• continued from part 1a (http://www.gaiaonline.com/arena/writing/fiction/vote/?entry_id=101036385#title)

    * * *

    A blood-curdling scream cut through the night air. Quick, light footsteps echoed down the near-vacant streets, followed closely by the ominous thundering of some unnatural creature. Vincent, who had just gotten off from work and was walking home, stopped cold at the noise. Midgar was usually so quiet in the evenings . . .

    “Help!” she screamed, genuinely afraid. That beast had always hated her in the lab, and had mauled her twice already when it had escaped from its cage. She kept regenerating, and it kept tearing at her . . .

    It was a beast bred to be perpetually angry. The head most closely resembled that of a javelina, and it had a sharp horn protruding from the space between its eyes. The short, stumpy, round body and legs appeared almost crocodilian – except for the fact that the beast was covered with a coat of thick, wiry hair. The end of its long tail was covered in sharp, bony spikes. In spite of its bulky stature, the beast was quite fast.

    The shrieks of the beast mingled with the girl’s screams. It was chasing her straight into a cul-de-sac. She tried to quicken her pace, but she was already running as fast as she could. Her thoughts flashed back to the conversation with Nero only a moment ago . . .

    “Why did you have to pick the croiler, Nero? You know that thing hates me.”

    Nero only laughed. He was going to enjoy himself on this one. “The Professor was already looking for a way to get rid of it. It was the only creature I could acquire on such short notice without any questions asked. Besides, your screams will be all the more genuine.”

    “And what if Valentine doesn’t take the bait?”

    “He’s a nice guy; he can’t help it. Even if he doesn’t come, maybe the croiler will go hunt down Valentine after it’s had its way with you, my dear,” Nero chuckled.

    Mordea trembled as she ran from the beast. How did I ever let him talk me into this?

    The dead-end came sooner than she had hoped. She led the creature along the right wall. Then she suddenly darted to the left and tried to run in a half-circle, hoping to flank the beast and get a chance to run back out of the cul-de-sac. Instead, she nearly met the monster’s teeth. She screamed again. The beast was too quick. It snapped at her feet as she scrambled backwards along the right wall of the cul-de-sac. Her back hit another wall. She was all too aware of the un-giving brick walls around her, but nonetheless tried to press herself into the corner as far as possible, wishing to disappear. The croiler clawed the ground and snorted, then widened its jaws and lunged at her. Oh crap, she thought, not again. Unable to scream, she covered her face, awaiting the mauling.

    Instead, several gunshots rang out. The croiler’s ear-splitting howl cut through the air. The beast turned and snarled at its attacker. It did not like to be interrupted. Without further hesitation, it turned and charged at Valentine.

    He darted across the alleyway, firing at the creature as he ran. The shots only seemed to make the beast more angry. Valentine leapt onto a nearby dumpster – but he had underestimated the creature’s agility. It followed him right up onto the dumpster, snarling as it jumped. The monster’s weight broke the dumpster lid, dropping them both on a small – but still very smelly – pile of trash. Unnerved by how close the creature was, he punched it smartly on the snout with his brass-colored claw. He jumped out and fired several more rounds at the croiler while it stood there snorting and shaking its head.

    The croiler shrieked in pain at the bullets and tore through the side of the dumpster, not even pausing before charging straight at Vincent.

    Deadly Cerberus glistened in the moonlight. Fiery red eyes met the liquid black reptilian ones. A final shot rang out. The croiler’s horn shattered into a thousand pieces as the last bullet tore through the space directly between its eyes. The monster stumbled. Vincent jumped out of the way less than a second before its hulk slid into the wall behind where he had been standing. The brick wall groaned and nearly collapsed with the impact.

    Vincent still kept Cerberus aimed at the monster’s body, waiting to make sure it was really over.

    Soft whimpering from the corner of the cul-de-sac caught Vincent’s attention. He lowered his weapon and looked over at her. She looked like a pile of dirty, wet clothes stuffed in the corner. Glancing once more at the un-breathing monster, he holstered Cerberus and walked over to her. She was shivering.

    Vincent knelt beside the dilapidated little heap. “What is your name?”

    “Rozu,” she replied. Nero had given her an alternate name, along with some advice on how to play the “damsel in distress.” Part of Mordea’s unsettled appearance was her acting, but a greater part was caused by her guilt over what she was preparing to do.

    “Are you hurt?”

    “No.”

    “It’s not good to be outdoors at this time of night. Where do you live?”

    “I don’t live.”

    Vincent waited, not understanding her answer.

    “Um . . . I, uh, don’t live anywhere,” she finally said, catching her error.

    Vincent looked her over. She certainly appeared homeless, with her wet, muddy clothes. Tangled hair half-covered her dirty face. As he looked at her, there was a strange sense of familiarity shifting about in the back of his mind. He helped her to her feet and began marching out of the alleyway. Part of him feared the beast would re-awaken. There was something about the monster’s appearance that reminded him of the work of someone else, in his past . . .

    Vincent paused and turned slightly. Mordea stood several paces behind him. “Come,” he said, “the sooner we leave this place, the better.”

    She quickened her pace to follow him, but she still hung a few paces back. He was, after all, a target – someone the Professor wanted dead. Somehow she was afraid he’d hear her thoughts or suspect her true purpose.

    He was not at all what she thought he’d be like. He was dressed differently than he had been in the picture, and his hair was much longer – yet he had not aged one bit. He had a slight frame, but was much taller than she’d expected. His mode of dress was decidedly more ominous than the tidy suit he donned for the photograph. In place of the suit, he wore a black shirt and pants covered by a tattered dark reddish-brown (almost black) trenchcoat, with black military boots. A dark red band of cloth kept his long, thick, unruly black hair away from his face. His hair was very wild, like Nero’s; the difference was that Nero’s hair was always stiff and brittle so that it never grew very long. Mordea wondered how many long years must have passed since the taking of that picture for Vincent Valentine’s hair to grow so long. The eyes caught her attention the most – two tiny pools of blood set on fire . . . or perhaps more like two ruby-red embers; she couldn’t decide which. Nero had red eyes, but they weren’t like Vincent’s. Nero’s had those shadows behind them, like the red was just a translucent cap over deep nothingness. Vincent’s eyes were far more vibrant. They burned with an angry fire.

    Mordea’s thoughts returned to Vincent’s fight with the monster. On one hand, she had been wishing that the croiler would win and do the job she was so terrified – no, horrified – to do. At the same time she was very glad that Vincent won. That infernal monster was long overdue for a whipping. Of all the creatures created in the Professor’s lab, the croiler was by far the most disagreeable.

    The clouds, now covering the moon, rumbled with warnings of more showers. Seconds after the warning, rain began to fall. Vincent stopped and glanced at the sky, then held out his hand to Mordea. Timidly stepping forward, she took the hand. He then took off his trenchcoat and put it around her. Surprised at first, she pulled away slightly. Vincent didn’t move; didn’t try to reel her in. He just stood motionless, waiting. Remembering her role, Mordea stepped closer. She was so short that the trenchcoat dragged on the ground. It was warm, dry, and smelled strongly of very old leather, gunpowder, and grease. Every few steps she’d catch a whiff of that dumpster smell . . .

    He walked a half-step ahead of her. Mordea had never walked so close to any human or humanoid, save Nero. Many years ago, she and Nero had sat just outside the lab one night, talking. She’d leaned her head on his shoulder as she asked him questions about the world. With Nero, there was always a sort of cold, musty stillness around him. It was a sort of deadness, which she imagined others must sense when they got close to her, but Nero’s deadness seemed very strong, almost smothering.

    Vincent was very different – warm, and more . . . dynamic. He made steady, soft hissing sounds as he pulled air in and out of his lungs . . . Ah, the living. The living move air in and out of their bodies. It’s what keeps them alive.

    And soon he would be dead, no longer wringing the air. This remembrance of her true purpose made her feel ill.

    “Where are we going?” she asked, voice quavering.

    “For tonight, you may take shelter at my apartment,” he said. “After that . . . we’ll try to find some way to get you back on your feet. My friends may be able to help you.”

    Vincent surprised himself. Since when did he take homeless people off of the streets and offer to help them start a new life?

    But what other choice was there? It just didn’t seem right to say “I hope all goes well for you; stay safe” and leave the poor girl standing there alone, on a cold rainy night.

    And what would he do with her if she were there for more than one night? The tiny apartment had one bedroom. He could sleep on the couch for now, but if the girl could not find a way to sustain herself relatively soon, things would be very cramped. It would be improper for her to stay long at his apartment anyway.

    He could ask Cloud and Tifa to help. But did they have the space, time, or resources to help this girl anymore than he did? It had been a long time since he’d seen them. They were such kind people that they would not hesitate to do all they could – but would they any better off (financially) than him now?

    Regardless, he had to help her somehow. He’d been homeless once, and it had not ended well. Being desperate for a meal will make you do horrible things for horrible people.

    A tiny set of fingers shook him from his thoughts. Mordea had quietly grasped the hand that was leading her. It reminded him so much of–

    They had reached the apartment.

    Vincent handed her some clothes and told her to take a shower. The clothes would be too large – she was a good eight inches shorter than him – but they were still better than those filthy wet ones.

    Meanwhile, Vincent began to boil some water, then dumped in a couple packages of ramen noodles along with their respective spice packets. While it was cooking, he wracked his brain for something else to fix. Even before his 30-year isolation, he had only cooked for himself. Ramen noodles constituted a meal for him, but what did other people eat these days?

    He looked in the refrigerator. There wasn’t much, so he tried the freezer. There was only one frozen hot dog left. However, there were plenty of fish sticks. Unable to think of anything else, Vincent set some on a tray and stuck them in the oven.

    Mordea enjoyed the shower. The streets had a good deal more dirt in them than the lab did; she and Nero had always worked hard to keep their area of the lab tidy. She couldn’t remember feeling so dirty before. After stepping out of the shower, she wiped the steam off of the mirror and looked at her own face, staring quietly. There weren’t many mirrors in the lab.

    Perhaps the scarcity of mirrors was for the best. The deadness in her own eyes almost frightened her. It was like looking at something . . . something that had somehow wronged the laws of the universe . . .

    Why should she be so afraid of herself? She had always looked this way. She was created this way. She ran her fingers along the reflection. Those fingers were supposed to be covered in blood soon. She tore herself away from the mirror and turned her back on it, praying that the steam might cover it again so she wouldn’t have to risk seeing herself anymore.

    Mirrors make you look at yourself.

    I don’t want to see me.

    Keeping her back to the mirror, Mordea dressed as quickly as she could. The clothes were much too big for her. Thankfully, the fabric was stiff enough for her to roll up the sleeves and pant-legs. The pants had a drawstring, which she pulled as tight as she could in order to keep them from falling down.

    Not knowing what to do with her dirty clothes, she pushed them in a corner next to the shower. She was about to walk out of the bathroom when she remembered the book the girl had given her. Mordea dug through the pile of clothes to retrieve it. It was wet, but the ink hadn’t run; it was still quite readable. She stuffed it in one of the side pockets in the large pants and walked out into the hallway.

    Feeling shy, she walked into the small kitchen where Vincent stood. She hadn’t the slightest clue what to do next. Remembering her true mission, she looked at the butcher knives setting in a wooden holder on the counter. No. I can’t. Not yet. I’m not ready.

    Vincent hurriedly put some ramen noodles on a plate, next to the fish sticks. Then he turned and set them on the small table. He glanced up at Mordea. Then he stopped and stared. Vincent studied her for a moment. In the alleyway, her face had been obscured by her hair and the shadows of night. He hadn’t noticed until now how much she looked like Lucretia – the same delicate features and small stature, the same tiny nose and china-doll lips . . . the same long, thick brown hair, just like it had been thirty years ago. Her eyes looked very much like Lucretia’s, but were somehow different . . . they were very cold and broken. The color was different; they looked like two bright discs of icy-cold silver. And her face looked more like carved alabaster than living flesh.

    It couldn’t be. Lucretia had been permanently sealed in mako crystals at the cave, before it collapsed – either sealing her away from all eyes or killing her; probably the latter. But the resemblance was unnerving.

    Mordea didn’t really notice him staring; her focus was on the food. Because of her undead state, she could not eat. Her digestive system had ceased to function. She depended on the nutrient chamber for her sustenance. However, she didn’t want to blow her cover, and normal people were supposed to eat – especially homeless people who didn’t often get to have hot meals. She began to sit down at the table.

    Vincent shook himself from the barrage of thoughts. “I know it’s not much, but it’s . . . food.” He could’ve kicked himself for that last line. Of course it was food.

    He never had guests, so the table only had one chair. Vincent dragged another chair from his work bench over to the table so he could sit down. He began eating, and tried not to stare at her.

    The meal was a very quiet one.

    * * *

    He offered to let her sleep in his bed while he slept on the couch. She complied, but since she had no need for sleep, she was soon staring out the bedroom window at the moonlight.

    Mordea wanted to leave – just go somewhere far away from the lab and never come back. But that couldn’t ever happen with the Professor’s tracking device embedded somewhere within her.

    And what of the mission? Her “target” ought to be at least relaxing by now. That was what she’d been told to wait for. She was anxious to get this over with.

    Mordea crept quietly into the kitchen where she’d seen the knives. As she reached for the handle of the largest one, she began to shake uncontrollably. She wanted to run. Hesitating, her hand hovered over the knife handle, unable to grab it. Flashbacks of the punishments the Professor had dealt her fired through her mind, reminding her why she was doing this. It was her only choice. She grasped the knife handle and crept toward the doorway to the living room.

    She peeked carefully through the doorway. Vincent was sitting on the couch, reading a book by the dim candlelight. His back was toward her.

    Hands sweating, she began to creep towards him. She made no sound. The floor was simply padding and carpet covering cement, so there was no chance of squeaky floorboards. Mordea didn’t even need to breathe. She was the perfect weapon.

    Mordea stood about three feet away from Vincent, knife held ready. Vincent was thoroughly absorbed in his “book,” which – unbeknownst to Mordea – was actually one of the lab notebooks he’d managed to recover on the Jenova project. He didn’t even have the gun sitting next to him on the couch. It was all the way across the room, hanging in its holster on a hook next to his coat. He’d never reach it in time if she stabbed him now.

    Quivering and nauseous with guilt and fear, Mordea could not make herself go any further. She just stood there. She could see his carotid artery from this distance. She knew exactly what to do with the knife. She’d been trained to use the knife in the most efficient way – a quick and painless execution-style cut. It would take only a fraction of a second . . . Just hurry up and do as you’re told, Mordea . . .

    But she couldn’t. It just wasn’t a very nice thing to do, sneaking up behind someone and cutting their throat – especially since he was trying to help her. When it came right down to it – help or no help – it was murder.

    But I have orders to . . . assassinate this subject . . .

    “Assassinate” is just a fancy word for murder.

    But the Professor has ordered his execution . . .

    It wasn’t that either. Execution is what happens to murderers who have been convicted after a fair and public trial.

    But the Professor . . . I was ordered to . . .

    She had no reason to kill him. The Professor’s orders or the threat of punishment were still not reason enough to kill an innocent human being. Vincent wasn’t trying to harm or kill her. He was sitting on the couch reading a book. She couldn’t do it.

    Sooner or later he’s going to shift about and notice me standing here, she thought. Unable to finish the job and afraid of being discovered, she retreated silently back to the kitchen and put the knife away. Then she scampered back to the bedroom. She could hear the Professor’s voice inside her head – the words he had spoken the last time he’d punished her. The room seemed to close in around her. She wanted to scream. Searching for escape, she opened the bedroom window and jumped out.

    She didn’t get very far down the alleyway before falling forward on her hands and knees, still shaking. She vomited her undigested dinner, then continued to retch and quiver. The fit seemed to go on forever. When it finally stopped, she curled up in the middle of the alley, still shaking. She had come so close . . . coward.

    Yet, Mordea hated that she had come as close as she did to such an awful thing. She hated the idea of taking an innocent life.

    And she had failed! The failure seemed to only make it worse. It was almost like committing the act over and over, as she rehearsed the act in her mind and then had tried – but failed – to do it.

    Searching for distraction, Mordea noticed the book she had put in her pocket. She took it out and tried to read it. Her hands were still shaking, so she set it down on the ground and leaned over it. She began flipping mindlessly through the pages.

    She stopped as one phrase caught her eye – the last thing she wanted to read about at that moment. “Do not murder.” It did not say, “do not kill.” It specifically said “do not murder.” A potent distinction. Murder, as in a premeditated and unnecessary act. Not self-defense, not defense of one’s country or friends and family. Not a public punishment for hideous crimes. It was an act of vengeance or . . . assassination . . . something malevolent, done in secret, often for personal gain . . .

    Her thoughts were interrupted by footsteps. Someone was running down the alleyway, in her direction. “Rozu!” a voice called out. It was Vincent’s.

    Mordea just now realized that she had stopped shaking at some point. She grabbed the book and tried to stand up, but stumbled. Vincent caught her.

    “What are you doing out here?” he asked. “What happened?” He was breathing heavily from running, and the night air was so cold that a mist appeared near his mouth each time he exhaled. Not only did he breathe, but his body was able to warm the air during the short amount of time it was in his lungs. The living never ceased to amaze Mordea.

    She avoided his gaze and pulled away from him, heading back towards his apartment. Then she paused. “I’m sorry,” she said. Then she kept walking. Vincent walked with her the rest of the way back.

    Feeling guilty, she insisted that he take the bedroom while she slept on the couch. He shook his head. “You need it more than I do,” he said, and sent her back to the room with a glass of water and a clean shirt to change into. He later looked in on her a couple of times in the night, but she never moved. Mordea spent the night curled up on top of the covers, staring at the wall.

    Eventually she heard some rustling noises in the living room, and Vincent checked on her once more – whilst grabbing a fresh set of clothing. Then he left for work.

    * * *
    I don't log in here much, but my friend xxblack jelloxx does. Please send all comments to her and she'll tell me about them when I see her biggrin



    continued in part 1c:
    http://www.gaiaonline.com/arena/writing/fiction/vote/?entry_id=101043563#title