Vincent flexed the fingers of his prosthetic, feeling the all too familiar tightness that had been growing in the muscles of his left arm since the morning, foretelling an impending spasm. He looked up as Elira entered the forge and quickly went back to engraving, using his left arm as little as possible in the hopes of warding off a painful incident for another few hours, or at least until he could endure it privately.
Elira was weaving between the work tables toward him. He put down the engraving tool and the butt of the rifle he'd been designing as she came to stand in front of him. At her waiting smile, he lifted his plastic face guard with one hand. "Yes?" he said over the sound of the working lathe.
"I just got off the phone with Dr. Whittson's secretary," Elira reported, raising her voice to be heard, "and she's asked if we could move my ultrasound appointment to today."
Vincent smothered a grimace as the muscle above his prosthetic gave an impatient twinge, sending a small burning shock wave through the rest of his non-existent left arm. "It shouldn't be a problem," he answered, moving his arm unobtrusively until it was resting on his knee and he could clench his metal fingers into a fist under the table. The pressure this created further up in his arm brought a little relief.
"Good." Elira chuckled a little. "I already told her we could. The appointment's at one o'clock, so we should leave in about twenty minutes. Okay?"
Vincent nodded, clenching the fingers of his prosthetic once again as if willing it to stop hurting just until the appointment was over. Elira smiled and headed toward the stairs leading to their apartment, presumably to get her coat and things. As soon as she was out of sight, Vincent pulled the face guard down over his features again and allowed himself a pained scowl as he inconspicuously cradled his arm to his abdomen, massaging the muscle roughly until it loosened a little; that at least would buy him a little time.
Twenty minutes later, Vincent was walking with Elira down the side of a road that led to the main street of North Corel. It was the middle of the week and the street was almost deserted except for a group of small children playing hopscotch in their driveway and an elderly couple sitting on their porch. Elira breathed the crisp air appreciatively and Vincent glanced down to see her smiling. Noticing his gaze, Elira looked up at him and, with a quick grin, took his hand in hers. Vincent glanced back at the road ahead of them. There were times he didn't like outward displays of emotion in public, but right now, with few people around, her small hand in his felt good. He squeezed it gently and heard her sigh contentedly at his side.
"So, how's your arm been these last couple of days?" she asked offhandedly.
"Fine," Vincent answered automatically.
Elira nodded, glancing at him, though he didn't look at her. "Good. I'm glad." She sighed again when Vincent didn't say anymore, and the rest of their walk was made in silence.
The two of them had considered buying a car earlier, even just to get Elira to the hospital when the time came for the baby to be born, but the size of this town that nearly lived in the shadow of the Gold Saucer made the purchase of a car impractical. Plus, one of their employees, a young man by the name of Rory, had already started leaving his car at the shop overnight in case they needed it. Elira had commented a couple of times already how helpful and hardworking the young people were in North Corel, especially those they had hired when they'd set up shop. Vincent had to admit that he, too, was surprised at how wholesome this once-mining district had become, considering how unfriendly and ramshackle it had been when Avalanche had traveled through it over ten years ago: it had evolved from its village status, if it could've indeed been called a village then, first into a town of miner families, and then into a thriving community no different from Kalm. Being so close to the Gold Saucer had turned the growing North Corel into a town businesses were eager to relocate to, and within five years it had become unrecognizable from the North Corel before Meteor.
At a quiet intersection, Vincent and Elira followed the sidewalk as it turned right, and then continued on past the store fronts. Vincent glanced idly at the shops and businesses as they walked by, remembering how they'd almost decided to buy one of these buildings for their weapons store. But then Elira had become pregnant, and she'd been very insistent about living on a quieter street. Vincent had wondered at the beginning if working out of a house away from the center of town would destroy their business before it even started, but now he realized he needn't have worried. They were getting their share of the business; more, if the rumors their employees told them were true.
Vincent quickly steeled his expression as his left arm gave a sudden and painful twinge, making his metal fingers twitch unconsciously. He did his best to keep his gasp silent, and then to exhale silently when the pain was over. He glanced carefully at Elira and was relieved to see she hadn't noticed anything amiss. If she found out that he was hiding the muscle spasms, or whatever they were, from her, or if she discovered how long he'd really been having them, she would likely not talk to him for a week. Or worse, she'd do to him what she'd done when she'd found out from one of her employees that he'd been sneaking out of North Corel to practice his marksmanship, and make him sleep on the couch. On those three nights, months ago now, he hadn't gotten much sleep. Unable to feel her beside him, unable to hear her breathing, he'd woken up many times from unsettling dreams and gone to stand in their bedroom door to watch over her, sometimes for hours, before heading back to the couch. It had bothered him then how fearful he was for her safety, as if some part of him was still unconsciously expecting something awful to happen to her, but he had been powerless to stop himself from going to check on her again and again. He'd never told her how he'd stood in the doorway those three nights, knowing already that she would first feel guilty for making him sleep on the couch, and then she would tell him he'd been silly for being afraid because nothing was ever going to happen and she could take care of herself.
But some part of his mind doubted both of these things. So many things had happened unexpectedly in his life, he had no trust left in anyone or anything, not even in himself. Not yet.
Elira squeezed his hand once and Vincent glanced up from his thoughts to see that they had reached the hospital. Once they were inside, Elira made a beeline for the front desk. Vincent followed her and was met by the smile of a secretary as she greeted them.
"Yes, hello. My name is Elira Valentine and I have an appointment with Dr. Whittson at one o'clock."
The woman checked the register in front of her and nodded. "Yes. The doctor is in with another patient right now, but she'll be ready to see you in a few minutes. If you would please take a seat?"
Vincent led Elira to the waiting room. They weren't made to wait long before a nurse stepped into the doorway. "Elira Valentine?"
Elira smiled and pushed herself out of the chair with Vincent's help. "That's me."
The nurse smiled and gestured toward a hallway with the clipboard in her hands. "This way, please."
The room they were led to was becoming familiar: long and thin with white walls and an angled examining chair in the middle of the room backed by a counter and some cupboards that were nearly covered with instruments. There was also a small television placed above the counter almost directly behind the chair where Vincent knew he would soon be seeing his child's progress, but right now the screen was dark.
The nurse helped Elira into the chair and then departed, saying the doctor wouldn't be a moment.
Elira leaned back, relaxing against the black leather of the chair as one hand absently stroked her stomach. Vincent caught her eye and she smiled. "Ready to learn whether we're going to have a boy or a girl?" she asked.
Vincent blinked. He had forgotten; on their last appointment the doctor had informed them that the next time they came to the hospital the baby would be far enough along that they would be able to distinguish its gender.
Elira sighed, looking down at her belly. "Finally, we'll be able to name you," she said softly.
Vincent watched Elira as she continued to stroke her abdomen. He had to admit, it was still a little hard sometimes to believe that this was his beautiful wife and that she was going to have his baby. If anyone had told him five years ago, or even forty-five years ago when he'd been a Turk, that one day he'd be standing in a hospital room with his pregnant wife, he wouldn't have believed it. Sometimes it still felt as if he was watching all of this happen to another person. Perhaps that was another reason he hadn't liked sleeping on the couch, he mused. He hadn't been able to reach over and touch her when he woke from a nightmare, to convince himself before he opened his eyes that he wasn't back in his coffin, or in his old apartment. He hadn't been able to assure himself immediately that it hadn't all been part of some lovely dream that was over now, and he'd had to run to their bedroom like a starved man to a table of food, to make sure that she was still there.
Vincent was broken out of his reverie as Dr. Whittson arrived. She was a woman about the same size as Elira with glasses and brown hair pulled back into a severe bun. She smiled as she saw them, nodding first at Vincent and then approaching to clasp one of Elira's hands in her own. "Ah, the Valentines," she murmured as she squeezed Elira's hand before going about turning on the screen and hooking up the proper equipment for the ultrasound. "And how is everything going?"
"Fine," Elira replied, "everything's going well."
"Good, good," Dr. Whittson said quietly. "And..." She looked over her shoulder at Vincent as she finished with the equipment, "...how is the shop going?"
Vincent's only answer was a cool nod.
The doctor seemed to find this comical and she chuckled softly as she rummaged around for the gel she was going to put on Elira's stomach to make for an easier time with the hand-held ultrasound unit. Vincent found himself resisting a tug at the corner of his mouth. He didn't like doctors, and this one seemed to have noticed that about him right away. But instead of letting him intimidate her, she'd made a kind of a joke out of his silence until it had become almost a routine for them. He glanced reflexively at Elira to find that she was doing her best to hide an amused grin.
As Dr. Whittson gestured for Elira to uncover her belly, she said without raising her head, "Would you like a chair, Mr. Valentine?" When he didn't answer, as usual, the doctor glanced up. "Or perhaps a ramrod?"
Vincent looked at Elira as she chuckled suddenly into her hand. He rolled his eyes. The doctor looked down to hide her own soft laughter. "I'm sorry. I'm in rare form today. Babies make me cheerful." She smiled again at Elira as she pulled a translucent glove over her hand and dabbed a bit of the gel onto her covered palm. A moment later, when Elira had confirmed that she was ready, the doctor began to rub the cold substance over her belly. Before she placed the unit on Elira's stomach, however, she asked, "Did you drink your four glasses of water before coming?"
Elira scowled at herself. "No, I forgot."
Dr. Whittson nodded, smiling. "That's all right. It's partly my fault, I was the one who switched your appointment to today." She put the unit to Elira's abdomen and continued, as if to herself, "We should be able to see things anyway."
Vincent moved closer to the screen as a fuzzy gray image began to form. At first, it didn't look like anything, but after a few moments of peering intently Vincent was able to see their baby. It was curled up like a half-moon, its tiny hands moving around slowly as if it was waving sleepily at its parents. The eye they could see, though no more than a dark dot in its head, seemed to be gazing out at them.
Elira, who had craned her neck around to see the screen, breathed out a happy sigh.
The doctor smiled. "What a beautiful baby," she said quietly. Glancing back down at Elira's stomach, she moved the unit around a little and continued, "What a beautiful little girl."
Both Elira and Vincent looked to Dr. Whittson. She was beaming.
"We have a daughter?" Elira asked once she'd found her voice.
Dr. Whittson nodded. "And she's progressing perfectly, right on time."
Elira turned suspiciously moist eyes to her husband. Vincent met her gaze and discovered suddenly that his heart was pounding and his breathing had become shallow. Swallowing, too, had become difficult. A daughter. He took a deep breath, feeling a little light-headed. Somehow, knowing their child's gender was making the reality of the situation more evident. Elira was going to have a baby. He was going to be the father of this baby...this little girl...and eventually, the father of a young woman. He saw her future childhood flit before his eyes for a split second. This was real. This was his future. He was going to be a...
The ache in his arm, nearly forgotten completely until now, flared up suddenly. Caught off guard by the severity of the pain, Vincent was unable to do anything but groan and hunch over, clutching at the muscle above his elbow with his right hand.
"Vincent!" Elira's scream reached him dimly as he fought off the nausea his agony was causing him. And then the doctor was at his side. When he stumbled, she grabbed him in an attempt to keep him upright, but Vincent was too overbalanced and he crumpled to the floor anyway. He cried out as his metal prosthetic hit the linoleum beneath him.
The pain was suffocating. His left arm felt numb and icy cold; a shudder passed through him and lingering pangs reached him from every part of his body. He couldn't see anything. Agony was his existence. Someone was crying out, but he couldn't tell if it was Elira or if he was hearing his own screams. And then, everything began to fade in and out frighteningly until he passed finally into unconsciousness.
When he awoke later, it was as if from a deep sleep. He recalled the haze of waking he'd experienced after taking the tranquilizing drugs to subdue Chaos, and, comparing it to this, found them to be similar. What had happened? He tried to open his eyes, but they felt as if they'd been glued shut. As he struggled to break the surface of consciousness, he focused on his auditory sense, hoping to hear something he could hold onto.
There was a steady tone sounding somewhere nearby, and with it, against its rhythm, was a hissing. Confused, he tried to place the noises, but try as he might he could find nowhere in his memory to match his current unseen environment.
Someone was holding his hand. Concentrating seemed to take a lot of energy, but as he centered his attention on what his body was feeling, he recognized Elira's hands as she cradled his palm in her light grip. The next thing he felt was the smooth, thin line of what felt like plastic that was running under his nose and blowing air into his nostrils. How odd, he thought at first. But this last clue was enough to finally tip him off to where he was.
He was in the hospital.
Of course. He had taken Elira here for her ultrasound and his arm had acted up again, very painfully. And...and he had passed out...
The image of himself lying on a steel, cold table with dozens of white-jacketed doctors swarming around him, poking and prodding him, made his heart constrict. As the first waves of panic shot through him, he fought mightily against the haze until he could feel his body responding. And then, with a sudden fearful gasp, he was awake.
The first thing he saw was white. If he'd have just discovered that he was lying next to a poisonous snake, he wouldn't have moved quicker. He rocketed into a sitting position, ripping the oxygen tube from his nose. His eyes moving rapidly, he took in the room. Elira was sitting before him and his gaze lingered on her for a moment as if she was an oasis in his nightmare before he continued his inspection.
It ended on his left arm. He stared for what felt like hours before he remembered to breath again. His claw, his prosthetic, it was....gone. Gone. His arm ended at his elbow, and this was covered in a white bandage. He began to shiver as flashbacks from the time Hojo had cut off his forearm pounded mercilessly behind his eyes. For a moment, he was almost convinced that he was back there, looking down again for the first time at the bloody stump...
"Vincent! Vincent!"
With a snarl, Vincent turned on the bed to face his addresser, half expecting to see Hojo there.
But, it wasn't Hojo. It was Elira, her face pinched and white with fright. And, as quickly as it had come, the nightmare ended. She looked so scared, he wanted to say something, but before he could make a move or utter a sound, she had launched herself at him, her arms fastened around his waist and her face pressed against his hospital dressing gown. The muffled noises that were coming from her told him she had burst into tears.
"I'm sorry," he finally realized she was saying, over and over again. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I'm sorry."
Vincent wanted to touch her, to comfort her, to get her to tell him what she was so sorry about, but he had fallen back to brace himself with his right arm when she'd embraced him suddenly, still too weak to keep himself upright without its support. "Elira," he said instead, trying to regain her attention. "Elira. Elira, what are you so sorry about? Elira!"
Elira raised her head finally. Her eyes were puffy with crying and the front of his gown was now wet with tears. "I didn't know..." Her voice was thick and she swallowed noisily. "I didn't know what to do," she told him miserably. "They told me your arm was giving you electrical shocks and then they asked me if it was all right to remove it. I...I was scared. I didn't know what was happening." She stood shakily, wiping her eyes with her fingers. "So I said 'yes'."
Vincent wanted to ask her what she meant by 'electrical shocks' when a man who could only have been the surgeon and Dr. Whittson entered. Dr. Whittson hurried to his side and urged him to lie down. As he did, he was relieved to notice that she didn't try to put the oxygen tube back on him. While Elira straightened his blankets, the doctor asked him how he was feeling. Vincent didn't answer; instead, he asked his own question. "What happened to make the removal of my prosthetic arm necessary?"
Dr. Whittson raised an eyebrow. "Ah, he speaks," she murmured with a small smile. Vincent heard Elira give a choked laugh. After a moment, she continued, "I think it would be best if Dr. Reinhardt explained it to you." She gestured at the surgeon who had entered with her.
Dr. Reinhardt, a tall, burly-looking man in his mid-forties with a round head and a large red face, stepped up to the end of the bed. He gave a quirky smile in greeting, as if he wasn't used to dealing with the patients face-to-face, and without so much as an introduction, he began to explain. "You see, the self-powered mechanisms in your metal prosthetic were conflicting with the biological aspects in a way that makes me suspect your tissue is not equipped to handle such involved technology."
At Vincent and Elira's blank looks, Dr. Whittson translated. "What Dr. Reinhardt is saying is that your body was rejecting the prosthetic."
Vincent frowned and prepared to ask another question when Dr. Whittson interrupted him. "How long have you had that prosthetic arm, Mr. Valentine?"
Vincent thought for a moment. He couldn't exactly say forty years considering that biologically he was still a couple of years under thirty. Finally, he decided to go with a vague answer. "More than half my life."
"And how long have you been having pain in your arm?" Dr. Whittson pursued.
Vincent glanced at Elira before he answered. "A little over three weeks."
The doctor fixed him with a piercing look that told him she knew he was lying. "Really, Mr. Valentine, if we're going to get anywhere with this you're going to have to tell the truth."
Vincent glanced at Elira again. She was staring hard at him now, and he could see that she was not happy with the idea that he'd lied to her before. But he'd brought it on himself; now there was nothing for it but the truth. "Seven months," he replied quietly.
"Seven months!" Elira cried suddenly from beside him. She looked as if she would berate him further, but Dr. Whittson stepped in and spoke first.
"Would you care to know what was causing your pain, Mr. Valentine?"
Vincent turned his eyes from his glowering wife to look at the doctor. He nodded. Dr. Whittson looked to Dr. Reinhardt.
The surgeon gave a nod. "Well, you see, as the biological and mechanical aspects of your prosthetic conflicted, your muscles received some electrical feedback which, when left untreated, eventually translated throughout your body as mild electrical shocks."
"In other words," Dr. Whittson began, "your arm was electrocuting you."
"We don't know why," Dr. Reinhardt continued, picking up his cue. "It is uncommon for a prosthetic to be rejected by a body after so many years, but in the case of your mechanical limb, considering how interwoven the two components were, the rejection may have been caused by something as simple as a minor malfunction, or even a slight change in your biological chemistry."
Vincent exchanged a glance with Elira. Her scowl had transformed into a look of realization and Vincent knew she'd had the same thought as he. It was no malfunction; his body had only just come back to life less than nine months ago. Hojo had attached the arm after he'd been shot and his body had become little more than a corpse; there was little chance the corrupt scientist had made provision for the off chance that Vincent would one day be brought to life again. And so, when the nerves attached to the arm's wiring had started to live, the technology hadn't been able to cope and his body, with no other choice, had begun to reject it. It made sense.
"Well," Dr. Whittson said after a pause, "do you have anymore questions, Mr. Valentine?"
Vincent shook his head. "I understand why you removed my prosthetic arm."
The doctor smiled, her eyes crinkling behind her glasses. "You really should talk more," she observed. "It gives you a completely different personality than what your appearance suggests." She patted his arm as Elira chuckled. As she turned to leave with Dr. Reinhardt, she said over her shoulder, "I'll bring your clothes and you can check out."
"Thank you, Dr. Whittson," Elira called after her.
Dr. Whittson smiled over her shoulder. "You're very welcome," she said as she stepped into the hallway. The door closed behind her a moment later.
Elira pulled up the chair she'd been sitting in before while waiting for Vincent to wake and sat down at his side, taking his right hand in hers again. He glanced at her, suddenly weary.
"How are you feeling?" she asked him after a moment.
He nodded. "I'm feeling all right. Are you all right?"
She smiled, nodding. "A little shaken up, I think, but other than that..." She looked down at his hand in hers and stroked his fingers gently. Vincent lay back, closing his eyes. After a moment, Elira spoke again. "Do you think you'll get a replacement arm?"
Vincent opened his eyes. "I don't know," he answered truthfully. "I suppose I should. It would be very difficult to continue working in the forge with only one arm."
Elira gave a small affirmative laugh before falling silent.
Vincent stared blankly at the ceiling, trying to picture himself with a different prosthetic. Nothing looked right, however. He couldn't tell, though, if this was because he was so used to his 'claw' or because, deep down, he really didn't want to have to replace it. It was true that he'd hated it, and hated Hojo for putting it on him, but it had been very handy, especially in the forge. Nothing would ever have the same versatility as the golden claw because Hojo had wired it right into the workings of his arm so that it would respond like a normal limb would. Other prosthetics, though undoubtedly made with all available technology, would never be as close to a real arm as the claw had been.
Vincent sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, his golden prosthetic had become a part of him; he'd incorporated it into his life grudgingly, not realizing at the time how much he'd grown to rely on it. Now that it was gone, and he felt strangely vulnerable without it.
It had been a part of him, a part of his past, perhaps his last tie to his past
And now, without it, without the thing that had represented his torment and the destructiveness of his past for so many years...who was he really?