in the man's neck and, staying close, lets the needle pierce deep the skin.
For a second, nothing happens, just background music playing in his ears, then the monitors turn on, numbers and waves flashing on their screens, there's incomprehensible static on one of the monitors, too much noise, everything streaming through cables to a metallic sphere that rests in a kind of complex incubator.
Vincent stays still, there is nothing more he has to do, he is just a mere spectator of how things unfold.
It all happens too fast, without warning, monitors go haywire, pop-up warning screens flash red, and, as he had feared all along, Victor's body shakes violently on the surgical table.
For a moment, Vincent doesn't know how to react, he just watches and watches, with the sound of crazed monitors echoing through the room, then, there is silence.
The monitor screens freeze, the warnings fade into silence, there is no sound in the basement.
Victor, sweet and friendly, lies on the surgical table, not moving.
Vincent isn't thinking, his gaze never leaving the vital signs monitor and the thin flat line that remains on the screen, the high-pitched ringing in his ears. With horror, he realizes what is happening, oh, god, what has he done?
"Victor!" his voice echoes in the silence. Vincent rushes to the table, desperately unfastening the straps, his hands stopping inches from the face of the man lying on the table. "Victor"
Silence is his only response, just deafening silence.
There, on that cold metal table, with his eyes closed, Victor looks so peaceful, without any concern, but he breaks Vincent's heart into a thousand pieces.
In the dark and cold of the basement, Vincent rips off the electrodes carelessly—they leave marks on Victor's pale skin—frantically searching for any sign of a pulse on Victor's neck, but fails, the man at the table not breathing.
Walking away with shaky steps, Vincent looks around, looking at the mess the room he's in has become, he can't help but shake even when he thinks this was necessary.
Vincent, looking at the humanoid figure in the cryochamber, refuses to lose again.
No more losses, he's sick of losing, he hasn't come this far just to end up this way, he can't be selfish enough to allow this.
The defibrillator is a welcome weight in his hands, the clang of metal echoing through the room as he pulls all the instruments off the cart to put the defibrillator on, once his hands are free he moves to cut off the lab coat, with nothing blocking the way, he can easily place the electrodes in Victor's chest.
He turns on the defibrillator and… Victor's body jerks at the shock, once, again, and a third time, maybe a fourth, but his body remains motionless on the table.
In the basement of his mansion, Vincent Edgeworth, his mind filled with hate, questions whether revenge is the right path, questions what he has become, and for a moment plans to give up.
But the universe takes pity on him, with one last shock, Victor gasps for air, coughing uncontrollably against the oxygen mask.
Vincent's fingers are still shaking as he clings to the man on the table, refusing to let go him again.
Victor's voice is barely a whisper in the dark: "Dear, save the tears, I'm not that important," he says, knowing that losing is necessary to win.
Vincent's heart is broken.