Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII belong to Square, Tales of Destiny to Namco, Breath of Fire 3 to Capcom, and Suikoden to Konami.
This story is dedicated to Vincent Valentine, and him only. Happy birthday, Vincent, and may you never be forgotten to Final Fantasies to come.
Started: October 12, 1999
Finished: October 13, 1999

Three decades ago, I was twenty-seven.

Three decades later, I am still twenty-seven.

Some would call my predicament immortality. Others would call it the inability to age. And a few would whisper around to hungry gossips that it was the touch of the Planet. The ones that do not know me would consider my agelessness a blessing. Those that do know me, or know better than the rest, would think it a curse.

I know it only as a prison called damnation.

I think of it as pure damnation because it was inflicted upon me during a moment of twisted intent and wish of cruelty and distortion. Of course, in Hojo's case, that "moment" lasted most of his life. There was no remorse in those deep, black eyes of his as he experimented on me and locked me away; he told me himself. Because of his tactless confession, I never sat to listen to his side of the story, and I believe I never shall. He will be long dead before I ever regret the decision I made on that subject years ago, while rotting -- slumbering -- in my coffin.

Forevermore, I will be twenty-seven.

In reality, I am far older than that; people such as Hojo and President Shinra would know my true age, as they both were younger back when I was younger than the age I am condemned to be. I should be old enough to be Sephiroth's father, but through Hojo's act of cruelty, I am now younger than the silver-haired SOLDIER-turned-maniac. It pains me to think of Sephiroth, Lucrecia's only child, growing up and dying out far before a wrinkle ever graces my brow.

When thoughts such as that enter my mind, I remind myself that Sephiroth will not grow older, either. None of us -- AVALANCHE or Shinra -- will; we are portrayed as forever young by all those that have beheld us or will ever behold us. We are a Final Fantasy. We will never die.

Today I turn twenty-seven for the fourth time.

My first twenty-seventh birthday -- before Hojo -- was spent in Sector 2 of Midgar on a Turk assignment. President Shinra had no heart for those that were to celebrate their birthdays, even if they were of the elite. The only person to wish me happy birthday on that day was the rookie Turk, Tseng. (I never forgot that, by the way.) On my birthday, I was ordered to kill a family. The man of the house was a worker for Shinra. He had delved into files he shouldn't have, and now he had to be disposed of. With a master's precision I eliminated him, his wife, and two children.

My birthday was spent bathing in their blood.

My second twenty-seventh birthday was spent awakening from the nightmare Hojo had trapped him in. Perhaps it was a strange twist of fate that Cloud Strife awoke me on the day that represented my birth. Maybe that was all it was . . . but I cannot dispel that thought that Hojo had arranged it that way. It was the day of my rebirth.

As a monster.

My eyes are permanently blood red, glowing and flashing whenever my temper is even slightly displaced. My veins permanently flow with the blood of monsters -- the dangerous Galian Best, the huge Death Gigas, the insane Hellmasker, and the incarnate of all things destructive . . . Chaos. They live within me, tearing my humanity to pieces as I war with them every moment of my existence.

The third twenty-seventh birthday of mine was a bit . . . strange. It was actually a nice change of pace compared to my other two birthdays, but it was odd nonetheless. On October 13, 1998, I found myself bombarded by female fans, all of whom had stamina like no one I had ever met. They chased me from Costa Del Sol to the Northern Crater, if I remember correctly. Perhaps it was Midgar to Junon . . . I can't remember exactly. I came away missing my headband, cape, my Lariat, and with several holes in my bodysuit.

Strange behaviors those female fans have.

He sighed and stared up at the sky. For the fourth time he had celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday. The staff of The Edge of Sanity had thrown him a quiet party at his request, lacking serious decorations; he had always felt a little awkward surrounded by paper streamers and balloons. Gifts from his co-workers included books of literature and the sciences, things that Vincent enjoyed immensely. Tseng, Rufus, and Rude had supplied those.

Reno had given him a pair of shades and a jar of polish, which earned him a smack upside the head from Elena. Elena's own gift consisted of a white moogle (not Mog) with a dark red bow around its neck holding a heart reading "To Vincent on his 27th birthday." She openly admitted she had no idea what he would have liked, and he had replied that the gift was wonderful. Nash, Teepo, Peco, and Leon had pooled their foreign moneys and bought gifts from their own worlds; from Lunar, magical bandanas that Nash had pointed out, from Breath of Fire 3, chrysm ore and "other glowing magical things," as Teepo had called them, and from Tales of Destiny, a pile of books that Leon had called Sacred Texts. (When Reno commented they looked like scribbles, it was Rufus' turn to smack him in the head.)

Flik and Gremio had brought along Jeane from their world to embed a Shrike Rune in Vincent's hand for their present. They had both explained that it would enhance his abilities in different ways that they couldn't exactly explain themselves. Sephiroth didn't give a gift. Vincent hadn't been surprised by that; the silver-haired ex-SOLDIER had seemed to be under stress the whole day and probably had forgotten all about his birthday. He didn't worry about that.

Athena's gift was a mysterious one: she directed him to Nibelheim, where she advised him to stay until sunset. When he had asked why, she had smiled like the mischievous teenager she was and disappeared back to the cyber reality. Shrugging, Vincent had spent the entire day remembering by entering the Shinra Mansion and exploring the rooms he already knew by heart.

He sat on the well in the center of town now, and the sky was splotched with the colors of purple, red, blue, pink, and orange. Sunset. Sitting up, Vincent looked around the town. Nothing had changed. Why had Athena asked him to stay until sunset?

It was then that he noticed a familiar man walk into the town, garbed in familiar black clothing. Sephiroth raised his Mako-infused gaze to him, locking eyes with him for a brief moment. Then, he turned and walked back out of town. Confused and curious, Vincent followed.

The ex-Turk had just reached the entrance of Nibelheim when hands appeared from behind him and enclosed his eyes, leaving him in darkness. He tensed and stopped, trying to figure out who the "attacker" was. The hands were smaller and softer, but not as soft as Aeris' innocent touch. Vincent raised his right hand up and held one of the hands.

"Happy birthday, Vincent."

The voice was unmistakable. He broke from the hold and looked the speaker in the eye, his own eyes wide with shock and amazement. His beloved smiled gently back at him, garbed in white robes and green eyes gleaming with happiness.

"Lucrecia. . ."

Lucrecia's eyes watered as the name passed his lips, and she neared him. Vincent's arms enclosed her, holding her closer as he buried his face in her brown hair. Lucrecia. . . How is it possible? You're dead. . . Vincent looked up and past Lucrecia, seeing a smiling silver-haired man a few feet away. He knew immediately what had happened. A smile cracked his face, and the silver-haired man approached. Vincent welcomed him, wrapping his arms around both him and Lucrecia. This was what all his atoning had given him. A beautiful moment he would never forget for twenty-seventh birthdays to come.

"Thank you, Sephiroth. . . Thank you so very much. . ."

And Sephiroth continued to stay under his embrace even as the sun dipped from sight and the stars began burning in the evening sky.