This is another fic I'm moving over from DevArt... mmmm, old fiction *cringes* Keeps the monthly post count up when I'm doing too much overtime (read; being lazy) though :P
The germ of this epic adventure began with a few pictures by the wonderful Wyna Hiros, and most of the chapters will have been partly inspired by one or two of her pics (and the odd one from another artist that I can no longer find).
This story is set in the years after the Meteor incident, the end of the game and just sort of fills in a bunch of gaps, with lashings of angst. It's as close to canon as I can make it; FFVII is very subtle, it allows everyone to interpret it differently, making canon difficult!
Inspirations for this chapter: One Last Bullet
Oh, yeah; some parts in later chapters may seem like they're leading to some yaoi slashing. They don't. It's all good clean bromance.
Rain beat down on his dark hair, running into his crimson eyes and blurring his vision. Growls echoed around him, mingling with the cracks of thunder and the booming crashes of Meteor’s approach. How many enemies could be left? He had gone on ahead after the defeat of Sephiroth to help with the evacuation of Midgar. It had proven more troublesome than fighting the deranged son of the Calamity; monsters, attracted by the death and destruction, had crowded into the city.
Vincent was exhausted; fighting Sephiroth had taken much out of him and used most of his ammo. His magic was now gone, his materia useless.Yuffie, who had joined him in the evacuation, was no where to be seen. Neither were any of the Turks, including Reeve. He was alone in this battle, alone once again.
He had destroyed many of the beasts that had invaded the city, the survivors were wary of him. They huddled together, screeching and yapping as if goading each other into taking him on. Any other time he would have felt no fear at this. Any other time he would have destroyed each and everyone without hesitation. Not now; he had a single bullet, no magic, pain wracked his wearied body.
One last bullet, at least eleven demonic beasts.
His left hand clenched, metal grinding against metal. He knew he could defeat them all with ease, these monsters forged in the sickening glow of the Mako reactors. All he had to do was lose control; let the beast take over and allow Chaos to rule his actions.
“Not yet,” he murmured as thunder rolled through the charged skies. Chaos was his final recourse. While he still had other ways of evading defeat he would hold on to what little sanity he could and keep back the monster within his body.
A brown, gelatinous beast with a gaping mouth of deformed teeth and rotting flesh began to lurch towards him. A pack of small wolf-like creatures barked at each other as they ran around its hulking mass, attempting to leap at Vincent but always pulling back behind the giant brute. As the brown beast threw itself at him Vincent raised his gloved arm and the beasts jaws caught it, threatening to crush through the armour.
He pushed the Death Penalty into the mouth below his arm, breaking through the vicious teeth, and pulled the trigger. Putrid blood flew into his face. The beast relinquished its grip and breathed its last, crashing to the sodden ground. Vincent stumbled backwards from the corpse, still holding the gun up, hoping his enemies would continue to be wary of it. The metallic wolves skipped and barked over the fallen body, digging their mouths into the still warm flesh, devouring the foul meat.
He knew the time had come, the final moment was upon him; he would have to call on the darkness within, on his old sins. His eyes fell closed, the Death Penalty still raised, and he waited. As soon as one of the beast touched him he would transform, but not until then… he would put it off for as long as they would leave him alone.
Lightning erupted, blue flashing before his eyelids. A roar came with it and teeth clenched around his right, un-gloved arm. Pain sliced up the limb and into his chest, his fingers reflexively dropping the Death Penalty. He did not hear it touch the ground, he heard nothing of the barking, of the thunder, of the rumbling of feet around him. Vincent Valentine dropped to the ground, knowing only pain. Physical suffering burst across his body as teeth and claws pulled at his flesh, deafening and blinding all other senses.
He remembered pain like this; a long time ago, a distant half forgotten memory surfaced. A cold steel table beneath his naked body. Knives… small, infinitely sharp blades that sliced through his flesh like butter in a thousand places. Needles that penetrated his limbs, his heart, his mind. Strangely coloured liquids that warped and twisted him, breaking him into pieces only to put him back together again… wrong.
None of it was to prepare him for the agony of Chaos. The beast that had been driven into his body, forced to lay dormant until it was needed. Its voice whispered to him in his dreams, his nightmares. It had pushed itself into the forefront of his mind, taken control of his body and then his form. He lost all power and gave his body to it. He put up no fight, he surrendered, allowed it to kill and destroy with his own hands. He had felt the black emptiness, the swirling void of its morality.
And now he released it, let it use him to survive this battle; losing another part of himself to it. Bones cracked, skin was torn to shreds as the demonic spirit took over and remoulded his body to its own devilish guise. It pushed him away, sealed him up in his own mind; to see, to hear, to feel but to have no power over his actions. He felt the warm black blood of the beasts on his hands… his claws. He heard bones break and the yowls of pain from the silvery-blue canines. He saw the bodies littering the ground.
Enough… Chaos had reigned and now he needed to retake his body. He tried to force himself out, push the spirit back into the recesses of his mind and soul. It was frenzied, it wanted more blood.
No! He felt himself lift from the ground, wings beating in the pouring rain. He was turning towards the city, towards the survivors.
He screamed a silent protest, anger surging; it only fed the beast’s blood lust further. He had to fight this, had to stop. He pushed again, gathered up every piece of strength he had left in his soul and forced his limbs to obey him. His wings faltered, he was falling, his body returning to its truer state. He hit the rubble-littered ground with a crack; weak and hurt.
“No more,” he sighed softly, eyes falling closed. As he began to fall asleep, in the cold and wet, he felt more than heard the urging of Chaos. It was perfectly happy to be inside him, be a part of his polluted soul.
Angsty, angsty, angst, angst. What? This IS Vincent Valentine we're talking about...