Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 7 > Slowly Twisting
Disclaimer - I do not Final Fantasy VII, its characters, or locations. Those belong to Square-Enix, who better come through with Dirge of Cerberus.
A/N - Thanks to Delcat for driving me to write this and acting as prosecutor. Lita gets love too, because she performed emergency CPR on my ego.
Krnshcht. Vincent chewed slowly, mind distant. He normally disliked apples. In this case, with his thoughts so completely occupied, he could stand them. Anyway, there was nothing else for him to eat, nothing he could eat. Gripping the fruit loosely in his left hand, he ran the pencil aimlessly over the tired page, creating an unfocused scribble that he never noticed. His mind had moved past the attic. He'd retreated to the world he was familiar with, the life he belonged to, the time he still lived in. Memories were the anchor that held him to sanity now.
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A target. A thing in the crosshairs. Motionless. Breath. A twitch of his finger on the trigger, fire from the sound. The window exploded outward, mirroring the recoil of his rifle. But that wasn't the concern. Blood, but the target's? Screaming, screaming. Motion, it was rolling on the ground. He lifted the rifle's tip again, realigned his focus. The thing had raised its coffee cup, which had shattered upon the bullet's impact. A failed shot. The face was mutilated, its right eye torn out by a shard. Vincent cocked the rifle. He could see the thing flailing through the crosshairs. It was harder now, it was moving too much. A pause for breath, shock settling in-there, an opportunity. He brought his finger on the trigger, the muzzle flashed. Success. The skull failed under the burst and the bullet tore into the man's brain. Yes, man. But no longer. Vincent let the tip of the rifle fall and blinked to adjust his vision after the hyperfocus of the mission. Then he turned and walked away, ignoring the screaming waitresses behind him. It was time for lunch.
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Suits and voices. Simple questions at first.
"Mr. Valentine, where were you at 3:27 P.M. on May third?"
"Sector Seven, third district, on Turk business."
"Who were you with at the time?"
"Three SOLDIERs and a senior Turk."
"Their names?"
"Dairen Gallinas was my Turk partner. I don't know any names in SOLDIER."
Sleek and silver, a glint in the light. Strange to see in someone else's hands. The man held it clumsily. He felt naked without it, without its broad muzzle. He didn't belong here.
"Do you recognize this weapon, Mr. Valentine?"
"Yes." Do you?
"Can you explain its presence at the crime scene?"
"It...was used during the mission." Discomfort, displacement.
"For what, exactly?" Here, purpose.
"To kill." Stirrings, glances from people.
"Who was the intended target?" Confusion, misunderstanding.
"The...mission?" A guess.
"Who were you instructed to /kill/, Mr. Valentine?" Clarity. Understanding.
"The instructions were to clear the building of all occupants, eliminating the insurgency completely."
"How is it, then, that the gun was used on your partner?" The heart.
"He..." Interruption.
"Specifically, how is it that Mr. Gallinas ended up with one of your bullets between the eyes at point-blank range?" Again.
"He interfered." Business.
"What are you saying, Mr. Valentine?" A question.
"Dairen changed his mind." Simplicity.
"Changed his mind about /what/?" Drilling him.
"Himself." Puzzlement, annoyance from outside.
"Mr. Valentine, I want a yes or no answer, none of this cryptic bullshit. Did you kill your partner, intentionally and in cold blood?" Anger then from him.
"Yes." Give in. As it was.
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Hojo's face twisted furiously and he grabbed Vincent's hair by the roots, digging his long fingers into the Turk's scalp. The unfortunate man shut his eyes tightly, knowing what was about to happen. KRAK! Vincent's vision exploded into stars, his breath gasping out of him as the enraged scientist jerked his head upward and slammed it violently onto the steel table. There were a few brief seconds of somewhat echoic silence, causing him to wonder if he'd lost his hearing entirely, then Hojo's voice cut back in, echoing the hate that burned his own brain raw.
"-disgusting." He turned away, a flash of white coat in Vincent's eyes. Hojo strode across the room, black shoes sharp on the chemical-clean floor. A creak, thumping, and some sort of whine. Vincent tried to sort it out in his mind, tried to ignore the pain in his head. Then Hojo had returned, a small wriggling creature in his hand. It made small stifled noises into the man's palm. He held the mouse near Vincent's face, but the Turk turned his head away. Fiercely, Hojo grabbed his hair again, yanked his head to face him, and forced the mouse into Vincent's field of vision. It was small, frail in the scientist's white-knuckled grip. Its fur was soft and clean, and he could see the whiskers twitch as it squirmed in the scientist's grasp. Delicate pink toes clutched the edge of the sallow fingers and it squeaked plaintively to be free. Vincent was startled to see it was looking at him. A tiny red eye, turned curiously, almost intelligently, to his face. It was so small, it was somehow frightening.
"What--?"
"You see this, Valentine? This is specimen number twelve." The mouse opened its mouth to bite him, to free itself, but Hojo moved his thumb and placed it at the base of the mouse's skull. The little mammal squirmed. Vincent was almost hypnotised by its eyes. "It has not responded to the treatments, you see. I think you should know that." Before Vincent could respond, Hojo's thumb tightened and an audible snap could be heard. The mouse, specimen number twelve, jerked and went limp, the bright eyes going dull. The sound, the fading eyes, shocked him. Vincent suddenly understood. Hojo's thumb was at his neck. And it terrified him.
A/N - Thanks to Delcat for driving me to write this and acting as prosecutor. Lita gets love too, because she performed emergency CPR on my ego.
Krnshcht. Vincent chewed slowly, mind distant. He normally disliked apples. In this case, with his thoughts so completely occupied, he could stand them. Anyway, there was nothing else for him to eat, nothing he could eat. Gripping the fruit loosely in his left hand, he ran the pencil aimlessly over the tired page, creating an unfocused scribble that he never noticed. His mind had moved past the attic. He'd retreated to the world he was familiar with, the life he belonged to, the time he still lived in. Memories were the anchor that held him to sanity now.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A target. A thing in the crosshairs. Motionless. Breath. A twitch of his finger on the trigger, fire from the sound. The window exploded outward, mirroring the recoil of his rifle. But that wasn't the concern. Blood, but the target's? Screaming, screaming. Motion, it was rolling on the ground. He lifted the rifle's tip again, realigned his focus. The thing had raised its coffee cup, which had shattered upon the bullet's impact. A failed shot. The face was mutilated, its right eye torn out by a shard. Vincent cocked the rifle. He could see the thing flailing through the crosshairs. It was harder now, it was moving too much. A pause for breath, shock settling in-there, an opportunity. He brought his finger on the trigger, the muzzle flashed. Success. The skull failed under the burst and the bullet tore into the man's brain. Yes, man. But no longer. Vincent let the tip of the rifle fall and blinked to adjust his vision after the hyperfocus of the mission. Then he turned and walked away, ignoring the screaming waitresses behind him. It was time for lunch.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Suits and voices. Simple questions at first.
"Mr. Valentine, where were you at 3:27 P.M. on May third?"
"Sector Seven, third district, on Turk business."
"Who were you with at the time?"
"Three SOLDIERs and a senior Turk."
"Their names?"
"Dairen Gallinas was my Turk partner. I don't know any names in SOLDIER."
Sleek and silver, a glint in the light. Strange to see in someone else's hands. The man held it clumsily. He felt naked without it, without its broad muzzle. He didn't belong here.
"Do you recognize this weapon, Mr. Valentine?"
"Yes." Do you?
"Can you explain its presence at the crime scene?"
"It...was used during the mission." Discomfort, displacement.
"For what, exactly?" Here, purpose.
"To kill." Stirrings, glances from people.
"Who was the intended target?" Confusion, misunderstanding.
"The...mission?" A guess.
"Who were you instructed to /kill/, Mr. Valentine?" Clarity. Understanding.
"The instructions were to clear the building of all occupants, eliminating the insurgency completely."
"How is it, then, that the gun was used on your partner?" The heart.
"He..." Interruption.
"Specifically, how is it that Mr. Gallinas ended up with one of your bullets between the eyes at point-blank range?" Again.
"He interfered." Business.
"What are you saying, Mr. Valentine?" A question.
"Dairen changed his mind." Simplicity.
"Changed his mind about /what/?" Drilling him.
"Himself." Puzzlement, annoyance from outside.
"Mr. Valentine, I want a yes or no answer, none of this cryptic bullshit. Did you kill your partner, intentionally and in cold blood?" Anger then from him.
"Yes." Give in. As it was.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hojo's face twisted furiously and he grabbed Vincent's hair by the roots, digging his long fingers into the Turk's scalp. The unfortunate man shut his eyes tightly, knowing what was about to happen. KRAK! Vincent's vision exploded into stars, his breath gasping out of him as the enraged scientist jerked his head upward and slammed it violently onto the steel table. There were a few brief seconds of somewhat echoic silence, causing him to wonder if he'd lost his hearing entirely, then Hojo's voice cut back in, echoing the hate that burned his own brain raw.
"-disgusting." He turned away, a flash of white coat in Vincent's eyes. Hojo strode across the room, black shoes sharp on the chemical-clean floor. A creak, thumping, and some sort of whine. Vincent tried to sort it out in his mind, tried to ignore the pain in his head. Then Hojo had returned, a small wriggling creature in his hand. It made small stifled noises into the man's palm. He held the mouse near Vincent's face, but the Turk turned his head away. Fiercely, Hojo grabbed his hair again, yanked his head to face him, and forced the mouse into Vincent's field of vision. It was small, frail in the scientist's white-knuckled grip. Its fur was soft and clean, and he could see the whiskers twitch as it squirmed in the scientist's grasp. Delicate pink toes clutched the edge of the sallow fingers and it squeaked plaintively to be free. Vincent was startled to see it was looking at him. A tiny red eye, turned curiously, almost intelligently, to his face. It was so small, it was somehow frightening.
"What--?"
"You see this, Valentine? This is specimen number twelve." The mouse opened its mouth to bite him, to free itself, but Hojo moved his thumb and placed it at the base of the mouse's skull. The little mammal squirmed. Vincent was almost hypnotised by its eyes. "It has not responded to the treatments, you see. I think you should know that." Before Vincent could respond, Hojo's thumb tightened and an audible snap could be heard. The mouse, specimen number twelve, jerked and went limp, the bright eyes going dull. The sound, the fading eyes, shocked him. Vincent suddenly understood. Hojo's thumb was at his neck. And it terrified him.
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