Hot gasps. Cold skin. Silent sighs.
There was nothing left-was there? Frozen ice, touching him in the heart. Something that always beat with life. Was anyone truly alive anymore? Was he?
Memories were-
Hot pain-
Don't think-
Don't try-
Burning soul-
If one could-
He shouldn't-but he dreamt. Again and again, it was the same dream, over and over, time flowing across water; it rippled and it stirred, but it was still the same tale, the same story that haunted him in his dreams, causing him to the stir uneasily.
Lucrezia.

"You are," President Shinra said in his gravelly voice, a voice scarred from too many years of smoking burning cigars and drinking brandy, with his heavyset frame and his heavy-lidded eyes alert, "a Turk." The smoke from the cigar wafted above him, to drift to the ceiling of the expansive, luxurious, cool-toned office. It reeked of power, of course, but it was power bought with the billions that only he commanded. He observed the man who sat almost slouched in his chair, a posture of easy restfulness, but he saw that the dark eyes glittered, darted here and there.
Vincent nodded, coolly. Of course. Only the best were Turks, and he knew very well that there was no one else with a shot as good as he. And he, unlike the crude SOLDIER, preferred the gun over the sword; it was cleaner, more efficient, and faster. "My mission, President?" he asked professionally, trying to hide the lurking wish to be gone. He did not want to stay near the President, who smelled of money and cigars, of greed and power, of alcohol and death. Like the city outside, slick and silent and dangerous. He wanted to be anywhere but in front of president that he worked for.
Shinra did not miss his distaste; there was very little that the sleepy, lidded eyes missed, and thus he went to the point. "I want you to escort a group of scientists to Nibelheim," he said, flicking his cigar over the ashtray. Ash rained down, like gray snowflakes, tainted with faint ember, into a tray already overflowing with ash and cigar butts. The overflowing ashtray sat on the expensive paneled desk in mute appeal of an attendant. "That is all."
Vincent frowned; it was too easy of a job, it was nothing that seemed to require his professional skills. "May I ask why·?" He shifted impatiently in his blue suit and automatically adjusted his tie and jacket with an unconscious ease that Shinra noticed immediately, and approved. People who worked for Shinra should be professional; it was his money, after all, that was being wasted so liberally in his empire.
President Shinra snorted. "Don't ask questions, Turk. I want you to do this. It is much more important then killing men." Vincent stiffened; Shinra did not miss the fact that he hit home to the young man's pride. Before Vincent had become a Turk, he had been a paid assassin, a killer on the streets before his spies reported him. Even then, Vincent was a professional, with a disdain for messy killing and a disdain for everyone in general.
Vincent nodded curtly. "Fine, then. When am I to leave?" He finished his adjustments and got up, standing tall before the President's desk, in a room overlooking the city of Midgar. The bright lights of the room made the outside even darker then what it was; he could barely see the city, though thousands of lights glittered; he could not see what Shinra called his empire, though the slick metal gleamed. But he did not look at that; instead, he looked at the heavy-lidded president with the sagging cheeks and the thick fingers, studded with gold rings that flickered in shining contemptuousness.
President Shinra laughed, shortly. "So impatient to leave, Turk?" He crushed the cigar butt into the ashtray; the ash flowed over onto the desk, and the quiet orderly, who had been silent all this time, moved forward to pick up the ashtray and clean up the desk, with an apologetic bow to the president, who paid no attention. The president folded his thick, ring-studded fingers together and looked at Vincent. "You leave, of course, today. Arrangements have already been made. I expect you to report from time to time." He turned the chair around to look out the windows, a silent dismissal. The only sound left was the soft brush that the orderly used in cleaning the desk; but even she was silent, her dark eyes bent to her task.
Vincent gave a quick bow to the back of the chair, and left the room.

They took the airplane, him and the scientists, to cross the ocean and half a continent to reach Nibelheim. Why they chose such an out of way place, Vincent did not know; there were plenty of other places nearby that could house such an odd motley. But, he thought, shrugging mentally, it's not my business to know.
He looked out the window of the plane, and saw only endless white. The plane had been circling the small town for quite a while now; the pilot was waiting for the snow to abate before setting down. There were some dangerous winds in the mountains, and the pilot was taking no chances.
He leaned back on his chair, to stretch a little without dislodging the thick covers that was bundled about him. Nibelheim was cold; but the air above was even colder. Everybody, which included even the waitresses, was bundled into thick clothing.
An odd assortment, Vincent mused, thinking about the three scientists that had come on the plane trip to Nibelheim. Three scientists, each as different from each other as night was to day.
Hojo, Vincent thought, unpleasantly. A man obsessed. Anyone could see that the broad-headed sour man was obsessed with his work. With deep-set eyes and long lank hair, Hojo did not care at all about appearances, only concerned with his work and what it brought him. He was unnecessarily rude toward the other scientists on the trip unless it concerned him getting something from them; then and only then was he gentle or even mannerly. He was unquestionably brilliant, of course, but that did not mean he was liked. Even now, he sat alone in his window seat, bundled to nearly the neck in sweaters and coverlets, and typing furiously onto his laptop, his broad forehead creased in thought and his eyes squinted nearly shut.
Dr. Gast sat behind Hojo, chatting to a pretty stewardess. A man with a pleasant face and open disposition, he seemed friendly enough, but in some ways was even more obsessed then Hojo was with his research. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and a voice was lulling, even soothing; he enjoyed talking with others about his research. Even now, he was discussing the effects of mako on animal life, and possible conjectures on exactly what it was, and was probably boring the waitress silly. Vincent sighed and stopped listening to Dr. Gast. A nice enough man, he supposed.
The last scientist that Vincent knew the name to was the only woman in the entire trip, an interesting aberration. Lucrezia. Hojo despised her, believing all women inferior, but that had not bothered the woman at all. Vincent found her the most interesting of all the scientists. After all, it wasn't any day that someone saw a brilliant and capable woman.
She was brilliant, as it turned out, having listened to her argument against Hojo about mako reactors. Hojo was grudgingly forced to back down, as he was losing the argument. And she wasn't at all like Hojo; she was quite friendly, and quite open, and obviously dedicated to her research. With long dark hair and brilliant blue eyes, she completed the picture as a brilliant, capable and beautiful woman.
Lost in his thoughts, Vincent did not notice when another person paused at the aisle that Vincent sat in, and then sat down next to Vincent. "What are you thinking about?" a voice asked.
Startled, Vincent blinked in surprise, and wrenched his eyes away from the window to look at the speaker. She smiled at him and her head tilted in curiosity. "Two cents for your thoughts," she said.
He shook his head and laughed. "They aren't worth that much," he said, giving a faint smile to the woman. Lucrezia laughed, and settled into the seat more comfortably. "Depends what kind of thoughts they are," she said. "But I must admit, you looked as if you were contemplating the universe with that look you had." She leaned to the side of the seat, resting her cheek on her hand. The eyes flashed up to look at his. "So, were you?"
He did not laugh at her amusement, but only looked at her silently. "No," he said, after a moment. "Not at all." He did not want to be taken in her by her friendliness; he had made that mistake before. But I ran, he thought, and then erased the thought from his mind. So he watched her with a closed heart, judging only from the surface of his emotions.
She caught his seriousness and sobered, her smile fading away to a kind of quiet contemplation. "Much more mundane thoughts, I suppose?" she asked, softly. She looked away, at the seat in front of her, her eyes dark and thoughtful. "Far more practical thoughts then I, I suppose."
He did not answer, looking out at the window; it was still snowing, and thickly; white flakes against a background of white. Nothing but white, after all. They were both silent, thinking about personal things, before he spoke, breaking the silence that stretched before them like smooth glass, like an unrippled sheet of water. "Just thinking about why we're going to Nibelheim, I think," he said, finally. He could feel her mood change, to no longer thoughtfulness but to something different, like tension on a stretched string, to a sort of suppressed excitement.
"Ah." Did she sound disappointed? He wondered, but stopped when she broke the silence again. "I don't believe I know your name," she said, turning back to him again, leaning forward in her seat so that she was leaning against the seat in front of her, looking at him. "My name is-"
"-Lucrezia," he finished for her. "I know."
A smile appeared, a flash of white teeth; she looked almost pleased. "I suppose it's your business to know about who you're escorting. However, I don't know your name, and it would be extremely rude for you not to tell me."
He gave her a wry smile; he liked this woman, with her quiet ways and elegant manners; for her wry humor and her pleasant manners; for her personality that was seen. "Vincent," he said. "Vincent Valentine." But he would not make the same mistake again, like he did, so many years ago on the dark streets of Midgar.
"Vincent," she repeated, to herself, to remember. "A nice name. And the Turk, yes?" At his nod, she smiled again. "I've heard so much about you, then. Are you as good as a shot as they say?"
"Better," he said, with no trace of false modesty, and was rewarded with another flash of teeth. She was pretty, with her wavy dark hair and her shaded blue eyes, shaded as they were by her glasses, and her wistful expression. She was, he concluded, very unlike the other scientists in that she made her personal life separate from her work.
"And just as modest as they say!" she said, laughing a little. "How old are you?" she asked, curiously. "You look too young to be a Turk!" She paused a moment, and added, apologetically, "I hope that doesn't offend you."
He shook his head, waving her concern away. "No, it doesn't," he said, looking out the window again. "I'm only twenty-four." "You are young!" she said, laughing. "Only just barely an adult. Though," she said, with sparkling eyes, "I shouldn't say much, considering that I'm only twenty-eight. And you act much older for your twenty-four years, Vincent. You seem older then I am!" She seemed, to Vincent, with her enthusiastic chattering and her smiling eyes, much younger then her twenty-eight years; maybe eighteen, or even nineteen, from the way she was dressed, so casually, with her wavy hair pinned back with a blue and gray pin and her ears dangling with jewelry. Not at all like the brilliant scientist she was supposed to be. Not at all like Hojo and Gast. "And you," he said, "look like very much like an eighteen-year-old." A compliment, he supposed, from the way she blushed a little and instinctively touched the earring on her right ear, smoothing down the end of her long skirt and looking very much like a young girl. "Thank you," she said, and was stopped from saying more when the plane jolted a little and sank, causing everyone's stomachs to lurch a little. She looked up for a moment, and when the plane sank again, she turned to look at Vincent for one last time. "I suppose we're landing now," she said, and smiled. "Finally. Well, I'll see you later!" With that, she got up from the seat to weave her way back to her own seat, for the inevitable landing. He did not say anything, but only watched her as she left, before he turned away and watched the blizzard of white outside the window, glad to be away from the dark, twisting streets of Midgar.
Away from the memories that burned him still.