Incomplete.
Who: Hojo (agrise), Vincent (tremefy).
What: Vincent got his ass thoroughly handed to him by Sephiroth - and stupidly told people his location publically. A good samaritan goes to pick him up.
Where: Near the fountain.
When: M-more recently than the meeting with the native. After Vincent got beaten up by Feffiroff.
It'd been such a long time, hadn't it? So long since the bullet that had fired from his gun, bored down through skin and flesh and brittle bone and deep into Vincent's body. Not the most precise implement, and a shame to damage the core material in such a way; just as well he'd survived to see some usefulness, to be spread out across a table and connected to wires, breathing soft, steady, so still in the half light as Hojo had gone about his work. That, perhaps, was one of the clearest memories from those days; watching him as his chest rose and fell shallowly, face slack. The face she'd loved. A face he'd loathed, and how strange of him to feel hate. How irrational it was, looking back, reminiscing.
That, and the look on his face when the gun went off, the immediate shock, the slow, slow furrow of his brow as the pain sunk in and he realised - and Hojo had smiled then - that he couldn't breathe from it. The horror as he tasted blood and his knees went weak and he slumped, then dropped, a heavy weight right at Hojo's feet. Hojo knew all those faces so well. Not so different from any other process his specimens had endured, if somewhat more immediate, if more comprehending of his fate than most. All carefully noted, settled in the back of Hojo's mind with a grim sort of satisfaction he had rarely found since.
He'd begun as a minor interference. Hojo had known he wouldn't stay that way - and waiting, watching him, studying his movements, how well it had paid off in the end. Another fine folder of his work to boast amongst a shelves built on the principle of genius. Add - of course, because it was most important at the time - the pleasure of finally getting his hands on a Turk. Quite the challenge with Veld's more overprotective nature, his resistance to the experiments and the eerie glow of the lab and his revulsion at the thought of subjecting his rookies to it. Such a waste of good matter. Such a waste of well-trained bodies who would no doubt respond positively.
Well. No surprise. They'd never had the best relationship, and Veld had never thanked him for that synthetic hand of his.
It was difficult to conceive of. All that time, all those years between then and now that he had spent working on his projects, studying, dealing with the increasing pile of bodies from failed efforts with the SOLDIERs and the Wutai war, finding vats to put the mutants in, cover-ups, interviews, all the while staring up into that serene, blue-white face, all the while watching and waiting and wanting. Wanting what? Raising Sephiroth where necessary, studying him, seeing him grow into the demonically powered creature he was born to be. Jenova seizing control, Shinra toppling, his untimely death.
All of it.
All of it hadn't even happened for the man he was going to meet, and the gunshot that was a vague dream, a handful of snapshots of specific moments, they were all fresh nightmares for Valentine. And strange that it was easier to think of him in that fashion, in the Turk uniform with the short hair sweeping heavy across emotional eyes than with the crimson cape, the claw and the dark fall of hair, the shadowed, pale skin, a cold death threat curling his mouth.
Ah, but then. When they'd met again, he spent most of his time staring down the barrel of his gun.
Hojo's coat flared, billowed against the wind tunnel just before the opening to the fountain, and he paused. He could smell blood already; a scent that was, naturally, quite familiar to him, and still strong to his senses, easily detected. It must have been quite fresh. He followed it, walked around the curve of the large fountain in the center until the smell came stronger, stronger, and he stopped at the sight of a familiar uniform. Crumpled, stained dark in great patches and shredded, but he could see the dirtied fingers curl in the gravel beneath him, and he could see the muscles in his legs tremble, and saw the way his chest expanded, contracted with every struggling breath. Heard it, stuttering in and out of his lungs, desperate. Afraid, perhaps.
The blood had smeared beneath him from his efforts to crawl away, knowing Hojo was coming.
He waited. Watched. Let him simply be aware of his presence, for a time; coming up behind, Vincent probably couldn't get a clear sight, but he certainly had to be aware. And finally, he walked closer. Slower. A gentler pace, languishing in the moment, anticipating. His own heart pounded. Palms sweaty. It had been so very, very long.
"Vincent Valentine."
He crouched near to him, his eyes clinical behind the shield of his glasses.
"Such an interesting turn of events. I hardly expected to be seeing you again in these particular circumstances. Still, the surprise isn't an unpleasant one."
He dragged his eyes across him again, deliberately slow.
"You've seen better days."
What: Vincent got his ass thoroughly handed to him by Sephiroth - and stupidly told people his location publically. A good samaritan goes to pick him up.
Where: Near the fountain.
When: M-more recently than the meeting with the native. After Vincent got beaten up by Feffiroff.
It'd been such a long time, hadn't it? So long since the bullet that had fired from his gun, bored down through skin and flesh and brittle bone and deep into Vincent's body. Not the most precise implement, and a shame to damage the core material in such a way; just as well he'd survived to see some usefulness, to be spread out across a table and connected to wires, breathing soft, steady, so still in the half light as Hojo had gone about his work. That, perhaps, was one of the clearest memories from those days; watching him as his chest rose and fell shallowly, face slack. The face she'd loved. A face he'd loathed, and how strange of him to feel hate. How irrational it was, looking back, reminiscing.
That, and the look on his face when the gun went off, the immediate shock, the slow, slow furrow of his brow as the pain sunk in and he realised - and Hojo had smiled then - that he couldn't breathe from it. The horror as he tasted blood and his knees went weak and he slumped, then dropped, a heavy weight right at Hojo's feet. Hojo knew all those faces so well. Not so different from any other process his specimens had endured, if somewhat more immediate, if more comprehending of his fate than most. All carefully noted, settled in the back of Hojo's mind with a grim sort of satisfaction he had rarely found since.
He'd begun as a minor interference. Hojo had known he wouldn't stay that way - and waiting, watching him, studying his movements, how well it had paid off in the end. Another fine folder of his work to boast amongst a shelves built on the principle of genius. Add - of course, because it was most important at the time - the pleasure of finally getting his hands on a Turk. Quite the challenge with Veld's more overprotective nature, his resistance to the experiments and the eerie glow of the lab and his revulsion at the thought of subjecting his rookies to it. Such a waste of good matter. Such a waste of well-trained bodies who would no doubt respond positively.
Well. No surprise. They'd never had the best relationship, and Veld had never thanked him for that synthetic hand of his.
It was difficult to conceive of. All that time, all those years between then and now that he had spent working on his projects, studying, dealing with the increasing pile of bodies from failed efforts with the SOLDIERs and the Wutai war, finding vats to put the mutants in, cover-ups, interviews, all the while staring up into that serene, blue-white face, all the while watching and waiting and wanting. Wanting what? Raising Sephiroth where necessary, studying him, seeing him grow into the demonically powered creature he was born to be. Jenova seizing control, Shinra toppling, his untimely death.
All of it.
All of it hadn't even happened for the man he was going to meet, and the gunshot that was a vague dream, a handful of snapshots of specific moments, they were all fresh nightmares for Valentine. And strange that it was easier to think of him in that fashion, in the Turk uniform with the short hair sweeping heavy across emotional eyes than with the crimson cape, the claw and the dark fall of hair, the shadowed, pale skin, a cold death threat curling his mouth.
Ah, but then. When they'd met again, he spent most of his time staring down the barrel of his gun.
Hojo's coat flared, billowed against the wind tunnel just before the opening to the fountain, and he paused. He could smell blood already; a scent that was, naturally, quite familiar to him, and still strong to his senses, easily detected. It must have been quite fresh. He followed it, walked around the curve of the large fountain in the center until the smell came stronger, stronger, and he stopped at the sight of a familiar uniform. Crumpled, stained dark in great patches and shredded, but he could see the dirtied fingers curl in the gravel beneath him, and he could see the muscles in his legs tremble, and saw the way his chest expanded, contracted with every struggling breath. Heard it, stuttering in and out of his lungs, desperate. Afraid, perhaps.
The blood had smeared beneath him from his efforts to crawl away, knowing Hojo was coming.
He waited. Watched. Let him simply be aware of his presence, for a time; coming up behind, Vincent probably couldn't get a clear sight, but he certainly had to be aware. And finally, he walked closer. Slower. A gentler pace, languishing in the moment, anticipating. His own heart pounded. Palms sweaty. It had been so very, very long.
"Vincent Valentine."
He crouched near to him, his eyes clinical behind the shield of his glasses.
"Such an interesting turn of events. I hardly expected to be seeing you again in these particular circumstances. Still, the surprise isn't an unpleasant one."
He dragged his eyes across him again, deliberately slow.
"You've seen better days."