Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 7

Last Rites

by Annwyd 12 reviews

Tseng's last minutes. Turkfic. Rated for rather violent attempts at humor.

Category: Final Fantasy 7 - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst, Humor - Characters: Tseng, Vincent Valentine - Warnings: [!] - Published: 2005-06-14 - Updated: 2005-06-15 - 534 words - Complete

When the others had gone ahead into the temple, Vincent stayed in the anteroom. He could smell blood in the air. It was one smell he'd never forget. He wondered, sometimes, if that had been part of his training.

He thought of his training now, as he regarded the dying man on the floor.

"You probably shouldn't bother trying to cast Cure on me," Tseng said. "I tried all my potions. It's beyond that."

"I wasn't going to," Vincent said. "I know a mortal wound when I see one." He crouched down next to the other man.

Tseng's dark eyes flicked to the side and focused on the gunman. "You're a Turk, aren't you?"

It would have struck most people as a strange question. Vincent merely nodded. "I was, once."

"You don't stop," Tseng said.

"I suppose not."

"Aren't you going to help your friends defeat Sephiroth, save the world...whatever it is they're trying to do?"

"They're not my friends," Vincent said, and for a moment he said nothing more. Then, "I will. Eventually."

Tseng said nothing.

"Do you know why Turks don't need priests?" Vincent asked. It was ritual.

Tseng grunted slightly--whether in pain or assent, Vincent couldn't tell. "Because only other Turks will hear their confessions."

Sometimes groups of people weren't just damaged; they were about the damage, both causing and receiving it. Or, actually, Vincent reflected, maybe that was just one group of people. But then again...maybe he just thought too much. "It's good to see that one's still in circulation," he said.

Tseng again favored him with a sidelong glance. "How long ago...?"

"About thirty years."

Tseng regarded Vincent's features, still youthful. After a moment, he declined to comment. He clearly knew that Vincent was not lying--not to another Turk, and not for no good reason. "Any others?"

"Two Turks walk into a bar," Vincent said.

"The third Turk shoots the bar's kneecaps while it's distracted," Tseng replied.

"I heard 'The third Turk hits the bar with a sap from behind.'"

"Same thing."

Vincent nodded in agreement. "And do they still laugh at that one?"

"When they're drunk enough."

"Yeah, that's the way."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Tseng said, "Did you hear the one about the Turk and the doctor?" His voice was weaker now.

"Are you saying that Turks need doctors? Report for morale-building exercises immediately." Vincent's voice remained steady. After a moment, he went on with, "How many Turks does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"

There was a beat, then, "...was that a lightbulb?" Tseng paused, gathered what was left of his breath, and went on, "I used it to cut someone's throat the other day."

Vincent waited a long moment for him to go on.

When he spoke again, his voice was very soft. "Can you tell me where the exit from this job is?"

Vincent smiled, just slightly. "Certainly. It's right through the hole I just shot in your head." He let that sit for a moment, then said, "When is a Turk not a Turk?"

There was no reply. Vincent waited another minute. Then he reached down, closed Tseng's eyes, and stood up to go.
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