Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Revelations ❯ Chapter One ( Chapter 1 )

Chapter One

He watched, expressionless, as the girl's eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted, tumbling toward him. Snagging her around the waist with his right arm, he carefully lowered her to the ground, then slipped his gun into its holster. Pressing two gloved fingers to her throat, he found her heart beat to be faint and slightly erratic.

Straightening, he glanced at her attackers, sprawled awkwardly in the dark alleyway. One was laying on his back, his arm flung outward and his eyes wide with surprise. The other lay face down where he had collapsed on top of the girl, a pool of blood widening around his head. They hadn't seen him, hadn't heard him, and they were dead before they ever knew he was there.

He had been returning home from work, walking back to his apartment from the train station, when he'd seen the girl running blindly down the streets, careening into people and tripping over her own feet. He'd at first dismissed her as another fool losing herself to the maddening effects of drugs, and he'd been about to continue on. His eyes had wandered to her again, though, and he'd seen her stagger into an alleyway, his sharp ears picking up the clatter as she knocked over a garbage can. His interest had been peaked when he'd seen two men in dark clothing follow her in a moment later, and he'd silently drifted closer to the narrow passage between the buildings. Her strangled cries had reached him seconds later, along with the voices of the men persuing her.

"Base, this is team Beta. Target secured. She's crazed, seems to have been heavily drugged... ...Affirmative. Inform the Professor; we'll bring her in."

He had felt something violent twist in his heart at their words, and the intensity of the feeling had startled him. Drawing his gun, he'd crept soundlessly into the dark alley, eyes narrowing as he saw one of the men pressing the girl into the ground, his hand over her mouth. Her captor screamed suddenly, jerking his hand away and cursing, and he'd nodded grimly, realizing the girl had bitten his hand. The man had backhanded her then, and had seemed ready to continue the beating, but a sharp word from the other had stopped him. He'd briefly explained that they would take her back to the lab, and then the first man had reached down toward her again.

He'd chosen that moment to act.

Stepping away from the wall he'd concealed himself against, he'd smoothly brought up his gun and fired twice, quickly, certain of his aim. They'd fallen immediately, and the girl had screamed hysterically, fighting her way out from beneath the body of the man who'd been holding her down.

Stepping toward her, he'd taken her arm and pulled her to her feet, but she'd wrenched herself away from him, colliding with the wall. She'd looked right at him, but hardly seemed to see him, her eyes wild with fear. He'd spoken softly, not saying much, just trying to calm her, but she'd ignored him, her whole body shaking. Then she'd gazed into his eyes, finally seeming to focus, and she'd stiffened in terror for a moment before collapsing, unconscious.

His gaze fell on the radio the second man had held, laying where he had dropped it on the ground, and he realized that someone would be coming to investigate soon. Such a silence from this team, Beta, would be noticed immediately.

Unfailingly calm, her rescuer again crouched beside her, setting his feet and slipping his right arm beneath her shoulders, his left behind her knees. He then gathered her to him as he rose, holding her securely against his chest. Her head fell back over his arm, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and she twitched faintly as her muscles spasmed. He frowned thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing, then quickly glanced around. Shifting her weight in his arms, he began to walk swiftly, away from the direction he had come, deciding to take the back alleys. He did not want the unwelcome scrutiny carrying an unconscious girl down the main streets would cause. Though it was unlikely such a scene would cause any great disturbance. Midgar was not a city known for its caring. It was a place where crime ran rampant, along with opportunity. If one had a sharp, cutting intellect and no qualms about crushing anyone who stood in the way, there was no limit to the wealth they could accumulate. With a bit of luck, of course. So here was where those hungry for power came to try their hand at playing the money game. And crime flourished as well. There were limitless targets for the desperate and the worthless. The unwary newcomer was often found dead, beaten, or robbed before ever beginning their frantic chase for the glorious heights of prosperity. It was, in truth, a fairly heartless place. The people who lived here were generally miserable, though one could occasionally find the rare, bright soul that is undaunted by the decay of the world around it. But those naive optimists were never able to succeed here, and they either left or clung to their foolish dreams, hoping wildly that they could make it in a place where humanity used each other as stepping stones to power.

He unconsciously adjusted the girl in his arms, his thoughts drifting to the men he had just killed. He felt a sharp spike of remorse flash through him, crushing his chest in a vise grip.

Clamping down on the emotion, he sealed it away in a dark corner of his mind. They had not been the first. Perhaps they would not be the last.

He had not expected to use the gun he carried; strapping it on in the morning was more of a habit than anything else. He felt strangely naked without it, and so it came with him nearly everywhere he went. It was almost a like a part of his own body.

When he had seen the men attacking the girl, he had drawn the weapon from his holster in a gesture as natural to him as breathing. And once the decision had been made to kill, he had not hesitated, or paused to reconsider. Such a mistake could be fatal. He could tell from the way that they carried themselves that they were professionals; there would have been no reasoning with them. It was more than likely that they would have seen him, a single man, and decided that together they could easily dispose of him. And they would have called for backup; surrender would not have been an option. He knew how they thought. His split-second decision had been the correct one. But it was one he wished he had not had to make.

Tonight was the first time he had turned his gun on a human being in almost three years.

Shaking his head as though to shake away his dark thoughts, he looked down at the girl cradled in his arms, his frown deepening. He now had this problem to deal with. What was he going to do with her? He couldn't very well have left her lying in the alley, but taking her with him meant he had become responsible for her. He would have to bring her to his apartment. She would have to stay with him for an unknown amount of time. He grimaced inwardly, though his expression did not change. Company was the last thing he wanted. He would have to be very, very careful.

He sighed through his nose, quickening his pace through the dark back streets. He did not need this now. He did not need the distraction of this girl in his life. He did not want the routine he had established interrupted. It was dangerous, he thought, dangerous to bring her with him.

But he had involved himself, he had stepped into her life, and it was too late to back out now. He could not leave her to whatever fate awaited at the hands of her persuers, stranger though she was.

The words of the men he had killed came back to him again. ...been heavily drugged... ...inform the professor; we'll bring her in...

They had touched a place inside of him that he usually kept sheltered, and had sealed his involvement with the girl. She was being experimented on, tested. If he did not interfere, it would one day destroy her. Perhaps he could keep her from being ruined.

As he was ruined.

And so, he took her with him.

*****

Terese woke slowly, swimming up from the black depths of sleep as though moving through syrup. She inhaled through her nose, not opening her eyes. Her head throbbed painfully and her mouth felt like it was filled with cotton, utterly without moisture. She grimaced, and her chapped lips cracked, splitting slightly to ooze a tiny drop of blood. Her muscles ached dully, but that was nothing unusual. Her lungs felt strangely raw, as though they had been gone over with sand paper, and she coughed weakly. How had that happened?

Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember.

At the lab, the professor...

She moaned suddenly as it came flying back. She'd grabbed the tray of instruments and slammed it into his head, knocking him backward and away from her. While he'd been stunned, she'd torn off the needles and tubes stuck into her and somehow ended up on her feet. It was all slightly blurred, but she had rushed from the table, only thinking of escape, and as she had passed him, the professor had stabbed her with a needle full of some drug.

From that point on, it was a vague rush of strange sounds and images. Running crazily through the streets, knowing they would follow her. She had never really believed she'd get away, but she'd had to try. She remembered sharp pain in her chest, and a picture came to her of herself spitting up blood on her hands and knees. Then she was running again, where it was darker, but she couldn't remember where. She'd been attacked, by the guards, and then...

She frowned. Gunshots. She remembered them clearly. But that made no sense, the guards wouldn't have shot her, and they certainly wouldn't have shot at each other. Where had the shooting come from?

She stiffened suddenly as she remembered her last vision before falling unconscious. A gun, and two blood-red eyes. A demon's eyes. Clearly, she had been hallucinating and had imagined a demon standing before her, but there must have been a real person there that her deranged mind had transformed into a creature out of her nightmares.

So what did that mean? She was back at the laboratory, wasn't she?

Her eyes snapped open. Or she tried to snap them open. It was more like she slowly peeled them apart, as though they had been glued shut. Blinking painfully, she found that her vision wavered in and out of focus for several seconds before stabilizing.

Her heart jumped with excitement and fear.

She was not at the laboratory.

The ceiling above her was shadowed, as were the walls around her, but they were of a softer color, not the harsh, punishing white of the lab. There was a lamp on a table beside her, its gentle glow illuminating the floor and blankets around her. She was in a bed, she realized, the covers drawn up to her chin. There was a window to her left that showed it to be fully dark outside. The weak light barely revealed that the open door to her right led to a bathroom. The door next to it was closed. There was a tall, narrow bookcase against the left wall, stuffed with books, and a closet opposite her, but the room was otherwise empty.

Her heart was pounding loudly in her chest as she slowly sat up, her stiff muscles protesting wildly. Looking down at herself, she saw that she still wore the non-descript white gown that she had at the lab, though it was splashed with dirty water from the streets.

Throwing back the covers, she tentatively set her feet on the floor, forcing her tired muscles to make her stand. She realized suddenly that she badly needed to use the bathroom, and glanced around, trying to find her rescuer. Or was it her captor? She had no idea. Whoever it was, he was not here now, and she took a step toward the open doorway. She staggered, nearly collapsing as her muscles tried to give out, but caught herself and walked unsteadily to the door, gripping the frame when she reached it and breathing heavily. She closed her eyes for a minute, then made her way inside.

When she had finished relieving herself, she stood in front of the mirror and gazed at her reflection. Her red hair was horribly tangled in a wild mess around her head, and her green eyes were bloodshot, her skin unusually pale. Her entire appearance was wretched. She shook her head. She didn't care.

Looking down at the sink, she saw a cup resting there and quickly filled it with cold water, gulping it down greedily. Her hands shook, making the clear liquid dribble down her chin. When she finished she clumsily set it back down, feeling a bit better as her head cleared slightly.

Walking back out into the bedroom, she sat heavily on the bed, taking a deep breath and trying to gather herself and calm her racing heart.

She was frightened. She had no idea where she was, or who had brought her here. She did not know why whoever had brought her had done so, or what they might hope to gain from it. She did not know how long she had been here, or what had been done to her. Swallowing, she pressed her lips together, forcing herself to stay steady. Panicking would do no good, she thought scornfully. She had dealt with worse situations than this.

Rising again, she slowly walked to the closed door, setting her hand on the knob and cautiously twisting it. Pulling it open, she hesitantly peered outside into a short, dark hallway that seemed to lead into a living room of some sort. Swallowing, she nervously stepped out, moving unsteadily forward until she stood at the end of the hallway, looking into the living area. This, also, was unlit, heavy shadows lurking in the corners and along the dull grey walls. There seemed to be no furniture that she could see, outside of the bookshelves. More bookshelves all along one wall, with books occupying every available inch of space. Her eyes quickly swept the rest of the room, but everything was indistinct in the darkness.

There was light spilling from a doorway along one wall, though, and she crept forward to peak inside. It was the kitchen, the overhead lamp left on for some reason. It shone brightly on clean counters and cupboards, a stained linoleum floor. There was no one inside.

She frowned in confusion. What was going on? Had she simply been brought here and left to herself? This made no sense at all.

Terese closed her eyes, an involuntary moan slipping from her throat as she rested her head against the doorjamb. What should she do now? She had no idea what had happened to her, and she was alone in this place. Stumbling further into the kitchen, she collapsed into one of the chairs before a small, scarred wooden table and dropped her forehead onto her folded arms. She cursed herself as she felt foolish tears build in her eyes and forcefully swallowed them down. Crying never accomplished anything, she would not wallow in self-pity.

She sat for several moments, taking deep, calming breaths, trying to gather herself and make the best of her situation. She was away from the laboratory. She wasn't tied up or locked in. She wasn't being experimented on.

Lifting her head, she nodded to herself. She should be pleased with where she was. It was better than where she had been.

Pressing her lips together and setting her jaw, Terese rose to her feet. She would not waste this opportunity. She turned on her heel, prepared to find some light switches and discover more about this place she was in.

A dark figure was standing in the doorway, blocking her exit.

She screamed shrilly, stumbling backward until her thighs connected with the table behind her, nearly causing her to lose her footing. Scrambling for balance, she tightly gripped the edge of the wood, pressing herself back against it and staring at the doorway with wide eyes, struggling to quiet the thundering of her heart.

The man stepped into the kitchen, his feet making no sound on the stained floor as he walked toward her. He stopped several feet from her, gazing down at her without expression.

His eyes were blood-red.

Her mouth went dry and she felt her face pale as she instinctively tried to back away from him. But the table prevented her escape, holding her in place as she stared at the specter before her in terror.

He was wearing a long black trenchcoat over black clothing, his tall form shrouded in darkness. His hair was long, and black as well. Startlingly black. It was pure shadow, falling haphazardly about his face and over his shoulders. It was midnight, formless, void black, held away from his face by a deep red bandana, the only color in his apparel. And his appearance only became more alarming. His irises, she noted again, were the color of fresh blood, something she had never seen on a person. His skin was markedly pale, almost sickly, and his clean-shaven face was sharply angular. Her eyes dropped to his hands, and she felt herself stiffen involuntarily. His right was encased in a black glove, the long fingers loosely curled by his side. But in the place where his left hand should've been, there was instead a golden claw, glinting dully in the light. She swallowed painfully as she stared at the metal digits of the prosthetic, wondering who this nightmarish apparition was.

She dragged her gaze back up him to find his expression unchanged, his face as emotionless as before. She realized that she had been staring at him for some time, gawking like he was an exhibit in a freak show, and felt a flash of shame through her fear. Who was she to judge him based on his appearance alone? He could not help what he looked like. Still, her voice trembled slightly as she spoke.

"Um, I'm s-sorry. Who... Who are you?" She realized she was whispering, but couldn't seem to help herself. Her voice was harsh and rough, the words rasping along her throat.

The man looked down at her for another moment, his red gaze piercing, before speaking, his voice low and quiet.

"Vincent Valentine."

Vincent Valentine. The name was strangely poetic. She swallowed again, nodding her head. "M-Mr. Valentine?"

"Yes?"

"Where... Where am I? What's going on? I-I don't know what's happening, and I..." she trailed off, looking at the floor between her bare feet and folding her arms across her chest

protectively. She swayed slightly, a brief flash of dizziness touching her. She shook her head, trying to shrug it off.

"You should not be up," the man said, his voice inflectionless. "Go back to bed."

She looked up at him quickly, distressed. "What? But, I don't know anything! Wha- What-"

"Go back to the bedroom, and I will come with you. I will answer your questions there."

She eyed him warily for a moment, and he looked back at her, unblinking. Finally, she nodded, realizing that she really was tired, and shuffled back toward the bedroom, her steps unsteady. Glancing over her shoulder, she found Vincent right behind her, his footfalls making no noise on the carpet. His red eyes stared down into hers and she turned away again, shivering as a chill swept her spine and wondering what this man's intentions were.

Entering the bedroom, she stumbled to the bed and sank down onto it, relieved. Dragging her legs up over the side, she lay back against the pillows and looked up at the man standing over her. She unintentionally shrank away from him, into the bed, and after a moment he stepped back from her, putting distance between them. She realized he must have noticed how she cowered away from him, and frowned at herself, again rationalizing that she knew nothing about him and was being unreasonable. But she was still afraid of him.

There was a long, awkward silence before she said uncertainly, "Mr. Valentine? Where am I?"

"You are in my apartment, in sector six."

She nodded, fiddling uncomfortably with the blankets. "How long have I been here?"

"I brought you here last night."

"So I've been unconscious all day?"

"Yes."

She said nothing for a moment, contemplating that, before asking, "Why am I sick?"

He gazed down at her for a moment. "I am not certain. I believe you were injected with a drug of some kind, and your body has been experiencing its affects. It seems it was meant to incapacitate you. You've been running a fever, having muscle spasms, and coughing up blood."

"Oh," she murmured, looking down at her hands.

After a moment, Vincent came to stand beside the bed again, and she looked up at him, forcing herself to relax.

"I would also like to know a few things." His voice was quiet.

She nodded, licking her lips. "I'll... I'll try. I can't quite remember everything."

He nodded his acknowledgment before speaking.

"What is your name?"

"Terese Ramison."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

He paused briefly before continuing. "And what were you running from?"

She felt her chest constrict with the fear even now, and looked away from him, out the window into the dark night. She had been running from hell.

"I... From the laboratory."

There was another pause. When he spoke again, his voice was very quiet, but still without emotion. "Why were you in a laboratory?"

She twisted onto her side, turning her back to him and clutching the blankets in her fist. Why had she been in the laboratory? She didn't know why she'd been taken, why she'd been locked up and experimented on. Surely there wasn't anything that made her so important. She knew she was different than other people, that the strange, inexplicable feelings and sensations that filled her at times weren't normal, but they certainly weren't anything worthy of so much study. Were they? And how could anyone possibly know about them, anyway? She had learned long ago to not to reveal her feelings to anyone, for fear that they would think her insane or dillusional. She didn't understand them herself, so how could she expect anyone else to? No, she had kept silent about her strange 'talent' for years. No one should know. There must be some other reason the scientists wanted her. But she could think of nothing else.

She slowly shook her head in response to Vincent's question.

"I don't know," she whispered, wishing he wouldn't ask her. She didn't want to think about the laboratory, didn't want to think about what the scientists had done to her. She didn't think she could tell anyone, much less this terrifying stranger.

There was a long moment of silence before he finally said, "I see."

His voice was mild; there was no irritation in his tone, but she just felt that he was frustrated. That was another unique ability she had. She was very sensitive to the emotions of others. She instinctively understood how they felt. It was a talent she had actually tried to seal away from herself more than once. It was painful for her, to experience the emotions of others so deeply. Their feelings almost became her own, and it tore her apart and drained her to have to continually empathize with those around her. Their suffering pained her, made her want to reach out and help, and when she could not give enough to stop their pain, she was crushed. It was too hard to deal with that all of the time, and she had managed to control her talent to a degree. There were times when she could not stop herself from connecting, though, times when she had no choice. It almost seemed that it was her purpose in life to be a source of relief to those in need.

She turned back so she was looking up at Vincent again. His red eyes were focused out the window, his expression blank and unseeing. It was strange. She was able to read tiny flashes of emotion from him here or there, as she had when sensing his frustration, but he was largely blank to her. Her talent was in being able to read a person's body language, the slightest facial twitches, the faintest inflection in the voice. This man was oddly contained, as though he had had long practice in the art of shielding his inner self from others. He did not make unnecessary movements, he did not use unneeded words. There was an air of cold competence about him, and he struck her as being very, very dangerous.

She shivered, burrowing deeper under the covers as she watched him. She again wondered what he intended to do with her, shifting uneasily. Surely he must have some purpose for saving her and bringing her to his apartment.

"Um... Mr. Valentine?"

She noticed a faint twitch cross his features at her words, and he turned back to her. "Call me Vincent, please. What is it?"

"What am I... I mean, what... what happens now?"

He raised a black eyebrow briefly as he looked at her, but otherwise did not react in any way. After a moment he replied, "I do not know. There is nothing I can do until I discover more about what is going on." He was quiet a moment. "Anything you can tell me would be helpful."

She returned his gaze for long moments, staring into his unrevealing eyes. She could not tell him. How could she talk about what had happened? It wouldn't help, anyway. She knew very little about what had gone on at the laboratory. The pieces of information she had couldn't possibly be any great help. Turning onto her side, she shook her head miserably.

There was silence for several long, awkward seconds. Finally he said flatly, "Very well. Go to sleep."

She heard him turn away from her and leave the room, shutting the door quietly behind him, and she wondered at the faint, brittle undertone in his voice.

*****

Vincent walked down the little hallway and into the dark living room, folding his arms across his chest and turning to gaze out the sliding door that led out onto a tiny balcony. A quiet sigh eased from his chest as his bloody eyes were drawn to the pale, untarnished whiteness of the moon. Virgin whiteness. He leaned wearily against the door frame, letting his dark head rest against the unfeeling wood.

She was afraid of him.

It was nothing unusual, a typical reaction. He was used to being gawked and pointed at when he walked home from work, used to people whispering nervously after he passed them on the street. It was natural, after all, given his... unique... appearance. He snorted bitterly. Unique. That was one way to put it.

He looked down at the 'claw' that was his left hand. The metal gave off a quiet sheen in the light of the moon, reflecting on the glass before him. The prosthetic extended up to his elbow, where it was expertly grafted into his flesh. He absently flexed the golden fingers, his sharp ears picking up the faint whirring of the gears and pistons inside the arm.

So she was afraid of him. Why should it matter?

He sighed again, his breath creating a small cloud of condensation on the cool window. It mattered because he had brought her into his home. Now he had to deal with the stares, the uncertainty, the fear everywhere he went. Retreating to his apartment was no longer an option.

Frowning, he turned away from the window and told himself he did not care.