The sudden rise in crime had changed North Corel; some who'd been around before Meteor said it was turning back into the town it had been before the growing popularity of the Gold Saucer had made it prosperous, if it could even have been called a town back then. Of course, it no longer had to rely solely on mining for its livelihood and it was much more than a handful of ramshackle buildings, but the fear that comes with insecurity, the kind of insecurity that makes one feel exposed in one's home even with every door locked, was returning to the faces of the people, to the very atmosphere. The first time, Shinra had caused it, ripping everything away from the town and leaving its inhabitants with nothing except their fear and impotent rage. This time, it was being caused by a nameless, faceless organization who, instead of destroying everything with a faulty mako reactor, was slowly killing the town by pinning it helpless and sucking it dry. The streets were no longer considered safe at night; people who had once reveled in the night life were now retiring to bed early, and no one walked alone after dark if they could help it.
The fear was stealing through North Corel like a plague, and Elira could see it on the faces of those customers who came in to request weapons they could use to defend themselves, their families, and their businesses. At first, Elira had tried to talk customers out of those kinds of guns, but the longer the organization reigned, the harder it was for her to convince people not to take the law into their own hands. Citizens wanted their security back and they were beginning to feel ready to do anything to have it returned to them.
And Elira started hoping that Vincent would be able to do something, even as she wished that he'd never become involved in this. Today, he'd gone to the police station in the early afternoon, his first day on the job. She'd kissed him good-bye and, against her better judgment, had let him borrow the motorcycle she'd picked up nearly a year ago at a yard sale and had spent five months and over eight hundred gil remodeling, going back to her training at the autobody shop of her childhood to complete her hobby. Anything, anything to help him and bring him back sooner. Just knowing he wasn't in the forge behind her left a place empty inside of her.
Pegatha came home late from school, but Elira was too tired to notice until later when her daughter started telling her over dinner about a dojo that had opened up downtown. As they ate, Pegatha talked nearly non-stop and Elira had to remind her repeatedly not to talk with her mouth full. It was sort of odd, she thought at first, because her daughter wasn't normally this chatty, and it wasn't until Elira saw Pegatha glance at the empty chair across the table for the fourth or fifth time that she realized the thirteen year old was trying to fill up the void left by her father with conversation. Not really seeing any harm in letting her daughter go on, she didn't try to hush her.
At least, not until she started asking about her mother's weariness and tried, with a clumsy sort of subtlety, to get Elira to give some details about Vincent's job. However, she and Vincent had already decided to keep the particulars a secret from Pegatha; the police had told him to keep a low profile about his involvement in the case, for his own protection, and so Elira remained close-mouthed. The less Pegatha knew, the less she could say to her friends (they trusted their daughter, of course, but with a knowledge of how bad she was at keeping secrets -- once, she'd ruined a surprise birthday party for her mother by blurting out how excited she was to see Aunt Beni again; Elira had guessed the rest after this), and the less her friends could say to their parents. These crimes were all anyone could talk about, all that was in the news, and Elira knew that a tidbit of information about her husband working for the police would spread like wildfire.
After supper, Pegatha finally dropped her inquisition in favour of finishing her homework, and Elira cleared the table. Out of habit, she'd made enough dinner for three, so, realizing that she was still hungry after her own portion and not wanting to waste food, she ate his as well and then washed the dishes.
The apartment seemed so quiet. Not that Vincent was terribly noisy, but there was something about his silent presence that filled up the emptiness. It was strange not to feel him come up behind her as she washed the silverware, not to have him place his hand on her hip and press a kiss to her temple before stepping up to dry the dishes, a ritual she'd kind of taken for granted until this moment.
She decided to dry the dishes herself once she was done, but by the time she'd finished stacking the wet plates and utensils in the dish rack, she found herself too tired to do anything else. Pegatha had suggested over supper that maybe stress was causing her fatigue and she was beginning to wonder if her daughter had been right, and she wasn't catching the horrible two-week flu that a number of customers had come in with and given to a couple of her employees. She wasn't sure which was worse: the flu was awful, but she could probably treat it with medicine; the stress and worry wouldn't go away until Vincent was back safe at home for the afternoons and evenings, but hopefully that wouldn't be too far off. No matter what it was, flu or stress, it could be cured by Vincent's return. Nothing was ever that bad as long as he was around.
Elira went to lie down for an hour. Out of boredom and loneliness, she starting thinking about calling Benita or her father, but after a few moments she realized that she was even too tired for a conversation right now. She was just starting to drift off when Pegatha came into the room. Partially annoyed at being wakened up and partially grateful because she didn't really want to sleep in her clothes, she pushed herself up onto her elbows as her daughter came to sit beside her on the bed.
"Mom, can you help me with my homework?"
Elira yawned without bothering to cover her mouth. "What is it?"
"Geography."
Elira groaned. She'd always hated geography. Give her something that had to do with numbers and she had no problem; ask her in which direction lay the post office and she was clueless. Trying to blink away the last vestiges of sleep, she moved to lean against the headboard and took the map from her daughter. A couple of the countries had been filled in with pencil crayon. "Do you have to colour these?"
"And label them," Pegatha said by way of an answer. Shuffling a little closer, she pointed to a line of icons that represented mountains. "I know these are in the Cosel Continent, but what are they called?"
Elira yawned again. "Don't you have a textbook?"
"Yeah, but we're not supposed to use it." Pegatha bit her lip. "Do we have an atlas?"
"Yes, somewhere," Elira murmured, sliding down into her pillow. She was sure she'd never felt so tired in her life, as if she could fall asleep at any moment.
"Where is it?"
"Not sure. The living room, I think, or maybe the closet." Elira lay down again and curled up on her side, closing her eyes. There was a moment of silence before Pegatha asked, "Can you help me find it?"
Elira frowned. "Not right now, Peg. I'm too tired."
"But this is due tomorrow!"
Elira sighed in irritation. "Well, maybe you should've come home earlier from school and worked on it."
Pegatha huffed angrily and Elira was suddenly aware of how Vincent had spoiled her with his presence and constant willingness to help her when she needed it. Not that a parent helping their child with homework was a bad thing, but it was certainly a problem when the parent abruptly wasn't available. Pegatha grabbed up her paper and stormed out of the room, muttering, "I wish Dad was here. He would've helped me."
He would have, Elira acknowledged silently, and she felt a momentary twinge of regret that she hadn't been more helpful. But she was just so tired. Maybe if she rested for a minute...
Elira woke a few hours later and immediately checked the clock, noting how the room had darkened. Nearly ten thirty. Cursing, she sat up and, stirring herself into wakefulness, stood from the bed. The apartment was silent and Elira eventually found Pegatha in her room, having put herself to bed. Without being tucked in. Wincing with another pang of regret, Elira straightened the blankets around her daughter and kissed her forehead, smoothing the dark curls back from her face in apology before moving to turn off the desk light that had been left on. Pegatha's homework was there, unfinished, though she had found the atlas. Determining to help her daughter with it in the morning, she left the room and returned to her own bed.
She changed quickly into her nightie and, crawling under the covers, tried to go back to sleep. It wasn't so easy this time, however. Unlike before, she was suddenly aware of how large and empty and cold the bed was without Vincent. No matter how far she snuggled into the middle, she got no warmer, felt no more comfortable. And, despite her best efforts, her thoughts returned again and again to the times in her life when she'd had to sleep alone: after Eagan's death, and the five years before she'd met Vincent. So long ago, and yet so vivid in her memory. And Vincent wasn't here to banish the lonely feelings. Clenching her eyes shut and trying to convince herself through repetition that Vincent was going to be back sometime tonight, she eventually coaxed herself into a restless sleep.
Her dreams reflected her thoughts and feelings and were filled with images from her past and present. Vincent was Eagan, and no matter how fast he rode the motorcycle she'd given him, he couldn't ever quite outrun the train. Benita stood beside her, looking very much like the Benita she'd known over a decade ago in her first gun shop, patting her arm and telling her that it was time to move back home. And then she was in a too big bed back in her old apartment that was supposed to be her father's house, cradling a baby Pegatha in her arms even as her teenage daughter lay beside her, asking through angry tears how she would ever get her homework done now. And Elira was angrier than she'd ever been at Vincent for what he was putting them through, for riding on the tracks when he'd promised her so long ago that he would never, ever put himself in that position.
She'd trusted that she could take the risk with him. Had that changed? No. As long as he came home. As long as he eventually outran the train and returned to her, she would forgive him. All of her faith went with him; as long as he came back, she wouldn't lose it. She'd suspected as he'd told her about the position with the police that part of the reason he'd accepted was because it would do something to assuage the guilt he still carried with him from when he'd been a Turk, and so she'd let him go. But her fear had returned and her trust in Vincent had gone from rock solid to unstable.
As long as he returned, so would her trust. As long as he returned...
Elira woke and surfaced from the dream for a moment, no more than a few seconds, not long enough for her to remember waking at all, and then descended back into dreams and uneasy sleep when some part of her mind recognized that she was still alone in bed.
As long as he returned, everything would be fine.
The night was getting colder, Vincent was almost sure of it. Another trail of steaming breath from beneath his raised collar convinced him of it. But he had to admit that being out on the motorcycle, even if it was a tad chilly, was better by far than sitting at a desk in a cluttered office at the police station while people passed by the windows trying their best not to notice the chiefly unexplained presence of a stranger in their midst. He hated working in those kind of conditions, where he was an outsider under the constant and somewhat suspicious surveillance of others; he'd been there too many times in Nibelheim, under the noses of Hojo and his fellow scientists as they went about their tests and studies of Jenova, to feel at all comfortable in the situation. So, he'd left the news reports and witness accounts and, grabbing up his coat, had hopped onto the motorcycle without a word to anyone and taken off to observe the town, specifically the south side of North Corel where most of the related night time activity took place. He felt much more at home doing this sort of job; however, he had to admit there was a certain amount of vague unease that came with riding around at night on a motorcycle, and he suspected it had something to do with his memories of being a Turk. Something about this that reminded him of that time, decades ago.
And why wouldn't it? After all, what had his position in the Turks been? Mainly solo, working like his father without a partner or group, without feeling any real need actually to get very close to anyone, given a certain amount of freedom in his job by his immediate superiors because of his seemingly inherent ability to track and locate, abduct, or kill; the only difference was that this time -- he smirked -- this time, instead of hunting innocents, he was looking to start the shut-down process on an organization very much like the one he'd once worked for. It was actually sort of funny, he mused with a quiet 'hmph' of amusement into his coat collar, in an ironic sort of way that those talents which had once made him deadly, efficient, and indispensable to the Turks were those talents that would help him, and the police, bring down these underhanded Shinra wanna-be's. It was actually sort of...fitting, he decided.
The rest of North Corel might be going to bed early to escape the fear of crimes that happened at night, but the south side of town never slept, even during the darkest hours. In fact, it seemed more alive now than it had been before the organization had moved in. Lights flashed from signs off the streets, people walked along the sidewalk alone or in laughing drunken groups of two or more, cars passed him on the road; certainly this would be the place he'd find clues once he started seriously looking for them. He admitted to himself that tonight's 'search' wasn't very much more than just his first step back into this after years of domesticated living. Like a muscle, he'd have to build his knowledge back up, and like a muscle he'd have to keep himself from pushing further at first than he could handle. Not only was it safer and smarter this way, he'd promised Elira (he'd had to before she would let him touch the motorcycle) that he would be careful, wouldn't put himself into any danger.
She'd made it sound like an innocent comment, offhand and almost teasing, but the way she'd kept her face turned away from him had betrayed the real concern behind her words.
...Be careful, Vincent; don't get into any trouble tonight...
And he'd been compelled to pull her into an embrace, wanting to rid her of her fears but knowing there was no way to do that until this job was done; unable to stand the idea that he was causing her to feel this way; holding her against him if only so he wouldn't have to see the way she was averting her eyes so that he wouldn't see what she knew he didn't want to see. Her grip had been so tight for a second, but then she'd forced herself to relax it as if hoping that he wouldn't notice how she didn't want him to go, how she was absurdly afraid that something was going to happen to him. It had hurt him; not her grip, but the realization that this was one thing he couldn't give to her. He couldn't stand by when he might be the only person who could do something at this stage. He couldn't stay with her, safe and sound at her side, while the crimes went on around them.
Because, for all of how he wanted to give her everything, to keep her from ever feeling any fear or worry or sadness, he couldn't bear the thought of North Corel being turned into a town ruled by a corrupt organization bent solely on making money and controlling others. He couldn't bear the thought of his daughter growing up in a town that was becoming a second Midgar. He'd never wish his own painful teenage years on her, and would fight to the death before he'd let her be exposed to the things he'd been exposed to. The last thing in the world he wanted was to see her going down the same path to hell he'd traveled when he'd been a mere three years older than she was now.
It was the last thing he wanted, the stuff his worst nightmares were made of.
Elira was probably in bed now, he realized as he glanced up out of his thoughts and at a large clock on the front of a building. It was nearly ten thirty. He could almost see her, curled up on her side with her hand under her cheek, the way she always slept. And he was always at her back with his right arm draped around her and entangled in her own arms, breathing in the scent of her hair until he fell asleep. They rarely woke up that way in the morning, but it was the way they always started out. It was one of the only times during a day where, without having to say anything, he let her know how much he loved and needed her, and felt it from her in return. Even if they fought, their anger never lasted until morning because that night time embrace ended every argument and brought about nearly instantaneous forgiveness. He'd never known another time in his life where, without saying anything, he could say so much.
But not tonight. For the first time in years and years, since the last time she'd made him sleep on the couch which had actually been quite a long time ago, he wasn't there falling asleep with her, her body pressed comfortably against him as if they'd been made to fit together. And he missed it, more than he'd ever missed anything before.
The only thing that he came close to missing with the same intensity was tucking Pegatha in to her bed; it was now the only time she'd let him into her room, the only time she'd let him treat her like the little girl she was rapidly growing out of. Elira said he needed to find something else they could do together, another connection, so that when she completely outgrew her childhood there would still exist a father-daughter friendship between them. So far, he'd only discovered her homework, and he wasn't sure that really counted.
The sound of voices to his right made him glance to the sidewalk in time to see a couple of women who couldn't be anything but prostitutes approaching the car in front of him as it slowed for a stop sign. Grimacing in distaste, Vincent glanced to his left and, flicking the turn signal on, quickly passed the accosted car. The idea of being propositioned was not something that appealed to him, though when he thought about it, he suspected that he probably didn't look like the type of man who was in to that kind of thing. The cold mask he'd shown to the world throughout his lifetime, and still wore in the presence of those he didn't know well, had always kept people from approaching him for any reason.
Well, except for Elira, he amended a moment later. And Lucrecia. But they'd been different than the rest of the world, like flames among the shadows shedding light and warmth on him, melting his icy mask. There weren't many in the world who were like them.
Vincent took a breath and sat up straighter on the motorcycle as he rode down the first dark and deserted street he'd encountered this night. He had to stop drifting into his thoughts; he was supposed to be doing a job here, not wondering about what he was missing at home. If he was going to find this organization, he was going to have to be more diligent about looking for clues when he came out here at night, and that meant pushing thoughts of Elira and Pegatha to the back of his mind for the time being. When he was out here, it would have to be as if he was a lone man with no other life than the job.
Maybe that's what had made him such a good Turk, he mused a moment later. He'd had no life back then to infringe upon his concentration.
The noise of a rapidly approaching car persuaded Vincent to guide the motorcycle to his right, as close to the curb as he could without crashing into the parked vehicles. Usually, he didn't condone speeding, but in this case there wasn't much he could do but get out of the way; it didn't much sound like the driver was going to do anything but pass him, and he might as well be out of the way when it happened.
The car was visible, or at least its headlights were, in his side-view mirror for no more than a second before it was speeding by him as a brown blur, windows glinting briefly in the glow of a streetlight so that it was impossible to see inside. Vincent watched it in idle interest as he moved back into the center of the lane once it had passed, and then winced convulsively as it screeched to a sudden slow-down at a stop sign before making a sharp left turn, its tires squealing in protest. It was at least a good two blocks away, but the noise was especially pronounced because of the silence it was occurring in, and even though Vincent had lost much of his enhanced hearing along with the banishment of Chaos, he couldn't help but clench his teeth in the remembered pain loud noises had caused his once over-sensitive ears. However, the sound stopped abruptly a few moments later so that even the reverberation of the car engine was no longer audible, as if the vehicle had just been rapidly shut down. His curiousity somewhat piqued, Vincent resolved to follow the flight of the car; he didn't expect to find anything ground-breaking here, certainly nothing that would lead him to the organization right away, but there could possibly be something illegal involved, and if that was the case the organization might conceivably have some part in it.
As he rode closer, Vincent became aware of two male voices, one high and agitated, the other calm and nearly inaudible. He realized at the same moment that, if he could hear them, they most certainly could hear the purring of the motorcycle engine. He pulled up to the curb and turned the key in the ignition. All sound stopped except for the voices, especially the high, quivery voice that seemed full of unease, and Vincent thought himself fortunate that the two men had been too involved in their conversation to notice his approach.
He crossed with silent running steps to the other side of the street to the corner where the car had turned and listened as the words of the men became distinguishable. They seemed to be having an argument of some kind, and it was obvious after a moment of listening that one was not at all pleased to see the other. A quick peek around the corner of the building he stood against showed him the scene: one man, the one who had gotten out of the brown car which was now parked against the curb, stood on the sidewalk, wringing his hands nervously. He looked to be in his mid- to late-forties and was fairly nondescript except for the fact that he was nearly bald. The other man was taller and younger and nearly the complete opposite of the man he was talking to: composed with a full head of dark hair and wearing a crisp suit and a pair of dark glasses even though it was nighttime. He looked very like a Turk, Vincent thought immediately, and, even though he knew it was impossible because of the poor lighting, he could almost believe that he saw the bulge of a gun under the suit over his heart. This man stood on the steps to a house, presumably the other man's house, leaning casually against the railing as he spoke with his arms crossed over his stomach.
"How do you know where I live?" the older man asked shrilly in a voice that easily carried over to where Vincent was standing.
The man in the suit shushed him at once. "I don't want to have to ask you again, Mr. Harrows, to keep your voice down. I'm sure this isn't something you want your wife and children to know about."
A pause followed in which Vincent could hear the erratic breathing of the older man. Finally, in a quieter voice, he said, "All right, all right. But what do you want? I made the drop off, just like you told me. You said you'd leave me alone as long as I wasn't late."
The man in the suit sighed. "Mr. Harrows," he began, addressing the other as if chiding a small child, "the deal was that you would drop off two cases of assault weapons, specifically the rifles we asked for. However..." Here, there was another pause, and Vincent could hear the older man shuffling his feet nervously on the sidewalk. "...when we opened the second of the two cases, in it we found, not assault weapons, but money. Money, Mr. Harrows. Did we ask you for money?"
"Well, no," the man, Mr. Harrows, began to answer, "but you see, when you came to me I didn't have the materials to make the number of guns you wanted. I ordered them, but they won't be here for another day or so. I thought that maybe if I gave you some money now, I could bring the weapons later, and..."
"You thought we would forgive your little mistake and let you try again, is that it?" the man finished for him, causing Mr. Harrows to stumble over his words until he fell silent. "Well, I don't have to tell you that we're not predisposed toward mercy." There was a pregnant pause and Vincent got the distinct impression that the man had pulled out a weapon. He wanted to glance around the corner of the building again, but he held back, not trusting his luck enough to believe that he could do it a second time without being noticed. A quick scan of the area made him aware of a ladder leading up to the top of the structure (a small apartment building) he was using as cover. Moving quietly, he strode over and, grabbing ahold of one rust-covered steel rung, began pulling himself up. Within a few moments, he was clambering over the top of the wall and onto the roof.
No matter now that he was a few houses away. He could see both men perfectly from his new position and could still hear every word. The man in the suit had indeed pulled out a weapon, a small silver pistol, and was holding it loosely in his right hand as he continued to talk in that calm, honey voice about how they expected perfection from those they dealt with. Mr. Harrows had gone completely white and still, and Vincent wished that the police had issued him a weapon, or allowed him to carry one of his own. He couldn't let this happen. Doubtless, the man in the suit was part of the organization and this meeting was about a botched protection drop-off. It seemed almost anti-productive to kill off one of the shop-owners they'd been stealing from, but perhaps they wanted to send a message with his death: don't mess with the organization.
Vincent watched in silent horror as the man in the suit came up beside the older man and held the gun up beside his head. Mr. Harrows was muttering almost incomprehensible pleas for his life, shaking like a leaf, but the man didn't seem affected. Vincent was surprised to notice that he himself was also shaking a little and that he had broken out into a cold sweat. It had been a long time since he'd seen anyone executed, by his own hand or anyone else's, and it felt like this was his first time witnessing it.
"Good bye, Mr. Harrows," the man said, and pulled the trigger. Vincent tensed in expectation of the noise and blood, but there was nothing. Instead of falling down dead with a bullet hole over his ear, Mr. Harrows glanced fearfully over at the gun, still trembling violently. There was a small flame protruding from the end of the small silver barrel, flickering in the night air. A lighter, not a gun. The breath left him in a whoosh and he fell to his knees as if about to send up some prayer of thanks for his life. The man in the suit began to laugh quietly as he stepped around the older man and began to walk leisurely down the sidewalk, plucking a cigarette out of a pocket and lighting it with the end of the barrel. He then pocketed the lighter and raised the hand with the cigarette in it to the night sky. A pair of bright headlights came on suddenly from down the street and a black car rolled into view. The man took a long drag on his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and stepping into the door that opened for him.
Vincent hurried across the roof and down the ladder, but the car was already driving away by the time he reached his motorcycle. He tried following them, but he was far enough behind that when they reached an intersection and turned in a direction that would lead them out of the south side of town, he was cut off by a couple of cars and had lost them by the time he was able to turn.
At least he'd managed to get the license plate number.
"False."
"What?" Vincent turned from where he'd been examining a map on the corkboard that looked as if someone had been using it as a voodoo doll for all of the pins sticking out of it to mark off the shops that had been hit.
"They were false plates," Chief Inspector Neilson repeated, coming fully through the door and sitting wearily into his chair, taking idle note from the clock on his wall that it was nearly midnight. "Thanks for bringing this to us anyway, Mr. Valentine. Actually, I wasn't expecting you to be back here tonight. I thought it would be too soon to anticipate you finding anything."
"So did I," Vincent muttered, turning back to the map. "And, it seems, we were correct."
"No, I wouldn't say so. You've seen in one night more than any of us have seen in two months. I'd say that's something."
Vincent turned again and Neilson gave him a look as if to say, 'It's true'. "I don't know where we've been looking, but we had no idea that they were running a protection racket, though now that we know it seems an obvious conjecture."
"They may only be extorting protection from the weapon shop owners," Vincent said, turning his back fully to the map and putting his good hand into a pocket. "They wanted assault weapons from the man I saw, not money. This makes it more likely that it is the organization that was in Neo-Midgar, and that they are still weapon-running to other cities. Perhaps this knowledge can be used to an advantage; other weapon shop owners may also be paying protection to the organization. Maybe if one can be talked into letting someone come along as a witness, they can be followed back to their central hub."
"That's a good plan, Mr. Valentine. And I think I'll ask you to do it. I wouldn't want any of my men to go into this and treat it like a bust. It has to be very subtle so that they don't suspect they're being followed, and then you can report the location to us and we'll take it from there."
Vincent nodded and began to walk out of the office. At the door, Neilson called him back with a, "Hey."
Vincent glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised in question.
"Don't you ever say 'good-bye' when you leave?" Neilson asked, obviously teasing.
A smile tugged at the corner of Vincent's mouth. "Good-bye, Inspector Neilson," he intoned with the utmost solemnity, and then left for home.
Both Elira and Pegatha were asleep when he arrived. Taking care not to make too much noise, he took off his coat and boots and then headed into the bedroom where he proceeded to change for the night. He was somewhat hungry, but the thought of food was nothing compared with the thought of bed. He'd gotten so used to sleeping at ten o'clock that even midnight seemed a very late hour to be coming home.
Once he was changed, he removed his prosthetic arm and climbed carefully into bed with Elira, mindful not to wake her. He hadn't been lying down more than a few seconds before Elira was snuggling unconsciously back into him, toward his warmth. Smiling, he shifted up behind her and draped his right arm over her abdomen. As if she had been waiting for this all night, Elira sighed in her sleep.
Vincent closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair, and let himself begin to drift off. There was no feeling in the world like this one, and he hoped there would never be a time where he would be without it.