In Your Eyes I Saw Hell

Chapter 2: Anniversary of Fate

One of these days he wasn't going to get out of bed.

One of these days he was going to say nuts to being dependable, when nobody even cared if he showed up.

Or breathed.

Even though it wasn't going to be this day in particular, though given what today marked it should have been. Feeling almost drugged with resignation, sleep fogged ruby eyes opened and began to focus on the world that loathed him.

Granted he loathed it right back, but that's another story for a different time.

For now, Vincent Valentine reluctantly tossed the blankets towards the end of the bed, and rose with all the grace his stiff and scarred body could muster.

The delivery people had just dropped off his new King sized mattress the day before and he would have rather had a guilty indulgence and lay sprawled out in luxury, instead of rising and heading to the shower.

He couldn't help but allow his thoughts to wander to how he'd come to this situation, as he walked across the hall, dark pajama bottoms riding low on his almost emaciated hips. His gaze strayed back to the bed before forcefully reminding himself that he'd slept a lifetime already and that he had things to do.

Although, the mattress was infinitely easier on his back than the hard ground, and less confining than the coffin, it just felt weird to have room to move around. Not that he did much of that anyway, but it was still going to take some getting used to. There was also the fact that he hadn't had a bed, or any possessions in several decades. Too much change too quickly; it was throwing him off balance. But change, like a large bed was good.

Small luxuries were rare in this age of rebuilding, but he'd decided he deserved a few. And it wasn't like he couldn't afford them either.

When Reeve first took over the remnants of Shinra, Inc. he'd gone though every file from every department. And in his perusal he'd discovered that through some odd quirk by Hojo, Vincent had only been declared MIA. Probably had to do with the amount of paperwork involved when reporting a Turk KIA. He'd filled out too much of it in his tenure.

Turks went MIA quite often, but accounting kept paying until a termination notice came in, or checks didn't get picked up for six months.

The automatic funds transfer that the company had thought to cure the paper trail and save time was now his best friend.

Thirty years of salary, in an interest bearing account, meant he was now a gillionaire.

A lot of good that did him though, he thought as he turned the bathroom light on, casting the room into harsh relief.

Sure, it had helped him purchase a nice, yet empty house in Edge, a comfortable new mattress, and a massaging showerhead, but he still got up for work every morning out of a newly forced habit, and had nothing more to show for it than the dark circles under his eyes and more holes in his dark red cloak. He lived a tired and lonely existence.

Twisting the knobs of the shower, he waited for the water to warm to the right temperature. Untying the string holding his pajamas up, he let the material slide down to pool at his feet. Vincent caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. The blank expression on his face belied the inner turmoil simmering within. Haunted, that was what Yuffie had confided to Tifa, that was how others saw him. Not far from the truth in fact, but still painful to hear.

He hadn't even realized how he'd come to depend on human company until the members of AVALANCHE had gone their separate ways for the second time.

He shouldn't have missed them at all. They never bothered to get to know him; hell they never even bothered to talk to him. He stood within a circle of friends, yet didn't. The only time anyone acknowledged him was if they needed something done, or if he had some idea to impart.

They always listened to his ideas, amazingly enough. Then let Cloud take the credit for them. Vincent had no ego to stroke, no sense of self-importance, so they thought. He supposed that it made it easier to accept that as long as the idea worked he didn't care who got credit for coming up with it.

A self-centered bunch, the lot of them, but he still found himself missing their presence. Even Barret and Yuffie arguing, he'd take it right about now.

The only other outcast of the group had been accepted eventually, leaving Vincent alone on the outside. He couldn't hold it against Reeve though; he'd chosen a rather cutesy alternate form that allowed for easy acceptance. Vincent didn't have that going for him though. Not unless you thought sharp horns, leathery wings, and chainsaws were cute.

He snorted to himself in derision as he stepped into the hot spray of water. He was ugly and unworthy. He'd come to terms with that already.

Reeve, in and out of Cait Sith's body, had made it a point to at least attempt to befriend him. The gesture was accepted with embarrassing speed on his part. It sicked him how fast he'd become attached to Reeve, but as soon as Vincent's usefulness had ended, so had their acquaintance, so he thought.

He still held some affection for the executive, but he knew deep in his heart that the only reason he had been offered a job with his new company was because the old company had screwed him over, they felt sorry for him, and not because of any one particular talent he possessed, or even friendship.

Not that he could really blame Reeve, it was always in one's best interest to know exactly where the monsters were.

And that's exactly what he was. No normal human transformed into demons of destruction. The slashing, tearing claws, gore drenched horns, the awful rev of mechanical death. He had no control of what happened, but that did not mean he didn't know what happened while the others were in control. The visions tormented him with their savagery. Pleas for mercy and screams of the dying echoing in his ears.

The ex-Turk's stomach clenched in spasms of agony as guilt at what he'd done in those forms tore through him, leaving him gasping for air.

The therapist that had first been assigned to him told him he was taking on guilt that didn't belong to him, and that he should put that blame on the shoulders of the old regime in general and Hojo in specific.

He hadn't gone back since that initial visit. Just another lab coat trying to fuck with his head. He knew exactly where the blame lay, and it couldn't be passed on like vegetables at dinner.

While it was technically required that he see a therapist in order to maintain his job, it was never enforced, or even brought up.

Actually, everyone who had survived Meteor and the Bahaumet summon in the city had to receive therapy in order to maintain their jobs.

This measure had only been implemented after a small group of people formed a vigilante party to stamp out anyone tainted by Mako, or who had worked at Shinra.

Eighteen people had died, and a handful more hospitalized before the police had correlated the link between the attacks.

All of the attackers had survived the summoning, but their families hadn't been that fortunate.

That's where his new job fit in. Reeve gave him information, rumors, about uprisings and he went in to ascertain the situation and deal with it in any way necessary to maintain order.

Send the monster to find monsters, if you will.

It was fitting in it's own twisted logic.

The strange self depreciating thoughts continued to assail the dark haired man as he stood under the hot, pounding spray of his massaging showerhead. Neither factor doing anything about the tension straining in his upper back and shoulders.

Angry fists slammed into the tile. The ceramic giving way to powder under the heavy pressure of the metal prosthetic that was his left hand.

A low keening wail issued from deep in his chest.

'I should be dead.' Vincent mourned within his mind. 'I should be rotting along with everyone else, along with her...'

Silent tears tracked down his cheeks to blend with the rest of the water.

Jerking the shower knobs to turn the spray off, he reached out with his flesh hand and grabbed a towel from the nearby rack and dried off. Using a dry end he wrung out his long black hair before dropping the cloth to the floor. He'd pick up after himself later, when he cared. For now, Vincent grabbed a pair of black pants from the bin of clean clothes and turned off the bathroom light. Slowly, the dark haired man padded through the hallways of the house to the kitchen, the passageways still unfamiliar to him. On his way passed the living room he passed a wall calendar with the day marked with a red "X".

He caught the bright color out of the corner of his eye, but walked passed it briskly, he couldn't look at it outright and it's morbid reminder of the anniversary.

Though it isn't everyday you could celebrate the anniversary of your own death.