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Snapshot	By : crystalwind Category: Final Fantasy VII > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 682 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Warnings: Slight language

Prologue – Untitled

Rudyard Verander had wanted to be a doctor his entire life. At least, that’s what he’d wanted since the year he turned 12, which in the eyes of a 15-year-old was close enough to his entire life so as not to make a difference. His 7^th grade science class had taken a field trip that year to the Costa del Sol General Hospital, and it took him less than an hour to decide that some day, he wanted to be one of the men in those white coats.

At 15, he was well on his way to achieving that goal. “Rude” – so nicknamed by his friends and classmates, because Rudyard was too much of a mouthful to bother with – was enrolled in all advanced courses at Costa High, and he was a straight-A student in every one of them. He volunteered at the local animal shelter on the weekends, and was already Treasurer of the Student Council, despite being a mere sophomore. Although he was too shy and socially awkward to play on one of the school’s sports teams, he was still somewhat athletic, and was always up for a swim or a game of football on the beach after school. He was well-liked by the vast majority of the students, and no one doubted that one day he would achieve his goal.

Then, the summer between his sophomore and junior year, everything changed.

Year 479

Early in 478, a man by the name of Rad Traia was convicted for the murder of seven people in Junon, where he was sentenced to life in prison, no parole. In the summer of 479, he escaped.

No one really knew how he’d escaped, except that he wasn’t being guarded by Turks at the time, and so had probably found it fairly easy to do. Turks weren’t often posted outside of Midgar, but they were now on the case, and it was generally agreed that had they been posted as guards initially, not only would Traia have not escaped, but he also would probably have wished for the death penalty by the time the Turks finished punishing him for the attempt.

Unfortunately, the Turks hadn’t been posted as guards, and now they were having trouble finding where he’d gone. There were only so many places where one could hide in Junon, and after nearly a week of searching, the Turks came to the reluctant conclusion that Traia wasn’t there; he had probably skipped town before they were even alerted of his disappearance. Three days after this unpleasant realization, the first team of Turks disembarked from the ship in Costa del Sol.

Rude was fishing at the pier when the ship from Junon pulled into port. Rumors had been flying the past few days that a team of Turks was en route to Costa, and he quickly reeled in his line in favor of watching the passengers disembark. There hadn’t been Turks in Costa del Sol since before Rude was born, and he wasn’t willing to pass up an opportunity to see one up close.

Rude was expecting a group of people resembling James Bond, dressed in expensive suits and equipped with the best weapons and gadgets that money could buy. He was thoroughly disappointed when a handful of nondescript men in plain black suits walked off the ship, no fancy cars or guns in sight and their small travel bags large enough to carry a week’s worth of clothes, but far too small to also carry any high-tech weaponry. Then a young man appeared at the top of the gangway, sporting a large three-barreled handgun and a case that could contain a large-bore rifle slung across his back. His cold gaze scanned the dock carefully, taking in the boy and seemingly dismissing him in the space of a heartbeat; Rude gasped when those crimson eyes passed over him. That was Vincent Valentine.

Vincent Valentine was only in his early twenties, but he was already a legend amongst the Turks, even more well-known than Verdot, the Turks’ Commander. He was rumored to be part demon, and it was said that he could hit anything with his three-headed gun, and never missed a shot.

Watching as his calm red gaze scanned Port del Sol, Rude didn’t find it particularly difficult to believe the stories of Valentine’s marksmanship skills, although he was still less than convinced of his demonic status. Jerry was going to flip when he found out that Rude had gotten to see Valentine in person. Standing and shifting closer to the gangway for a better look as Valentine finally disembarked, Rude nearly stopped breathing when the red-eyed gunman turned and strode over to him as soon as his feet reached the dock.

“Excuse me. Could you please direct us to the Inn?” Rude’s stomach knotted, and he gave a short, jerky nod.

“I’ll show you there.” Rude’s voice came out quiet and slightly strangled. Anyone else probably would have been mortified; he was just thankful that he didn’t stammer, as he often did when forced to speak to a stranger for the first time. Deciding that he’d better not speak again lest he really make a fool out of himself, Rude turned and led the way through the docks, missing the way Valentine’s lips briefly quirked up into an amused smile.

Costa was quiet, the heat of the day keeping many people inside. The sun warmed the cobblestones beneath Rude’s feet and he relaxed slightly once he was no longer looking directly at any of the Turks. It was a pleasant day in Costa, and he debated taking his fishing gear down to the jetty later on, wondering if the Turks would begin their search that day or if they would spend the day recovering from the long trip. He had never been to Junon (or anywhere else outside of Costa, really), but he imagined that a three-day boat ride probably wasn’t all that fun.

Those thoughts led him to wonder what it was like in the city and he became lost in his thoughts, turning automatically towards the Inn when he felt the cobblestones beneath his feet give way to packed sand. He was understandably startled when a loud voice squawked right next to his ear.

“Hello!” Rude closed his eyes and sighed. He’d meant to take the long way around to the Inn; now he had to talk to the damned bird, or it would follow him all the way to the Inn.

“Hello, Rico.” He turned to face the scarlet macaw, glad that his skin was too dark for his flushed face to be visible. This was the last conversation he wanted to be having in front of a group of Turks, let alone in front of Vincent Valentine.

“Pretty bird!” Rude rolled his eyes. Rico knew how to say very few phrases, and he almost always said them in the same order. Provided that his unwilling victim responded correctly, the bird would fortunately fly off after a few minutes.

“Yes, very pretty.”

“Fresh fish!”

“Fresh fish to market.” The Turks were all staring by now, and Rude vaguely wondered if it was possible for the earth to open up and swallow him.

“Goodbye!”

“Goodbye, Rico.” Rude sighed in relief when Rico took that as his cue to leave, flapping away to torment someone else. It was almost depressing to think that the bird would likely outlive him, and would therefore be around to annoy him for the rest of his life.

“Does he do that often?” The smooth voice of Vincent Valentine spoke behind him, and Rude didn’t miss the small smirk this time. He shrugged.

“Only every single time you pass by him. You get used to it after a while I guess.” ‘Once you learn that he’s really good at dodging rocks and always bites back…’ Vincent’s smile grew a little bigger, and he gestured for Rude to continue walking, pleased that the boy hadn’t choked up when he tried to speak this time.

“So, what’s your name?” Rude glanced over, startled to realize that Valentine had elected to walk next to him instead of hanging back again.

“Rude.” At Valentine’s look, he shrugged again. “Rudyard. But only my mother ever calls me that.” Vincent chuckled. It had been the opposite for him – his mother was the only person to ever call him Vinny instead of Vincent – but he understood Rude’s chagrin completely. His own mother still called him Vinny, and Rude’s mother would probably always call him Rudyard, no matter how many other people called him Rude. Vincent said as much, and Rude smiled ruefully. The bird would outlive him, and the name would haunt him forever. It was pretty much as he expected.

The rest of the walk passed comfortably, Vincent asking questions about the town and Rude’s schooling, and Rude cheerfully telling him all about Costa and the pains of high school (which Vincent decided hadn’t really changed that much since he’d graduated). By the time Rude dropped the Turks off at the Inn, he was talking with Vincent like he would an old friend, and even managed to stop calling him Valentine in his head. Almost.

The rest of the week passed too quickly for Rude’s liking. He made it a point to wander by the Inn in the evenings, where Vincent was invariably loitering after dinner. The first night Rude had been surprised to see him there; he hadn’t really expected to see any of the Turks, and it was almost as though Valentine had been waiting for him. He spent that evening showing Vincent around, pointing out the jetty where he liked to fish and the areas of the beach where the local teens liked to swim and play ball.

The second night, Rude realized that Vincent had been waiting for him the prior evening, having guessed that Rude would show up at some point. He was almost unsurprised to see Vincent waiting in exactly the same spot as before, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He was, however, surprised to see that Vincent had his triple-barreled gun with him. Vincent eyed him for a moment after he approached, then pushed away from the wall.

“Come on.”

If Rude was surprised to watch Vincent turn around and climb up the wall and onto the roof of the Inn, he didn’t show it. Instead, he hauled himself up behind the Turk, doing his best to copy where Vincent had placed his hands and feet. He only slipped once before he made it to the top. Vincent nodded to himself before sitting in the middle of the roof, pulling his gun onto his lap.

Rude sat down next to him, and Vincent pointed at the gun. “This is Cerberus…”

By the end of the week, Rude could take Cerberus apart and put it back together blindfolded. He wasn’t as good at assembling and disassembling Vincent’s rifle, but he put that down to not having as much time to practice. Vincent was pleased with his quick progress, praising him when he did the disassembly and reassembly in less than three minutes.

Much of their time together that wasn’t spent stripping weapons was spent with Vincent talking about his life in the city and with the Turks, and debunking (or verifying) some of the rumors about the Turks or himself. He laughed and shook his head when Rude finally worked up the nerve to ask him about the demon rumor; that one had been started when Vincent was a Trainee, and was based solely on the color of his eyes. Vincent also denied the claim that he never missed a shot, although he did admit that it was rare that he didn’t hit his target. The rest of the time Rude surprised himself by talking to Vincent about himself, including his dream of becoming a doctor one day. Vincent nodded at that.

“It’s a good dream to have. Don’t get so focused on being the best to get into med school that you forget how to be a kid, though. You still have your whole life ahead of you; you’ll wake up one day and wonder what ever happened to your teenage years. Trust me; I’m not that much older than you, and I’m already there. Don’t get so focused on one dream that you close yourself off to all other possibilities, either. You’ll live the rest of your life wondering what else is out there if you do.” Rude thought of the Costa del Sol General Hospital, and of the city that Vincent had described to him the other day, and couldn’t help but agree. If he became a doctor here in Costa, he’d never leave… and he’d always had a fascination for the city, even if he never really let himself dream about it.

When the Turks left at the end of the week, prepared to continue on and search Corel and the Gold Saucer areas for Traia, Rude accompanied Vincent to the port where an SUV shipped over from Junon awaited him, surprised at how unhappy he was to see the Turk go. Vincent turned to him and shook his hand solemnly.

“Remember what I said the other day, Rude. You have the rest of your life ahead of you.” Rude nodded, looking down at the ground. He doubted that Vincent had meant for him to throw his dream completely out the window and run for the city, but he couldn’t help wanting to do just that; how much of his so-called-dream of being a doctor was just because everyone expected him to do it? Everyone around him had approved of his goal so quickly that he had never given it a second thought; now he was confronted with a different possibility, and he didn’t know what to do. Vincent gripped his chin, forcing him to look back up.

“You have two more years to decide what you want to do. I’m not telling you to give up on your goal, just making sure you look around and make sure it’s what you really want to do. When the time comes to decide, you’ll know.” Rude nodded, and Vincent released his chin to pat him on the shoulder, smiling and turning to climb into the car. He didn’t look back, but Rude stood on the street anyway, watching until the vehicle disappeared on the road out of town.

Two weeks later, a news report stated that Rad Traia was dead, killed in a confrontation with the Turks. He was killed by a three-round burst to the head.

Year 481

Rude waited with 18 other students in the school auditorium, listening to the high school’s Dean give an interminably long speech about “travelling on to bigger and better things”… whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. He was as relieved as the other graduates in his small class when the speech ended, and the graduates were told to move their tassels from the right to the left. They were finally done with high school.

As expected, Rude graduated at the top of his class with full honors. He had been accepted into Midgar Medical School, and was invited to begin classes there that fall. He smiled when the townspeople came over to congratulate him after the ceremony ended, shaking hands and agreeing that he was “very excited about travelling to Midgar.” His mother simply smiled when people mentioned how proud she must be of her oldest child.

A week later, Rude boarded the ship to Junon. None of his friends or the townspeople were there to see him off; the only people who knew he was going were his family, and they had already said their goodbyes that morning. His mother was too emotional with goodbyes to see him off at the dock. Rude stood at the railing as the ship left port. A pair of mirrored sunglasses – a parting gift from his brother and sister – hid the unshed tears that made his eyes gloss over as he watched his home disappear in the distance for the first time in his life.

The breeze skimmed over his newly-shaved head as he stood there, taller and more broad-shouldered than he had been two years ago. A lot had changed in those two years…Rude stood out on the deck long after Costa disappeared, idly fingering an envelope in his pocket. It was signed by a man named Verdot, and had a bold T stamped on the front. He took a deep breath and stepped away from the railing, eyes dry and giving no indication that leaving home upset him. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and turned away from the railing, instead facing east towards Midgar… and his future.

A/N:
So, I haven’t played Before Crisis, and therefore I was confused as hell about who Veld was. Then I discovered that Veld = Verdot, and all was well.

Vincent Valentine rocks.

I don’t know how long it would actually take to field strip Vincent’s gun and reassemble it… I suspect that a revolver might be easier to strip than a 1911, which is what I estimated my time off of (and it’s still just a ridiculous estimate… could probably be done faster but I’ve never done it myself and so have no real basis for my timing…), but I figure Cerberus is probably fairly complex, so however long it *actually* takes to break down and reassemble the average handgun, 3 minutes for Cerberus sounds pretty good to me :p

Please excuse the ridiculous ooc-ness and au-ness on the part of the Turks… There are certain parts of the FFVII plot that I’m going to ignore or completely twist around in favor of having my characters do what I want them to do :p

And in case anyone is curious, Year 479 is the same year that Reno gives Axel up for adoption, over in Fallen.
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