04-17-2016, 02:04 AM
How?
The haggard gunslinger stood rooted in place, his thoughts drowning out the sounds of the clamoring agents. One by one the suited operatives filed out of the room, leaving the shell-shocked Vincent staring down at the various dossiers and miscellaneous documents they had abandoned in their haste. Among this sea of paperwork, the ex-Turk spotted a thin stack of photographs. His translucent hands drifted toward the pile, taking up the glossy images.
How?
In the pale Prime’s hands was an extensive photographic history of his service for the ShinRa Electric Power Company. Among the stack he found images ranging from surveillance photos of his work on-cite in the Laboratory with his dear Lucrecia to snapshots of a near-dead Valentine laying dormant in his coffin beneath the ShinRa mansion. Picture after picture, Vincent thumbed through the years of his life he had spent employed by that wretched corporation. As he progressed through his timeline he even found blurry photos of his time with Cloud, the battle against Sephiroth’s remnants and the struggle in opposition to Deepground. A nigh-unbroken chain of photographic history.
The thought that someone or something had procured such images even from a place like the Omniverse brought on a cold sweat. If Vincent understood the laws of this universe correctly, everything in it must be summoned by a Prime or Omni himself. The few times that he himself had called upon Omni’s ‘gift’, it had required great concentration on what was to be summoned. He posited, therefore, that one must know what they’re summoning. That one might reach into some cosmic, interdimensional grab bag and produce such a complete history by accident made little sense to the Prime.
But that would mean…
As the thought sank in, the gunslinger’s tour through the photographs reached an alarming turn. An image, at first seeming blank. A completely white image save for an intricate, moving fountain, and the shape of a prostrate figure, adorn in scarlet.
The Nexus.
His grip fell slack, the images sliding free from his hands and sliding across the table. Images of a sunny beach, a chaotic battle between a motley collection of combatants in the wilderness, a familiar tattered red cape wrapped around a lifeless corpse, carried down a barren hallway by a group of suited men.
Impossible…
Distant sounds of polished Oxfords click-clacking against sterile linoleum filtered into the room, though the gunslinger could scarcely hear them. Every sense seemed to dull and cease function as the familiar mocking tone echoed through his consciousness.
Mister Valentine…
The haggard gunslinger stood rooted in place, his thoughts drowning out the sounds of the clamoring agents. One by one the suited operatives filed out of the room, leaving the shell-shocked Vincent staring down at the various dossiers and miscellaneous documents they had abandoned in their haste. Among this sea of paperwork, the ex-Turk spotted a thin stack of photographs. His translucent hands drifted toward the pile, taking up the glossy images.
How?
In the pale Prime’s hands was an extensive photographic history of his service for the ShinRa Electric Power Company. Among the stack he found images ranging from surveillance photos of his work on-cite in the Laboratory with his dear Lucrecia to snapshots of a near-dead Valentine laying dormant in his coffin beneath the ShinRa mansion. Picture after picture, Vincent thumbed through the years of his life he had spent employed by that wretched corporation. As he progressed through his timeline he even found blurry photos of his time with Cloud, the battle against Sephiroth’s remnants and the struggle in opposition to Deepground. A nigh-unbroken chain of photographic history.
The thought that someone or something had procured such images even from a place like the Omniverse brought on a cold sweat. If Vincent understood the laws of this universe correctly, everything in it must be summoned by a Prime or Omni himself. The few times that he himself had called upon Omni’s ‘gift’, it had required great concentration on what was to be summoned. He posited, therefore, that one must know what they’re summoning. That one might reach into some cosmic, interdimensional grab bag and produce such a complete history by accident made little sense to the Prime.
But that would mean…
As the thought sank in, the gunslinger’s tour through the photographs reached an alarming turn. An image, at first seeming blank. A completely white image save for an intricate, moving fountain, and the shape of a prostrate figure, adorn in scarlet.
The Nexus.
His grip fell slack, the images sliding free from his hands and sliding across the table. Images of a sunny beach, a chaotic battle between a motley collection of combatants in the wilderness, a familiar tattered red cape wrapped around a lifeless corpse, carried down a barren hallway by a group of suited men.
Impossible…
Distant sounds of polished Oxfords click-clacking against sterile linoleum filtered into the room, though the gunslinger could scarcely hear them. Every sense seemed to dull and cease function as the familiar mocking tone echoed through his consciousness.
Mister Valentine…
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