"Pegatha Valentine?"
Pegatha turned and came face to face with a pudgy seventh grader she recognized but couldn't remember the name of. The girl smiled briefly before launching into a series of breathless questions. "Your shop was robbed last night, right? Is it true that you were almost kidnapped? I heard that your dad killed a dozen big guys by himself. Is that true? How did he do it?"
Pegatha sighed, getting sick of these questions from her school mates, especially when they were embellished so ridiculously. "No one was killed," she answered flatly, "and there were only four guys."
The girl stood staring for a moment without speaking and Pegatha turned from her, hoping to get to the pavement by the doors before anyone else had the chance to corner her with more inane questions. She moved quickly, nearly breaking into a run when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted someone approaching her.
"Hey, Peg! Hey! Wait up a minute!"
Pegatha stopped and turned, fidgeting impatiently as Arick jogged up to her. "What's your hurry?" he asked her.
Pegatha made an annoyed sound in her throat. "Everyone keeps asking me stuff about yesterday, and it's getting on my nerves. I just want them to leave me alone."
Arick gave a half-sympathetic, half-amused smile. "Well, can you blame them for being curious? I mean, it was pretty cool. Finally, someone stood up to the bastards. And it was your dad! Geez. I'd be asking you stuff, too, if I hadn't been there." He took a step backward and began to move his arms slowly as if preparing to attack, but after a moment he dropped his hands to his sides and said, "You should have seen it in the forge when you started screaming. Your mom went all pale and started shaking, but your dad...man." He put his hands on his hips and shook his head at the ground. "He just stood up and marched into the front room like he was going to kill them. Too bad I didn't get to see him kick the crap outta those guys. That would've been something. You know, for being such a tight-ass, your dad has some pretty cool things about him." He began to move his arms again, positioning his feet apart as if he was practicing some move. Pegatha watched him for a moment, curious and a little impressed with his strange grace, before speaking.
"What are you doing?"
"This is a move I learned in the class I'm taking," he explained, not looking at her. "It's a defense class where they teach you how to protect yourself and get away from people." He finished the move and his body relaxed back into its usual slouch. "It started up a few weeks ago in the Gold Saucer and I thought it sounded pretty interesting, so I started going."
Pegatha gave an acknowledging nod. "Does it cost anything to go?" she asked.
Arick shook his head. "No, it's free. I guess they're being funded by some rich big shot who's concerned about the welfare of the youth of North Corel. At least, that's what the guy at the dojo said." He cocked his head. "Why, are you interested in going? It happens every weekday after school."
Pegatha pursed her lips. "No, I can't. Not until the hunting season's over. I still have to man the till." She felt a twinge of apprehension at the thought of her upcoming shift that day, but did her best to ignore it. She could do this. Both of her parents had urged her to wait at least one day, but she'd insisted that she was fine. That, coupled with the fact that they needed all of the extra help they could get, had made convincing her parents that much easier.
"Okay," Arick replied casually. Then, with a wave he said, "See ya later," and began to walk away across the yard. Pegatha watched him for a few seconds until a presence at her elbow made her turn. She was relieved to find that it was Haelie.
"Hey," she greeted her.
"Hey," Haelie said in return. "How are you?"
"Good."
"That's good."
Pegatha started to walk toward the pavement again. Haelie trotted along beside her, her face a comical mix of indecision and curiousity as she opened and closed her mouth, obviously wanting to ask something but not sure how to say it. Pegatha winced inwardly, and then sighed. "Please, don't ask me anything," she pleaded wearily. "I'll tell you the whole story. Just don't ask me if I was shot or if my dad's an undercover cop, all right?"
Haelie seemed a little taken aback by Pegatha's tone, but then she smiled. "I wasn't going to ask you that," she said. After a moment, she continued, "But I did hear that your father knows the 'touch of death'."
Pegatha put her head into her hands and sighed out her aggravation. "The rumours are so stupid!" she exclaimed.
Haelie chuckled. "So tell me what really happened."
The school wall loomed closer until Pegatha was near enough to lean against it. And then, with a shake of her head, she rolled off the details of the attempted robbery for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.
The hours spent in the forge seemed to fly by. Vincent worked like a machine, molding, shaping, and cooling the steel gun pieces as if to finish the week's quota by the end of the day. He wasn't sure what was driving him to be so productive until the lunch hour arrived and he was forced to take a break. Mopping his forehead with a sleeve, he stood from his stool and, hesitating under the pretense of straightening his heat-dried hair back from his face, waited for Elira before following her up the stairs to the apartment.
As he ate, his thoughts drifted involuntarily back to the events of the previous day, recalling with frightening clarity the sound of Pegatha's screams and the click of a gun being cocked. He'd been so angry, he'd stood up and walked into the front room with hardly a thought except the knowledge that his little girl was in danger and that he had to do something about it or die trying. Disarming the men and knocking them to the floor had been remarkably easy, as if he did it regularly; seeing Pegatha's face afterward, pinched with fear and shock, had nearly undone him. It was something he would never forget. A distorted sense of justice had begged with him to use one of the weapons to shoot the men, but he'd kept the urge beneath the surface, disturbed by it but too busy to worry about it at the time. They'd threatened his daughter, and then they'd forced him to resort to means he thought he'd put behind him forever. He'd been hard put to convince himself that they didn't deserve so much worse than they were going to get at the hands of the police.
It was a moment before he realized that Elira was watching him as she chewed thoughtfully on one half of a sandwich. Noticing that his own sandwich was still half eaten in his hand, he proceeded to finish it off. Elira smiled at him.
"You're pretty quiet today," she said. "Thinking about something?"
He poured himself some of the milk from the jug on the table and shrugged one shoulder. Elira raised an eyebrow and he gave in.
"I'm just wondering if perhaps we should try to convince Pegatha to wait at least another day before working in the front room."
Elira's expression sobered a little in a way that told him she'd been wondering the same thing. And then she shrugged. "I think she knows what she can handle. If she says she's fine with it, she's probably fine with it." Elira paused pensively for a moment, watching him again idly as he took another sip of milk When he'd put the glass to the table top again, she quietly added, "Though I don't suppose it would hurt if one of us wandered into the front room now and again just to make sure she knows we're not far."
Vincent nodded. "That's a good idea." It certainly would make him feel better, he realized. Elira was just finishing up her sandwich, so when Vincent stood with his dishes, he picked her plate up from in front of her and deposited it with the others in the sink. She smiled at him as he turned back to her, and then she got to her feet. Her smile turned into a grin as her eyes lingered on his face.
"You have a milk mustache," she observed, her voice trembling with something that wasn't quite a giggle.
Vincent was about to wipe it away with his fingers when she stilled his hand and, moving her weight onto the balls of her feet, kissed the corners of his mouth to remove the traces of milk. He couldn't help but smile. After a moment, he took a step toward the table and said, "I think I need another glass of milk."
Elira slapped his arm playfully as he moved from her and he chuckled as he screwed the top back onto the milk jug and turned to put it back into the refrigerator. Once it was safely on a shelf, he walked from the kitchen to the living room and sank onto the couch. Elira followed him and made a show of straightening the cloth on the coffee table before standing and wandering off in the direction of their bedroom, presumably to tidy up in there. He smiled to himself. They rarely had time to make the bed in the morning during the hunting season, both too occupied with the tasks of washing, dressing, and then eating to worry much about it, but Elira was strangely unable to leave the bed unmade for an entire day as if she was afraid the sheets would wear out if exposed to too much air. It was a trait about her that always amused him, though he made sure never to joke about it in her presence. Depending on her mood, her acts of vengeance for such remarks could range from a mild tickling to an offended tirade, and he liked to be sure he was staying safely on her good side. An upset Elira, especially when she was upset with him, was something he didn't like to see.
He also didn't like to see Pegatha upset with him. But it was more difficult to stay on her good side than it was with Elira, especially now when things they'd previously done together no longer appealed to her and the protectiveness she'd once reveled in now seemed only to annoy her. They appeared to have lost all the connections they'd had when she'd been younger, and he admittedly had no idea how to relate to her now. Elira had tried to tell him once that his daughter still needed him for all of the things she'd needed him for as a child, but it was difficult to believe that when she was so determined to prove her individualism as if she didn't need anyone.
The previous day she'd needed him, needed his protection. And he'd risen to the occasion, removing the threat in a few moments, becoming once again the heroic, invincible father she'd come to for the banishment of her nightmares when she'd been younger. He'd felt close to her again in those moments afterward, he recognized, as she'd stared up at him as if he was some sort of a god, and he'd been powerless not to reach for her, hold her protectively to him as if to hide her from everything evil in the world. And she'd held him in return, and for a moment he'd almost believed that nothing had changed and she was still his little girl...
But the moment had faded, and instead of letting him ease her frightened tears, she'd run away to the safety of the apartment.
The lunch hour came quickly to its conclusion, and soon Vincent found himself enveloped in his work again until three o'clock when Pegatha arrived home from school and took the till from her mother. He made a point of wandering into the front room about once every half hour, but after the first time when she'd started and then smiled in relief at him as if she'd expected him to be wearing a ski mask, she began to become annoyed at his intrusions as if he was infringing on her personal space. She was obviously independent enough to face her own fears now without his help.
So maybe he would have to protect her in a less obvious way, he mused. And to do that in the only way he knew how, he would need to pay an evening visit to the North Corel police station.
Chief Inspector Len Neilson glanced over the hardcopy in his hand once more before sighing and letting it fall from limp fingers to his desk with the rest of the scattered paperwork he'd requested. Four arrests, finally, after six weeks, and they still hadn't learned anything. Damn, damn, damn! What would it take to get some answers? He puffed out his breath and rubbed idly at the tense muscles in the back of his neck. It was getting intolerably frustrating, and he hated feeling like there was nothing he could do. But every new angle they took only ever led to another dead end. He pursed his lips, tightening his mouth into a thin, grim line. How could an organization, the size of which he was just now realizing, cover its tracks so completely? It was mystifying.
Neilson rolled his shoulders and leaned back in his chair wearily. It felt like he'd been here for days. That wasn't so bad; he'd pulled long shifts before. But this was the first time where the long hours weren't making a difference, and that made it unbearable. He just wanted to go home and take a bath. The mess his usually tidy office had become was making him feel dirty. Empty coffee cups and dirty plates were beginning to take over the area around his computer, and his impeccably organized cork board was now nearly invisible beneath irregularly tacked-up print-outs of each robbery that looked like his young son had gone at them with a handful of highlighters. Even his desk had succumbed to the growing clutter, engulfed by write-ups and witness reports, and now the grudgingly unhelpful statements made by the men they'd arrested. And yet none of it said anything new or useful. He and Marsington and a couple of the others had stumbled across the idea that maybe this organization was the resurrection of the one from Neo-Midgar that had been busted not even two months ago, but there was no solid evidence to prove it. Everything just led them around in circles again and again until he felt like screaming.
Sighing, Neilson stood stiffly from his chair and walked to the door to his office. He was at first intending to open it to go out, but he hesitated, content for the moment just to look through the window and into the lobby. Lately, they'd been receiving a steady stream of people from the community who, concerned about their well-being with the robberies going on around them, wanted reassurance that something was being done, but this evening the hecklers were taking a break. Probably because the last robbery had been prevented, he mused. Now that the public knew the thieves weren't invincible, they likely felt a bit safer. Heck, even he felt better knowing that it was possible to bring these people down. The strange rumours about the rebirth of Soldiers more than twenty years after the death of Shinra had been unnerving him.
He was just about to grab up one of his accumulated coffee cups and go for a refill when the entrance of a man into the station caught his attention. It wasn't the appearance of the man so much, though Neilson had to admit that he looked a little unusual, as the way the man carried himself, the way he took in the room with only the barest movement of his eyes. He walked with purpose to the counter that barred the lobby from the offices and stood before Mindy, the Head Secretary, without slouching or even fidgeting, as if he could wait that way for hours.
Mindy glanced up eventually from her typing and started at the sight of the man. Neilson couldn't repress a small chuckle. Mindy was a no-nonsense woman he'd learned not to cross early on after she'd been hired, and he found it a little amusing to see her lose her cool after watching her deal dispassionately with the criminal element of North Corel, from prostitutes to rapists. It was a little disturbing, too, he realized. If this man could cause that much of a reaction in Mindy, it meant there was definitely something different about him. Neilson was suddenly glad that he was here in his office, and not out there in the lobby in the man's line of view.
Mindy and the man spoke for a few moments, and Mindy seemed flustered, becoming more agitated as the conversation progressed. Finally, she stood and, to Neilson's dismay, began to walk toward his office. Ducking quickly away from the window, he went to stand by his desk until she knocked. He waited for a moment before answering to give the impression that he had been seated.
"Mindy?"
Mindy's expression was one of irritated and disconcerted anger as she said in a clipped tone, "There's a man here who insists on speaking with you."
Controlling an inopportune grin, Neilson followed her out of his office and toward the counter. The man noticed him immediately and the inspector had to force himself not to look away, suddenly caught in a piercing gaze. The man's eyes were gray and sharp in a thin, angled face, and the black, untamed hair that fell out of sight over his shoulders only strengthened the feeling Neilson had about this man, that there was something almost...dangerous about him.
He'd only felt this way about a person once before, he recalled, three years ago when they'd arrested a man for murder and he'd come face to face with a hired assassin. The expression on the assassin's face had been similar to the one this man wore now: devoid of emotion as if he was wearing a mask, and penetrating as if he was trying to see right into Neilson's soul.
But the assassin of three years ago had looked as if he'd have stuck a knife into him as soon as look at him, while the sharpness in this man's eyes was tempered with something else, something that took some of the edge from him. Still, Neilson was wary as he approached the counter and came to stand in front of the man, unsure as he was of the man's reasons for coming to the police station.
"I'm Chief Inspector Neilson," Neilson introduced himself. "How can I help you?"
The man didn't speak for a second as if planning out his answer, and then he said, "What can you tell me about the recent chain of robberies?"
Neilson was momentarily taken aback by the bluntness of the man's question. Certainly not one for wasting words. He recovered quickly from his surprise and crossed his arms loosely in front of his stomach. "You can get information about the robberies from the news," he said carefully. "They know almost as much as we do about all of this."
The man was silent again, his expression betraying none of what was going through his head. After a pause wherein Mindy finally became uncomfortable enough to return to her desk, the man spoke again. "My shop was the one involved in yesterday's attempted robbery. I would like some information so that I might prevent my shop from becoming a target again."
Attempted robbery? Neilson felt his arms drop to his sides. This was the man, it had to be him, the one who'd brought down four gang members in a matter of seconds when no one else had been able to touch them. There were suddenly a multitude of questions in his head, but he forced himself to close his mouth on them. The lobby was not the place to carry out this kind of conversation. Frowning a little to himself, he sighed through his nose. They weren't supposed to expose the public to unconfirmed information, but perhaps with a little of the material of their theories, this man might at least be able to help them bring down a few more members of the elusive 'Phantom Gang'. In a moment, he had come to a decision. "Come to my office."
The man nodded and Neilson opened the small door in the counter so that he could step from the lobby into the station proper. A couple of the other people at desks turned in some astonishment as he led the man to his office. He didn't begrudge them their curiousity. It wasn't accepted protocol for citizens to be allowed behind the counter (they had separate rooms for interrogations) but this was an exception, he rationalized. It was for the good of the case and possibly for North Corel. He was fairly sure no one would question his motives if he told them he'd been talking privately with the man who'd brought down four gang members single-handedly.
He closed the door on the following eyes of his peers and moved to sit at his desk. The new angle gave him a chance to study his unusual visitor for a moment; he was tall, at least six feet, and although he wasn't heavily built, Neilson knew he had to be sporting some wiry muscle under his engulfing black coat to have defended his shop in the way that he had. He wasn't a young man, that much was obvious, but he couldn't have been much more than forty, only a couple of years older than himself. The man was studying the print-outs on his cork board from where he stood in front of the desk when Neilson gestured at the vacant chair across from him. "Please, sit."
The man glanced at him for a moment before lowering himself into the chair and resting his hands on his lap. Neilson noticed immediately that one of them was a prosthetic. Something very close to awe for a talent unhindered by age or disability began to grow in him and nearly matched his prudent caution. Who was this man?
The man didn't seem impatient to start, so Neilson made himself comfortable and asked, "Would you mind if I asked you a few questions before I tell you what we know?"
The man made an obliging gesture with his hand and Neilson gave a small smile of gratitude. "I'm assuming you know something about these robberies, that they've been going on for about six weeks and that no one has been able to stop the thieves?" The man nodded. "No one, except for you," Neilson added after a moment. The man made no reaction and Neilson sat up a little so that he could lean forward on his desk, admittedly interested and somewhat impatient for an explanation. "How were you able to get around their guns to attack them? The report says you were unarmed and unprotected, and yet you came out of the encounter unscathed and victorious. I want to know how."
The man shrugged diffidently as if there was nothing really to tell. "I was trained to fight as a young man. That is likely all the edge I needed. I doubt any of the other shop owners robbed in the last six weeks can say the same, and so the men I felled weren't expecting resistance."
Neilson backed off from his desk a little. "So you're saying that the element of surprise was your biggest advantage?" he asked.
The man shrugged again. "It was probably a large portion of my advantage. Even a child with a weapon can kill an armed man if the man isn't on guard against an attack."
Neilson nodded, leaning back in his chair. "So, if we're able to gain the element of surprise," he said, speaking mostly to himself, "we might be able to get the upper hand against them." He hesitated for a moment, thinking. "Of course, that would require that we know where they're going to strike next."
The man across from him made no reply. There were a few seconds of silence before he finally said, "I've answered your questions. Now tell me what you know about this gang."
Neilson had the distinct impression that his dark visitor wasn't telling him everything, and so he felt comfortable enough withholding information for one more question. "Why are you so interested? I doubt that any robbers will be eager to steal from you now that you've beaten those four gang members off."
The man said nothing for a moment, and then he sighed quietly, permitting the question. "The gang members were too organized for them to have been an isolated group. They are probably a part of something larger, and I doubt those in charge will be inclined to let me be without some sort of retaliation for the loss." It might've been Neilson's imagination, but he thought he saw the man's gray eyes flicker for a second with some dark emotion. "My daughter was held at gunpoint yesterday, and I will not let that happen again."
Ah, Neilson thought, that's who he's got behind his eyes. This man might've been, in his youth, someone like the hired assassin they'd arrested three years ago, but it was obvious that family life had settled him into the man who sat before him now. Neilson pursed his lips, encouraged to hear that he and his crew weren't the only ones who suspected that the gang was a part of something bigger, and he stood from his chair and walked to the cork board.
"An increase in incidents has been occurring all over North Corel," Neilson observed, pointing at the highlighted print-outs, "and not only regarding robberies. Incidents of drug selling and prostitution have sky-rocketed in the last six weeks, and we've had our hands full. This organization, or whatever it is that has moved in, is doing a good job of spreading us thin." He sighed a little, his earlier frustration settling back onto his shoulders. "And that's not all," he continued after a moment. "Four weeks ago, the body of one of North Corel's most prominent drug dealers was discovered in an alley, shot in the back of the head, execution-style." He stretched out his thumb and forefinger, making an iconic gun with his hand, and as he fired an imaginary bullet, pulling his hand back to mimic the kick of a weapon, he mouthed 'pow'. "Almost as if someone wanted to get rid of him because he was in the way, hindering business."
The man nodded, staring at Neilson's paper-covered desk top. "Things do point toward an organized criminal element." He paused. "But to what purpose?" he mused quietly. "One would almost suspect that the robberies and other crimes are merely a front for something larger."
Neilson stepped forward excitedly and plucked a print-out from his desk to hold it in front of the man's nose. The man took it from him and skimmed over it quickly. He raised his eyebrows.
Neilson nodded, smiling grimly. He was starting to feel oddly comfortable sharing information with this stranger; it was like brainstorming with his group. "Yes," he said after a moment when the gray eyes glanced up from the paper to look at him. "An organization involved in the shipping of unlicensed weapons to places like Rocket Town and Wutai was busted not long ago in Neo-Midgar, but the person or people behind the operation escaped arrest. We're starting to wonder if that's the organization that has moved into North Corel."
"A fair assumption," the man agreed.
"Yes." Neilson nodded and took the paper from the man to post it back up on his cork board. He stared at it for a second before sighing wearily. "But, we haven't been able to discover where they might be working from. It's possible they're not even established in North Corel and working out of some other town nearby, like Gongoga or Costa Del Sol. And, to be perfectly honest, we don't have the manpower to battle the crime wave and investigate the whereabouts of the organization." He pressed two fingers to the ridge of his nose as if to block out the tension. "If only we could discover some pattern to these crimes, we might be able to stop them and focus on getting to the root of the problem. But, we're short on man-power." He sighed. It was a circle of frustrating failures. And then he began to chew pensively at his bottom lip. "Except, now that those four men have been arrested, the organization will probably have to lay low for a couple of weeks and then start off small again."
The man was looking at him thoughtfully and Neilson couldn't help but glance over. He raised a curious eyebrow, sensing that his visitor had something to say.
The man was silent for a moment before he began to speak. "I disagree," he said. "I'm inclined to believe that the organization would keep more than one group of robbers. If they are indeed interested in upholding a front of crimes, they would probably be prepared for the possibility of arrests. This makes it more likely that they will execute a greater heist now to keep their pursuers on their toes."
Neilson didn't answer and he glanced away. He had to admit, the man's idea sounded plausible, but he'd been in this line of work for nearly fifteen years now and all prior crime waves he'd dealt with had faltered after an arrest. Even an organization wouldn't want to risk losing more members to the police so soon after the apprehension of the first group. They'd likely be more interested in laying low and surveying their position before attempting another series of robberies. It would be foolish and headstrong for them to keep believing in their invincibility and to send more men in to charge at an army that has just slaughtered the first wave of warriors without taking the time to examine what went wrong with the original plan.
Interpreting Neilson's silence for what it was, the man stood from the chair and inclined his head slightly. "Thank you for your time, Inspector Neilson," he said politely. "I hope you have more luck with this crime wave in the future."
"Thank you," Neilson said, and then choked on his voice as he realized that he didn't know this man's name. But the man was already heading for the door. Neilson caught up with him and escorted him to the lobby from where he quickly disappeared through the front doors. Mindy caught his eye from where she was looking at him from her desk, but Neilson didn't acknowledge her. Instead, he walked back to his office and closed the door behind him.
He had to sift through about a dozen different reports before he came up with the man's witness account from the previous day. Vincent Valentine. That was his name. He read through the report again and was surprised that he hadn't noticed before how much detail had been put into the brief summary, as if the man had been specifically looking for these things in order to be able to write them down afterward. Once more, he found himself wondering who the man was. Clues about him pointed to one of two things: that he had a background with the police force, or he had a background in criminal activity. He was more inclined to believe that he'd been on the wrong side of the law and his policing sense told him that he might want to keep tabs on this man, but he pushed the thought aside. Valentine had been helpful and honest, and he had a family to protect. He wasn't a threat.
Neilson sat down at his desk and continued looking distractedly at the paper in his hand. He felt the urge to call his group together to tell them about Valentine; he almost wished they'd been in his office to brainstorm with them. Oh well. He dropped the paper and it fluttered to rest on top of the messy pile. They could solve this without help. They'd just have to wait until the robberies started up again, because now they were ready for them.
He was indebted to Valentine for that.