Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Immortality ❯ Awakening and Descent ( Chapter 18 )

 

Chapter 18

 

Awakening and Descent

 

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One Week Later…

 

 

 

 

Hojo walks around Lucrecia's lab, a thin layer of dust coated the monitor-screen and the key-board; no one had been inside the lab for days.

 

“So Dr. Crescent truly has left, abandoning her experiment…”, Hojo sneers, looking at Vincent inside the regenerative-tube, “Still a failure, not reviving even for your beloved… You're still a lifeless corpse…”

 

Vincent's hand slightly twitches.

 

“What…?”, Hojo gasps, seeing the hand twitch, “An incompetent woman has done what my greatness couldn't do…?”, he whispers in disbelief, his ego severely bruised.

 

(A/N: =P Stupid Hojo, don't underestimate a woman! Especially when she's in love!)

 

Vincent's eyes slowly open; his blood-red orbs were glazed-over not seeing anything, he looked like he was dazed.

 

“He's catatonic…”, the doctor states to himself, “And I'm guessing Dr. Crescent's experiments are what changed his eyes from reddish-brown to blood-red…”, he purred, as he watches the glazed-over eyes slowly look around the inside the tube; not really seeing anything, making him look even more dazed and confused.

 

Hojo smirks to himself at the fact of just how vulnerable Vincent was in this state, but decided to leave him be for now as Vincent's eyes slowly close again and he fell back into unconsciousness.

 

“I'll have to save my fun for when he awakens again…”, Hojo vows, as he commands the computer-console to drain the liquid-oxygen from the regenerative-tube; leaving Vincent's body to sit on the bottom of the tube with his back leaning against the glass of the tube, and causing him to cough up the remaining liquefied-oxygen from his lungs, but he stays unconscious, “He'd better reawaken soon…”, he mutters, as he walks out of the lab to plan what he was going to do.

 

 

 

 

 

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Two Hours Later…

 

 

 

 

“Uh…”, Vincent groans, as he slowly opens his eyes, his vision was a little hazy along the edges, “Where am I…?”, he quietly asks himself, looking around, `Lucrecia's lab? What am I doing inside the regenerative-tube?', he confusingly thinks, slowly getting onto his unstable legs and pushes the capsule-door open.

 

“Lucrecia?”, he calls out; his voice a little scratchy from lack of use, as he carefully leaps out of the tube, landing beside the console, “Where is she…?”, he wondered out-loud, as he stumbled his way towards the music-room.

 

“Hello…! Lucrecia! Dietrich!”, he yells, his voice echoing off the music-room walls, “Hello? Anybody here?”, he continued to call out, as he maneuvered his way around the piano, but he stumbles on a crease in the carpet, causing him to crash into the piano and whacks his left fore-arm against it.

 

He collapses to his knees clutching his left-arm to his chest in pain, tears beginning to build in his eyes as he bites his lip in an attempt not to cry out, `Why is my arm hurting so much? I didn't even hit it that hard!', he asks in his head, trying to massage the pain from his arm, but rubbing it only makes the pain worst, “Damn it…!”, he curses, moving his massaging to his upper-arm and finding no pain from the soothing motion, “Hyper-sensitivity to anything touching my lower-arm…”, he whispers, lightly touching his arm below his elbow and winces in pain, “At least I can still move my hand without pain…”, he mutters, as he flexes his left-hand, but he could only make a weak fist with it, `The doctor said the nerve-damage might come back… I guess his was right…', he thinks, getting back onto his feet and heading for the foyer.

 

“Lucrecia? Hello? Dietrich?”, he asks, as he slowly makes his way up the stairs to the second-floor, but half-way up, he starts to get light-headed and grabs hold of the banister before he fell backwards, then he wavered to one knee and clutches his head with his other-hand, trying to fight off the bout of pain consuming his head.

 

“What… the…?”, he gasps out, remembering he was anger as he had stormed up the stairs and turned right into the master-bedroom to the secret-basement, to find Hojo and threaten him about Lucrecia's health, “ But… Hojo pulled out a gun…My gun, and he shot me…”, he recalls, “Did Lucrecia bring me to her lab to help me recover from the gun-shot wound…?”, he asks himself, pulling himself to his feet and begins to head up the steps again.

 

(A/N: Your memories tend to become like Swiss-cheese when you've been dead for at least 6-months! See the anime; `Gungrave'!)

 

“Lucrecia?”, he questions, as he pokes his into the female scientist's room, but there was no sign of her, “Where is she…?”

 

“Dietrich, you here?”, he says, peeking into the younger Turk's room, but again not a sign of anyone, “That's strange… Where did they go?”, he wondered aloud, walking towards his room to change out of his damp-clothes.

 

 

 

 

 

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In Vincent's Room…

 

 

 

 

Vincent opens the top-drawer of his dresser looking for a clean pair of briefs to change into, keeping his left-arm tucked up against his chest to prevent accidentally hitting it again.

 

“What the…?”, he mutters, not being able to find any underwear, “What happened to my underwear…?”, he questions, opening another drawer but none of his clothes were inside; all the drawers were empty, “This can't be right…”, he whispers, going over to his closet and finding his uniforms missing.

 

“What the hell…?”, he curses, heading over to the dresser again, “What is going on…?”, he asks himself, catching his reflection in the dresser-mirror, “Huh…?”, he gasps, leaning over the dresser to look at his reflection closely.

 

The image staring back at him had pale peach skin with mid-night onyx hair framing his face; the hair was messy and was an inch and a half long than the last time he saw his reflection, but what he saw that made his breath hitch and his face contort into a look of terror was the blood-red eyes staring back him, where reddish-brown orbs were suppose to be.

 

“No…”, he whispers, backing away from his reflection in horror, the back of his legs hitting his bed and causing him to collapse onto it, his hand coming in contact with a piece of paper, “Huh?”, he gasps, turning his head to look down at it; finding a envelope with his name on it.

 

He opens the envelope and pulls out the letter, and begins to read:

 

“Dear. Vincent,

 

I'm so sorry…

It was my fault that you went after Hojo and was killed. Please understand I've done all that I could, but I couldn't stop what had been done to you.

Hojo has even taken from me, my son; Sephiroth, but I can't stand to guilt of being the cause of both your father's and your deaths, and the loss of my child anymore.

So this is good-bye forever…

 

I hope you can forgive me for what I've done.

 

-Lucrecia”.

 

Vincent just stares at the tear-stained paper in disbelief, “I…I died…”, he mutters, as he was over-whelmed by emotions, and unconsciously slams his fist into the mirror in anger; shattering it, causing him to pull his bloodied hand back to himself to examine his injuries.

 

His knuckles were a shredded mess with minute shards of mirror sticking out among the bloodied-pulp of flesh. But he feels something inside himself tugging in his hand, and he watches in perplexed-horror as the shards of mirror are pushed out of his body and the shredded-wounds heal.

 

“I…I'm a… monster…”, he mutters in horror; afraid of himself, as he stumbles his way from his room and into the attic, where he curls up into a ball in the corner and starts sobbing, but no tears flowed from his eyes; he was far too broken to cry tears, “No Lucrecia… It's my fault… I failed to protect you and… your son…”, he whispers, his voice heavy with guilt, “It's my sin, not yours… And, this body is my punishment…”, he says, looking down at his hands.

 

After sitting in the drafty-attic for hours, Vincent felt cold and clammy; inside and out, and he decided that he still needed to change into dry clothes; despite the fact that he was no longer human, the want to be warm being the decision of the soul trapped in a body that was it's familiar, yet foreign to him at the same-time.

 

Vincent digs around inside one of the old-chests in the attic, finding a pair of mid-night black pants that appeared to be made of a heavy-duty material, he tries to pull them on after stripping out of his damp clothing, but it was difficult with pain continuing to shoot up his left-arm as he gripped the waist-band, so he had to pull the pants up, and button and zip them up with only one hand.

 

(A/N: It isn't impossible to do… I've done it!)

 

He quickly finds out that the pant-legs were only long enough to fit someone who was 6-inches shorter than him; the pant-legs left the lower-half of his shins uncovered, but they fit around his waist. He pulls out a black shirt that appeared to be part of an old military-uniform; the sleeves were a three-quarter sleeve that would reach half-way over someone's fore-arm and two rows of silver buttons made-up the closing in the front of the shirt. He puts the shirt on, it being easy to slip on and he runs his fingers lightly across the left-side of his rib-cage; the tips of his fingers brushing over the slightly raised star-burst shaped scar with sunken center near the bottom of his ribs, an awful reminder of the injury that stole his life. He sighs in mental-exhaustion as he buttons the shirt closed and tucks it into the pant's waist-band, then inserts a grey-belt into the pant-loops; securing the pants and tucked in portion of shirt into place.

 

Vincent looks down at the damp black dress-shoes of his Turk-uniform, noticing that they were rotting from being water-logged and starting to fall apart; they were ruined and no longer capable of being wore. He sighs again as he begins to dig inside the chest looking for a pair of shoes to wear, finding a pair of black leather boots with gold-colored metal covering the top-side of the feet on the boots, and beside the boots sat a gold-colored metal gantlet attached on top of a black leather glove; that fit over the left hand and forearm. Each end of fingers on the gantlet was pointed; like claws, and Vincent just stares at it in utter fascination, as if the gantlet brought some sort of relief to his muddled mind.

 

`A monster… I'm a monster wearing the guise of a human…', he bitterly thought, as he takes the gantlet out from the chest, `At least with this… I can show what I am on the outside…', he thinks, as he slips the glove/gantlet onto his left-arm and hand, latching the part that goes around his forearm closed; encasing his left hand and forearm inside the confines of the metal-gantlet. He flexes his left hand experimentally, becoming satisfied with the result that it was functioning, and whacks the metal-clad forearm against the windowsill and receives no pain in his arm from the action, “Good…”, he mutters, before pulling the boots onto his feet, the top of the boots almost reached his knees and were high-enough to tuck the pant-legs into the boot.

 

The sudden sound of rattling chains coming from behind a wall in the attic, causes Vincent to jump slightly, “What the…?”, he mutters, walking over to the wall to investigate, and as he searched along the wall, he finds a hidden-door leading into a stone-shaft with a ladder going all the way down into what appeared to be the secret-basement, “I didn't know this hidden-door existed…”, he whispers to himself, as he tugs a blood-red cloak around his shoulders and body for warmth, before starting to climb down the ladder.

 

When he reached the bottom of the ladder, Vincent's metal-clad boots slightly sunk down into the soft dirt-floor of the small room with only one door leading out. He looks around the room carefully, seeing barrels and crates lining along the walls of the room.

 

“This looks like an old storeroom…”, he mutters, going over to one of the crates and runs his right hand over the date printed on it, trying to read it through the dust and kicks up a lot of dust into the air in his attempt, “Really…old…storeroom…”, he coughs, trying to fan the air-borne dust from his face, “Must be…at least…50 years…worth of…dust here…”, he continued to cough.

 

The creaking of the hinges on the door behind him catches his attention, “Hmm?”, he gasps, turning to face the door and sees it slightly ajar, “That was closed a minute ago…”, he whispers, heading over to the door and opens it, finding the long cave-like hallway of the hidden-basement on the other side.

 

He hesitantly takes a step into the corridor, drawing the cloak closer to frame against the chilly-damp air in the hall. He slowly makes his way down the hall, the air was stifling almost robbing the air from his lung; it reeked of death, a glint of silver quickly catches his attention. Crouching down he picks up a silver gun; his gun, putting into his pocket, but before he could return to his feet, his vision suddenly blurs and digs the claws of his gantlet into the dirt-floor as he held his chest with his right hand groaning in pain.

 

“What is…wrong with…me…?”, he gasps, staring blankly at the ground.

 

A straining-groan of wood and metal-hinges causes Vincent to look up at the crypt-door swinging slightly in the drafty basement-hall. He staggers to his feet and stumbles to the crypt, despite the pain coursing through his body, `I could have sworn someone was in here… the door wouldn't have been left open…', he thinks, stepping in and looks around inside the semi-round room.

 

Four opened coffins lined the walls, the remains of the mummified-skeletal occupants in plain-sight; frankly the sight of open coffins with the deceased inside un-nerved Vincent despite his training as a Turk, one coffin sat in the center of the room opened with the lid leaning against the side and was completely empty. It appeared new, the violet-colored silk lining shined in newness and smelt like lavender; the scent of Lucrecia's perfume.

 

“How did this get here…”, he whispers, as he knelt beside the coffin to inspect it, his curiosity getting the better of him.

 

Suddenly, the door slams shut causing Vincent to leap to his feet and start bolting towards the door; crashing into it in his haste, as he reached for the handle to reopen the door he could here the key being turned in the lock, locking the door and trapping him in the room.

 

“Who is out there?”, he shouts, trying the pull the handle and push the door open, but it wouldn't budge, “Let me out!”

 

He could hear a maniacal and equally cold laugh from the other side of the door, Vincent's blood-red eyes widen recognizing the voice as belonging to the one who stole his life away; the ego-centric Hojo. Vincent starts to slide down as he leaned against the door until his knees sunk into the dirt, realizing it was hopeless of getting out; knowing that Hojo wouldn't unlock the door, his hand still clutching the door-handle as he slumped and hung his head low.

 

The tears started their silent descent as he heard Hojo walk away, “It's all my fault…”, he whispers, “I didn't protect Lucrecia or her son… That was my sin…”, he adds, blaming himself again, “And this…this…is my punishment…”.

 

Vincent slowly gets to his feet and sluggishly walks back towards the empty-coffin, “My only hope to repent for my sins is to sleep for the rest of eternity… Within the depths of the Hell of my own creation…”, he hopelessly mutters, as he climbs inside of the purple-silk lined coffin and lays down inside it as he pulls the cover shut over himself, closing his eyes and praying that he could see Lucrecia at least once before the grim-reaper sent him to Hell it-self for the sins he'd committed.

 

 

 

 

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