Who: Vincent Valentine and Arya Stark What: Vincent sleeps/spends most of his time in a coffin in the complex basement. Who better to stumble on that than a child? Where: The basement of the complex. When: Late evening, 2/06/12 Rating: Probably not more than PG.
An oppressively narrow spiral staircase, covered in shadow so thick you could wear it like a blanket. The stench of mildew clung to his nose as he began descending the creaky, rusted steps. He takes his first step and-
A dank, mostly dark hallway dimly lit by the glow of the computers and machinery in the room at the end of the hall. Every strep he took kicked up a bit of dry rock dust, and the sound of the rafters creaking on rotting wood was as ever-present as ever. He reaches for the knob, and-
A moment of shock, a white coat, a pale hand clutching a dark piece of metal. There’s a click, and then-
A young woman, beautiful in every way, almost glowing. She has long brown hair, pulled up into a ponytail with long bangs left free. A pristine white coat bunches as she winces, doubles over, clutches her stomach and begins to scream. And then-
Three thunderclaps. A blinding light. Explosions of pain in his chest that he’s dimly aware are gunshots. And then-
Awakening. There is no pain, but the relief he feels at that is drowned swiftly in the terrible, bitter cold that burns at the tips of every nerve in his body. Something is terribly wrong. He can’t get warm and there is something heavy pulling on his back. No, not something, two somethings. He struggles to sit up, everything feeling somehow stiffer than it should. When he opens his eyes, his vision, strangely tinted yellow, swims, but all other thoughts cease as he catches sight of his hands. No, not hands. Not anymore. Claws! And those things on his back weren’t harnesses, they were wings!
His screams echoed soundlessly into the night.
Nightmares.
Memories.
Who could tell him that they weren’t the same thing? Vincent’s blood red eyes snapped open, flitting about in half-sleep as his waking mind tried to reorient itself. Gradually, or so it seemed to him, the images of his tormented past faded from his eyes, replaced with the simple black lining of his coffin. It took him a moment longer to remember that he was not still in the coffin he’d first been placed into in the Shinra Mansion back in Nibelheim. That one had a red velvet lining, something Vincent was sure Hojo had chosen with some amusement. This one was in a basement, though instead of a mansion it was an apartment complex and instead of Nibelheim it was in Lawrence, Kansas.
He didn’t scream, as some might after awaking from nightmare memories as intense and vivid as his have been and always were. For thirty-three years he’d spent most of his time sleeping in his coffin in the mansion, and every time he closed his eyes, those were the visions that greeted him. He’d stopped screaming after the third year in the little pine box. Repeated exposure hadn’t desensitized him to it, as the feelings of horror and despair that still clung to him proved, but he could at least keep himself from panicked frenzy. These days, that was too much like giving in to one of Hojo’s monstrous transformations for his taste.
Instead, he simply took a breath he no longer strictly needed and forced his mind to shake off the last vestiges of his troubled sleep. He did not, however, open the lid on his coffin. There was no need. He had no plans for the day, not that he ever really did, and with the phone he’d been provided he didn’t even need to open the lid to check the boards. He did so with a simple flick of his right wrist, pulling the phone from a hidden pocket on his body suit, and with a few quick swipes he’d pulled up the forum. Maneuvering his hand a little, he held the phone at about chest level and tilted his head forward to read, shaking his head lightly to free it of a troublesome piece of fringe. He spent a few moments checking to see if anything necessitated attention, and when nothing did, he simply clicked it off and slid the phone back into the same pocket he’d pulled it from.
It would have been funny if Vincent still had a functioning sense of humor. He doubted anyone here would understand this better than his companions back home did. Even Aerith, deceptively clever Aerith, had never really understood. Vincent suspected Nanaki might, in due time, but he would be alone among those select few Vincent considered friends. They all thought the coffin itself was his punishment, that remaining there, locked away from the world was the whip he used to flagellate himself. They were wrong. The coffin was merely an aid, though Vincent was fairly sure he couldn’t sleep anywhere other than a coffin, after thirty-three years of his existence being contained in one. That was fine from a biological standpoint, as he no longer required even the remotest trappings of the living, but psychologically, he still needed sleep. Through sleep came his true punishment, an eternity of reliving his sin over and over again. There was nothing that could be done to make up for his sin, to make it right, so instead he would simply relive it every time he closed his eyes until the universe winked out. An eternity to brood and reflect on his moment of inaction was the only true punishment there was for his sin, and he would surely have that, thanks to Hojo’s twisted genetic experiments.
With a tiny little sigh to rid his lungs of the unneeded breath and prepare him for the next round of nightmare memories, he simply let his head fall back to the floor of the tiny little box and closed his eyes. Only now did he let a thought slip through his tightly controlled grasp, and it was a deliberate choice. As torturous as his memories of the night he died were, there was another set of memories that was worse. Lucrecia…