Turning
Vincent walked swiftly through the streets of Midgar, as he had taken to doing in the month since he and his friends had destroyed Sephiroth, and, consequently, Meteor. He made no sound, other than the occasional rustle of his cloak or the scrape of his boots against the ground. This section of the upper plate had been hit hardest, and renovation work stopped in the early afternoon to avoid the evening August heat. The streets, with the storefronts with their names smeared into oblivion and the crumbling houses that once contained memories and lives, were completely deserted.
Vincent was lost in distant memories of his past. He tried to remember his early days with the Turks, rather than his last days as a human, but rarely succeeded. So preoccupied was he that he didn't notice the shadow that detached itself from the shadow of an alleyway and began stalking him.
One can imagine his surprise when he found himself on one knee, slightly hunched over and clutching the bruise that was growing on the back of his head. His vision swam in and out of view momentarily, and he guessed that he might have a concussion.
He started to stand up when a commanding female voice barked out, "Stop." He did so, but realized he recognized the voice, though he could not quite place it. He complied, dropping his hand from the area of the Death Penalty, and slowly stood up.
His attacker was a young, diminutive woman with a sweet face twisted into an ugly scowl. Her brown eyes, narrowed in menace, held a spark which indicated an unusual kindness and generosity. The sleeves of her blue suit hid to all but the keenest of eyes the subtle muscles that indicated great strength on a delicate arm. Her sleek blond hair was cut short in a bob, but the strands, which once were immaculately combed, were tangled with dirt and grime. The fall of Shinra had not been easy on Elena the Turk.
Her grip on the gun that she pointed at Vincent relaxed slightly, almost imperceptibly, although she twisted her face into an expression of further displeasure. "You're one of those jerks from Avalanche, aren't you?" she asked in a half-question.
Vincent nodded. Her refusal to call another person a more derogatory name than "jerk" supported his hypothesis.
"You killed Tseng," she accused.
Vincent shook his head vehemently. "No!" He calmed a bit. "No, we never killed him. He was killed by Sephiroth."
"Liar," she protested, her accusations a bit weaker than when she had said the same at Icicle Inn. Then she blinked. "You...were there at Wutai, as well." She blushed a bit.
Vincent nodded. "That, I did do. I helped you out."
His attacker gave a half smile and quoted him. "'I don't care what you're doing so much as the idiotic way in which you're doing it.'"
Vincent nodded in acknowledgement and decided he could like this woman if he survived this encounter with her.
Her finger tightened on the gun. "But you still killed Tseng. Why did you do it?"
"Why would we?" Vincent countered. "You knew the Black Materia was in that temple, and Sephiroth used it to summon Meteor. So, Sephiroth had to be there, didn't he?"
She was about to reply when a long whistle interrupted her. She paused, then whistled back. It was a common code used by the Turks. Someone had asked if she was all right, and she had affirmed this.
As much as he liked Elena, Vincent would like to get out alive more. So, on risk of destroying their new-found common ground, he grabbed her pistol in his impossibly strong claw, pulled it away from her, and jumped back. He held it loosely, not raised, but is a position so it could be easily if need arose.
"With that speed," Elena commented dryly, "you could almost be a Turk."
Vincent gave a short, harsh laugh, then started to back away. A long nightstick found its way between his ankles, tripping him.
Reno stood up and pointed his electric rod at Vincent. A smile formed on Vincent's lips, despite his grave situation. The Turks were a unified team, rather than the many individuals of Vincent's day.
"What're you smiling at, Vampy?" snarled Reno, more of a braggart and a loudmouth than any other Turk Vincent had ever known, but one with the skills to back it up.
"The Turks have changed over the years," Vincent explaned vaguely.
The rarely-heard voice of the third Turk, Rude, sounded out of the half light. "How would you know? You're probably only a year or two older than me, and I'm the oldest of us."
Vincent shrugged and gazed back steadily at the glares of suspicion the three Turks were giving him. Elena's eyes suddenly widened and she backed up a step.
"You were a Turk."
Vincent nodded once, a little surprised by the fourther looks of hate that earned him.
"Once a Turk, always a Turk," Reno snarled. "Why did you leave?"
Vincent stated one name, that held a lot of meaning.
"Hojo."
Their hatred disappeared, replaced by pity, respect, and a little bit of fear. "The Hojo? Man." Reno shook his head. "You'd have to be way stronger than anyone I know to survive that nutcase." The Turk lowered his nightstick. Rude and Elena did the same with their guns. As one, they turned away.
"Wait!" Vincent called. "You must want something better than this. After all, little is worse than robbing people. I can find you a place to live."
Elena turned back to him. There was a gentle regret in her eyes, but pride in her bearing as she said, "The Turks don't take handouts."
And with that, they melted back into the shadows whence they came.
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