The machine would have no final words; its only threnody would be the last dying embers shot from its transistors. "Pity," the tall, silver-haired man thought to himself. "Gast's inventions always seemed to emit a cry, but you never imbued your creations with emotion, did you Hojo?" The scorched metal merely sat there in oblique defiance, the stone lance beginning to tilt at a precarious forty-five degrees. "Did you?!?!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, his boot lashing out in a direct course for the steel plate labeled: "Shin-Ra". His Mako-infused green eyes seemed to burn into the semi darkness as he inspected the effectiveness of his brutal kick, the plate was irreversibly bent inwards on itself, driven through the generator's "chest".

Unsatisfied, the man let his rage carry his frame, dreamlike, towards the fallen Myrthil idol crafted in the shape of Jenova. He stood over the grotesque female; its former glory had rusted over from the cave's moist air, and he thought for a moment that it would still be guarding its horrible secrets if he had not ripped it from its pedestal. "Hello, mother. You've been looking better," his words were cold yet sorrowful, even as he pressed his boot into the pliant metal of the statue's face. It broke inwards, sending fragments the colour of dried blood to rest in its cranial cavity.

Sephiroth had entered the decrepit Shin-Ra mansion two weeks ago, and literally tore each room apart in a desperately futile attempt to alleviate his rage. He could remember it all: how he started at the top in Rufus Shinra's bedroom: his blade slicing cleanly through the mattress; his fist sailing into a full-length mirror, rendering his image into a million disproportionate facets; and worked his way through the kitchen moments later by ripping out the wall-oven and mutilating the suspended sides of meat hanging in the walk-in freezer. And Sephiroth despised his broken memories, memories which left him unconscious for a week and a half because he had fallen through a trick wall in the upstairs bedroom, causing his warrior's body to slam into the cold ground a hundred feet below. It wasn't until he had opened his eyes later today that he saw the rotting spiral staircase which flanked the moss-covered walls.

In Professor Gast's, and later Hojo's swivel chair deep within the tunnel's clandestine laboratory, he pondered what he should do to the conglomerate's mansion after he had finished gutting it. The SOLDIER's veteran's mind sped through the tactics drilled into him by the Shin-Ra manual's section dealing with the destruction of evidence: corrosive acid, materia-induced seismic activity, manual dismantling board-by-board....the list was endless and his imagination was impatient.

Sephiroth closed his Mako-incadescent eyes, leaned back, and propped his heavy, leather-clad boots on the desk's chartreuse velour blotter. An ink stain dotted the upper left corner, shaped somewhat like a comet; a burning comet hurling through the cosmos to crash into the planet, rendering it unto ashes. But what made ashes, he thought, wracking his brain for the simple causalities: explosions, the sun, heat, fire. That was it. Fire. A thin smile spread across his lips, and Sephiroth felt his back prickle in anticipation, like a giddy child. He would burn down this mansion....with cans of gasoline, with blazing torches, and a single match. "No, that won't do. Something to really make this place suffer....for all it has done to me." The image of a block of C-4 grade explosives appeared before him, slowly rotating on an invisible pedestal; the plastique wrapped in thick tan paper with the word, "WARNING-STORE AT ROOM TEMPERATURE" printed in block letters.

Sephiroth stood and walked towards the place where his body had impacted the ground. He had set up several small halogen lanterns, as well as his sleeping bag, under which a snub-nosed Mako-gun rested. Propped up against the tunnel's wall was his backpack; it lay unzipped, the flap looking like a frog's mouth hanging wide open, several C-4 briquettes trapped inside like flies. He unwrapped them all and spent long, orgasmic hours securing them to the upper level's supporting pillars and hardwiring them together. Sephiroth even raided an upstairs armoire, and fashioned a scarecrow out of several pillows and one of Hojo's old, mildewed lab coats before seating it in the basement's swivel chair and strapping the detonation device to it. As he bent to attach the last wire to the timer, the mannequin slumped over, causing a large, dull object to slide out of its pocket and land on the floor with a dull "clang". Sephiroth reached over, and picked the key up, turning it about in his hands.

Instantly he knew what it was.....and he felt extraordinarily angry.....angry because the treasure it unlocked was already taken....by a man named Cid Highwind. Unconsciously, the former SOLDIER's leather-gloved hand touched the skin just below the navel, right where the trash-talking pilot's spear, the Venus Gospel, had pierced the soft flesh. His treasure, pirated off to Rocket Town to assume the missionary position for a drunkard.....it wasn't fair to do something like that to a treasure so beautiful and yet so fragile.

Rage found him at the storage-room's door, pride found him turning the key in the lock and stepping through the decaying, wooden portal. Sephiroth stood there, his nostrils taking in the familiar stench of wet decay and arid dust....two of the three coffins lay open; he knew their contents and couldn't resist the temptation to peer into them both. Gast was but a skull, sternum, ribs, spine, and dust laying on a grey, ripped laboratory coat, the laminated I.D. badge with his photo and the Shin-Ra logo on it was covered under a thin layer of bone soot. The other casket held Ifalna, Aeris Gainsborough's mother. All that remained of the woman was a hair ribbon....her Cetra magic had long since led her form beyond the promised land. Sephiroth stopped, and shuddered when he took the ribbon. It was made of a soft and slippery blood-coloured satin, but the memory it held was beautiful, and it caused the warrior to lose his balance momentarily.

"I forgive you everything, Sephiroth," the familiar voice whispered, then slipped away like a passing breeze.

The last coffin was closed, reverently almost, as if the dead within hadn't reached the venerable state of decay his companions-eternal had. Its ebony lacquer shimmered under a layer of fine dust, as if it knew it was supposed to be buried in the ground, and not left to creak and groan in a cave. He found himself tracing the intricate, engraved pattern of English ivy before reaching under the lid and throwing it off, exposing what he expected to be an empty bed of satin.

Instead, Sephiroth's eyes grew wide in shock; the green irises submerging to enlarged pupils that spread like ink on a sheet of toilet paper. His lower lip trembled, and his own arms found their way across his chest, holding himself tightly. "Oh....Vincent.......no.....," he whispered, tears of sorrow streaking down his normally-stoic features.

Vincent Valentine lay in the coffin, his cold, alabaster body encased in the tattered crimson cape and black garb he wore underneath it. His raven tresses splayed out underneath his head; soft tendrils which Sephiroth took in his hand and stroked affectionately. Vincent's closed eyelids didn't even flicker as another hand explored his face, tracing the fine contours that were so evocative of the quiet man's personality: the fierce warrior guised as a harmless lotus. "You don't deserve....this," he said before he bent into the narrow box and scooped the frail-looking vampire out of it.

He jogged, the lightweight frame of his companion draped securely over his shoulder as he armed the timer strapped to "Hojo's" chest; five red, digital minutes began to tick away quietly. Sephiroth rubbed Vincent's back and smiled gently at the burden. "Vincent, please hold on tight," he whispered before sprinting out of the lab, through the tunnel, grabbing his bag as he dashed up the spiral staircase. He reached the landing in record time, minutes more to spare when he mounted the banister between his legs and slid downward. The warrior's battle-worn frame made its way to the double doors, sending them both off their hinges with a powerful flying kick.

Next to go were the pillars, one after the other. The infrastructure groaned as if it was punched in the ribs; it teetered precariously, held up only by the walls, then stood strong. By this time, Sephiroth had checked into Nibelheim's inn, tucked Vincent into the king-sized bed, and was staring out the window at the halation of people which had gathered outside the gates of the flaming edifice. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a box with a red button and an antenna on it. His thumb found the switch and gave it a push.

The bomb Sephiroth had wired into the chandelier used the remaining ten pounds of his C-4, and did not waste a single milligram of plastique when it was detonated. Simultaneously, all the windows of the old mansion blew outwards in uniform explosion as a perfect orb of fire ripped through the building. Everything inside, ghost or otherwise, was now burned off from the small town's geography. And he sat calmly in a plush, midnight-blue velveteen armchair, drinking coffee.

Vincent Valentine awoke with a start in what had to be the warmest, most comfortable bed he had ever lain on in his entire life. The first thing he noticed was that he wasn't in his coffin; the second was that his cape was missing from his shoulders, as were his Myrthil-plated boots from his feet. The shock of displacement was nothing compared to the way the blankets were tucked up about his shoulders; in a way that could only be described as gentle and compassionate. In spite of himself, the ageless vampire smiled a secret grin, then brushed back his hair with a set of five elegantly digits, each one thin and pale as if it were carved from marble.

A larger, tanner, and more muscular hand wrapped about his wrist gently; what seemed to be a long, soft white spider's thread dropped out of nowhere, curling at the tip. Vincent peered at it cautiously, then reached up and gave it an inquisitive tug.

"Mmm....at least I know you're awake now," whispered a familiar voice. The vampire blinked in response, his crimson irises trying desperately to adjust to the drastic change in the amount of lighting. All that he was able to discern was a shadow peering over him through the blur of the light.

"Whoever you are...," Vincent began softly, trying to express the amount of gratitude he felt for being tucked so lovingly into a warm bed; something he had missed greatly. "Thank you....for taking me with you."

"Had you not been who you are, I wouldn't have bothered. Random acts of kindness....are something I've yet to learn, Vincent." At the sound of his name, as spoken by that voice, the vampire struck one rigid, uniform moment, each bone in his body snapping into an attack configuration it learned from years of practice with the Turks. Sensing this, Sephiroth gently pinned his companion's squirming shoulders into the mattress, rendering them immobile. "Relax. I will not harm you."

"That is what you said to Aeris."

"I won't argue the colour of the horses before they were skeletons. And you know that I've never harmed you personally in the past....I would never do that to someone like you." The raven-haired man ceased his struggles and allowed his frame to relax under the stronger man's palms as his mind raced through his photographic memory, searching for a time when the former SOLDIER had brought him pain of any sort.

"Sephiroth is right......he's never laid a finger on me. Not even during the final battle was I even affected by one of his spells," he thought quietly.

"There, you see?" He asked, smiling warmly at his captive. The former Turk was indeed, quite beautiful: his lithe body designed for speed and accuracy, yet was belied only by his obvious physical frailty. And Vincent's skin was so pale....so lifeless that it made the moon's aura seem dull in contrast; the garnet eyes which saw its own body and mind suffer on countless occasions, would never deviate from their rich, sanguine colour.

"Or rather, I don't....it's kind of bright in here, Sephiroth. Would you mind...?" He was cut off mid-sentence when the bedside lamp was clicked off. Instantly, his genetically-enhanced eyes were able to focus without pain, his captor's visage slowly coming into view.

Long before he was placed in the coffin by Hojo, Vincent Valentine had known of Lucrecia's son. The youth had grown strong and beautiful by the age of eighteen, oftentimes stopping by the Turks' executive offices to eat lunch with him. None of his compatriots, not even Tseng was brave enough to get close to the enigmatic leader of Shin-Ra's elite enforcers; Sephiroth's young presence was always welcome.

"I'm going to join SOLDIER, and rise to the top someday, Vincent. You'll be so proud of me!" He exclaimed once as the raven-haired man finished wiping his lips with a paper napkin.

" You definitely have potential, Sephiroth. Just be careful, okay?"

"You're not afraid I'll get hurt, will you?"

"I fear no pain....but I fear the loss of you, young one." His own words made him shudder to this day; he prophesized his own death as a human, at the hands of the father who, with his only love, had produced his only friend. The irony was painful, even as the bullet pierced his chest and stopped his heart.

The younger man sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his hair back, securing it with an elastic band. He turned to Vincent and smiled gently, the reluctance in his brilliant green eyes evident right before he would ask the question his friend would dread. Yet, he had to know....he had to know..... why again?

"Vincent....may I ask you something?"

"Go ahead. It's not like I have a choice in the matter. And even if I did say no, you'd kill me....just like Zack," he whispered, trembling in fear. Zack had so much potential as a warrior...until the day he'd found the Masamune driven through his stomach. Fortunately, the youth was murdered in Hojo's lab; spilled blood was so common there that another puddle wouldn't matter. Yet, Vincent cried to himself when he slid the SOLDIER's body down the incinerator chute, closing the metallic door before slumping against it. Just as quickly as the memory began, it was concluded with Sephiroth's hand clamping about the vampire's pale neck, giving it a firm squeeze.

"I couldkill you, but I...," his white eyebrows furrowed before he released his prey's windpipe and let his hand fall into his lap. "I just choose not to."

"Why did you take me out of my place?"

"Why were you back in the box?"

The questions were asked simultaneously, each one deflecting off the other, leaving two pairs of curious, shocked irises staring at each other. Vincent drew back, yet was immediately halted by a pair of hands grasping his shirt and a tearful visage pressing against the dark fabric. All he could do was reach up and slowly stroke the long, silver strands which hung below Sephiroth's waist, trying desperately to bring the former SOLDIER some measure of comfort. The black leather of the taller man's trench coat crinkled noisily as the man continued to sob, his salty tears saturating the vampire's garb as his body continued to shake.

"Sephiroth....?"

"I took you because.....," he looked at Vincent square in the face, his Mako-green eyes awash with tears that left burning trail marks down his high cheekbones. The SOLDIER swallowed thickly and cleared his throat as he struggled to find the words which would somehow appease the vampire's nondescript expression. "Because I couldn't let you die, Vincent. I couldn't just let you stay in that goddamn box, atoning for sins which you didn't even commit. Your soul has been tortured enough....to let you torture it more wouldn't be fair."

"There's more, isn't there?" The vampire continued to stroke the silver mane, not minding that his other arm automatically snaked about the warrior's back and held him close, letting the taller man seek sanctuary upon his chest. "He wouldn't have taken me for that reason alone....Sephiroth is too calculating to come up with one direct answer," he thought, breathing quietly so as not to disturb the former psychopath.

Sephiroth dried his eyes and looked up at Vincent imploringly. Searching for something to reciprocate the feelings, something deep within the alabaster creature which held him so tightly. Something more than a mere measure of comfort or a friendly hand on his shoulder....something far more than what he could possibly expect from the vampire. His heart beat faster as he rose to his knees and placed both of his hands firmly on Vincent's kneecaps, steadying him in case he should suddenly pass out from the vertigo which plagued his mind.

"Vincent.....I brought you with me because I......I love you....," he finished, swallowing thickly yet again. "I've loved you ever since you were a Turk.....even after you shot me in the heart at out last confrontation. I didn't let Cloud or the others kill me...it had to be you...because I knew you wouldn't let me feel pain."

"Sephiroth....I....," Vincent found himself cut off mid-sentence when the former SOLDIER pressed his lips against his own, kissing him gently, tentatively. And in that one instant, all the pain dissolved from the silver-haired man's soul, burning like writing paper; ashes floating up, then bursting like small fireworks. The vampire resisted at first, trying to pull away, but his body knew better, and clung tightly to his lover, refusing to let go. Wrapping his legs about Sephiroth's slender waist, he pulled the taller man on top of him, eliciting a curious look.

"Vincent? Why were you in the box? I thought you were with Cid?" He asked, tracing a few lazy fingertips across the finely-delineated facial contours of his companion, savouring the soft feel of the flawless skin against his own. "Forgive me...I don't mean to pry, but when I saw you in your hibernation...you looked....grief-stricken?"

"Cid married Shera, and denied anything ever happened between us. No one really seemed to want me around, anyway....not even Cait Sith or Reeve for that matter. I decided to return to the only place I felt welcome." He stroked Sephiroth's muscular back, longing for the stronger man to remove his trench coat, which obscured the feeling of the contours. Vincent reached up and tugged imploringly at Sephiroth's lapels, his desire evident in his garnet irises, which shone brightly in the darkened room.

"That's not true, vampire, and you know it."

"Well then, who could possibly want me?"

"I do," Sephiroth covered his lover's face with several light kisses before returning to Vincent's soft lips, melting upon them. Slowly, the kissing became more intense. more erotic; both men sighed happily as each one removed the other's shirt, running over the bared chests with curious fingers. The only sound was that of their quiet breaths, drawn in, then expelled quietly.

"But Hojo....look at what he did to me....," Vincent's index finger outlined the paths the surgical scars etched across his chest and stomach. "I am unsuitable for you, Sephiroth."

"He did the same to me," the former SOLDIER traced his own scars. " 'Child of Jenova', my ass. But you know what, Vince?"

"What?" He could already feel the tears welling up in his eyes, spilling over mercilessly. No amount of biting his lower lip would stifle the outpouring of emotion, of needing someone to comfort him in the darkest hours of his life.

"He's dead....and we're not." The kiss became passionate, their tongues dueling quietly with one another as the silver-haired man reached up with his thumb, and stopped all tears between the two from then on.