A/N: Thank you to everyone who continued to read this after the train wreck that was Chapter 4. If you don't get the minor reference to Nanaki, don't fret. It's not all that important.

Also, I forgot to mention in the last chapter – if you haven't already, check out "Rehab." Chronologically, it falls between chapters 3 and 4 for Nola, but I didn't think it should be included as part of this.

Vincent's POV

NOLA: Part 5

Lifer

I don't know why I am here.

The few curious glances directed my way speak volumes. They don't know why I'm here, either. But even I couldn't superimpose displeasure on their faces if I tried. They don't know, but they don't mind either, it seems.

Honestly, I could probably attribute it to pragmatism. I don't have a home to return to in the traditional sense. I've spent most of my recent days traveling – reacquainting myself with the world that seemed to have changed so drastically during my slumber. I thought I had found a small piece of life in the Forgotten City, but the Remnants have left a bitter taste in my mouth for the place – at least for the time being. And my only obligation is to Nanaki – and it is a loose one at that. Though, I couldn't rightfully just stay here…

Perhaps couldn't isn't the right word. Wouldn't.

I acknowledge that my solitude is self imposed. Not that I ever felt I belonged with these people, but at the same time I know they would accept me. Not for my merit, not for deserving, but for these foolish fighters' inability to refuse anyone. Even the Turks – the closest thing AVALANCHE still has to sworn enemies – the group of individuals who had taken so much from them, on many levels – are seemingly welcome at the impromptu gathering.

A celebration of a supposed victory. The death of the Remnants. The second – and hopefully final – defeat of Sephiroth. All of which could be linked back to my inability to act as a man is meant to – but that is a train of thought for another time.

What is there to celebrate, truly? As the adage goes, we have merely treated the symptom in lieu of the disease. We are no closer to a cure.

Though I suppose if one were motivated by the hope for the future as opposed to regret for the past, a celebration should be in order.

I really don't know why I am here.

I feel him approach more than I hear him. Silent feet, even away from the job. Veld must have liked this one, though I couldn't be sure he had lived long enough to meet Tseng.

We sit in silence for a long moment – he sipping his beer, myself more watching than drinking the amber liquid I hold loosely in my good hand. I imagine he is attempting to make it seem companionable, but I don't think even he buys into his rouse. We are not old friends. We aren't even allies, but I know him perhaps more than he would be comfortable with. Or rather, I know how he operates. I know his training. In this moment, neither the projected nonchalance nor the seeming levity of the occasion changes the dynamics of the situation. He is a predator and I am his prey.

"Sometimes I wonder why I still do this."

The first step of his trap set. Appeal to my sensibilities – or at least what he presumes my sensibilities to be. Simple. Perhaps not as simple as blackmail, or even strong-arming, but statistically, according to the "Research" part of the Department of Administrative Research and Development (which, in truth, is neither as innocuous nor misleading of a name as some might claim), more effective. Too bad I had been part of that particular research assignment.

"You were right, you know? We are just following the directives of a ghost – a ghost whose visage grows fainter every moment."

Emotional bribery. A more nuanced tactic, but also statistically proven effective. Stroke a man's ego before you pad his wallet. A man had to, on some level, be already interested in a proposition before he could be bought out, or at the very least not be fully opposed. You can't buy that which is not for sale. It is against human nature, though, to shy away from that which causes oneself pride.

"You cling to what you have to, though. A tattered, old rope isn't much – but it's enough to keep you out of the well for now."

Despite the lack of an outward reaction, there is a sort resonance in me at Tseng's words. This move is truly skillful, and courageous to boot. Use information on your target to level the playing field. Exploit his or her fears, but not for the sake of intimidation. Convince your prey that you are just another wounded animal, lost in the woods. You are the same. A shot in the dark in this instance, as Tseng could not possibly begin to fathom the depths and elusiveness of my fears, but the barb found its mark.

We aren't the same, though. Not quite a reflection, either. I can't see enough of myself in this man for that - but perhaps a harmony. Two strings buzzing at the same frequency, albeit unwittingly.

The well of madness. If a Turk didn't come from it, eventually he would find it. Some easier than others, some more reluctant, but eventually all Turks drank from that well. It was the price to be paid for the lives we lead – retribution for the lives we ruin.

But it will take more than a luckily landed blind blow to force me to succumb to his will.

He knows he has gained some ground, but he does not strike. He paces himself, like a true hunter. Allow the wounded to bleed. Allow them to slow; perhaps they will even finish the job for you – killing themselves amidst their struggle. I am no scared deer, though, and I am perfectly content to wait.

A well timed outburst – Yuffie, of course – from across the room is the opportunity for which he has been waiting. Turn in your barstool, Tseng. Watch the young girl alternate between cries of joy and gags of disgust as Cid feeds her drink she is not legally permitted to partake in. Enjoy the show for a moment. Allow me to breath, to steady my legs and regain my confidence. A wounded animal is much safer lying on the ground, soaking in their own blood than it is back on its feet, reveling in the false security of the illusion that it is getting away.

When he glances at me over his shoulder, he makes a show of letting the smile at the young ninja's antics slowly fall from his face. He wants me to know he has decided to "get down to business," as the saying goes.

"There are things that need tending. People that need eyes on them." His eyes turn back to the group crowding the main room of Tifa's modest bar as his voice trails off. "Perhaps this is our atonement. We spent our lives covertly building the ShinRa Empire – the President's watchdogs. Now we stand guard against the very thing we have built."

There is still the lie in his voice, but it is joined by something new. A small hint of honesty. I cannot deny that the change sparks my interest.

Now, it is my turn to bait him.

"I've been informed that it is foolish to seek atonement for past sins."

"There's a truth in that. A bit morbid, perhaps, but true still." He spends a moment in what appears to be genuine contemplation. He isn't prepared for much verbal challenge from me, as his research surely would have revealed – but he isn't content to merely ignore the question and continue headstrong in his previously determined plan.

The act shows a hint of his character. Perhaps he doesn't not follow orders quite as blindly as his predecessors.

"If not atonement, than maybe it's punishment. Or maybe the wheel just keeps turning and we've finally found ourselves on the downside of things."

I bite my tongue from telling him that the downside for ShinRa is the upside for the rest of the world. He knows, more so than he let's on. You are not the only predator here, Tseng.

If Veld had known you, he surely would have reprimanded you for your eyes. You give too much away. You are not a man coming to some great revelation of the mistakes of his past. You are not trying to find a way to cope with the new order of the Planet. You are a slave sudden free from his bondage, hiding his joy for an ingrained fear of his master's whip.

He continues on conversationally, but I struggle to find the point. He's reciting and it's becoming painfully obvious. I am almost affronted to think that he believes himself able to deceive me.

"I won't pretend to know what you are, Valentine. Thirty years is a long time -"

He let's the moment hang and neither of us miss the significance hidden in that simple statement.

"But there are fields that need tilling. And I know a man with a good deal on an apartment in Kalm."

And there it is. His kill shot. He knows and he wants it to be painfully obvious that he knows. Bastard. Though, I must admire his ability to hold back such a weapon until this late in the conversation.

"I imagine a lot of things have changed since your time. Maybe we don't operate the way we used to before my time. There's no way I can ever know that." He waits for a moment, perhaps expecting a verbal response. His game has been revealed and his eyes show his is disappointed in my lack of reaction to it. He continues to underestimate me and I fear that at this junction he has finally realized his error. Instead of continuing in false nonchalance, he drops the guise of paying attention to the party carrying on, our small conversation beneath its notice, and turns to pin me with eyes full of severity. If he is ready to be transparent, I am grateful.

"Some things don't change. Turks don't retire, Valentine. Maybe they defect, maybe they take a nice long leave of absence, but they don't retire. Our pension plan is a nicely trimmed pine box."

I consider it a courtesy that he seems content to skirt a direct confrontation of the issue. He knows my past, or at least that small part of it, and he's exploiting that advantage – but he isn't gloating. The knowledge may be out, but he won't put language to it. He's leaving me that small modicum of dignity. Unfortunately, I won't honor his victory.

"And why would I concern myself with Turk matters?"

There is a certain sense of smugness to his knowing smile. I recognize it well. A lifetime ago, I was known for the same expression.

He shrugs, as if prepared to drop the issue – but that smirk refuses to leave his face. He spends a moment too long contemplating his beer after taking another modest sip – making a show of turning the bottle, reading the label. A slight of hand, one perhaps a lesser man might miss. Almost magically – or at least that is his intended illusion – a PHS appears next to my elbow.

Now he's just trying to show off.

"Like I said, there's an apartment in Kalm. And you strike me as a man bright enough to figure out how that thing works."

A trap delicately, painstakingly set, yet I can't in clean conscience claim to know if I would fully avoid it.

"I'm staring right back at myself…" – Down, "Lifer"

A/N: Aaaaaaand I'm done. I think this may be my first ever complete multi-chapter fic on here. Go me.