When one door shuts... [Complete]

[touchofcrimson]

Characters: Zolf J. Kimbley, Vincent Valentine
Setting: Entrance Room
Time: Day 15
Summary: Arrival of a new houseguest.
Warnings: Uh. Mild violence? As Raile says, they get on like a house on fire.

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[touchofcrimson]

Too late, Kimbley heard the footsteps behind him. So he wasn't alone. The voice was male, low, and carried no hint of friendliness. With that kind of tone, one might hesitate to face its source.

Instead, he closed his eyes again, seemingly ignoring the newcomer for the moment, concentrating on the door. It felt like any other door he'd encountered, mostly wood, metal in the hinges. So why was it still standing?

Well, perhaps the unknown man would be of use in this matter.

"I see," he said smoothly, turning away from the entrance to finally acknowledge the other's presence, leaning one shoulder casually against the door. Touching his finger to his hat in greeting, he nodded at the other, eyes traveling over the gun, the vividly red outfit, up to that rather pale visage, and --

He was far too pale, but the red eyes were a definite Ishbalan trait that couldn't be hidden. Perhaps it was one of mixed blood. His smile stretched slightly wider.

"And why not?" he countered, seemingly unconcerned with the gun in his face. It wasn't exactly his first encounter with such treatment, especially from someone with revenge on their mind.

[nightmareofsin]

Vincent watched the man through narrowed slits, his eyes widening slightly as he turned around--

He--

Images of Hojo's last moments--last known--flashed quickly through his mind, disorienting him; he half-reeled and his expression darkened as creases of memory and anger lined what could be seen behind the cloak. His voice dropped dangerously, the gun following Kimbley as he moved--was this...? The cocky hat tilt, that smile... that wasn't...

He didn't move, blocking the entranceway with his considerable height.

"It won't open."

[touchofcrimson]

Kimbley pushed off the door now, straightening himself as he took a pocketwatch out, examining it with an unconcerned air. Two o'clock. He was going to be late. He continued favoring the other man with a calm smile, tucking the pocketwatch away as he focused his gaze not on the gun, but on that strange face.

"And why won't it open? Did you shut it?" His eyes flicked left and right momentarily, gauging the room. Open space, he could use, but for the moment, it amused him to let the gunman have his say. He hadn't shot him on sight, after all, which was a big mistake for him. Quite fortuitous for Kimbley, considering the man was well within range.

[nightmareofsin]

"It was shut when I got here." Vincent's tone was flat and factual, but his voice was rough--gravelly, even, as though he hadn't used it in several years. He stared the man down, his eyes taking in little details--a strand of hair, the curve of the smile, the yellow (...yellow?) iris set in the sclera. He didn't move when Kimbley reached into his clothes, his muscles tightening imperceptably, prepared to take him out in a single shot if it proved to be a weapon.

Instead the man drew out a watch, which he studied briefly before returning it to its place--Vincent, however, did not return the gun to its holster, apparently capable of holding it cocked, steady, and aimed indefinitely, his finger fitted snugly around the trigger.

"Who are you?" It was not so much a question as a demand.

[touchofcrimson]

The second statement finally garnered an involuntary reaction from him, one eyebrow raising as the smile twitched minutely, covering his confusion. He slipped his hands into his pockets, returning the study, lingering on pointed boots and gold automail.

"I am the Crimson Alchemist," he said carefully, watching for any hint of recognition. There was a gun in his face, but not for the reasons he'd thought, apparently, unless this set off the man. "Lieutenant-Colonel Kimbley, at your service," he added, with just a trace of mockery, if one listened hard. "Have you been here long, then, Ishbalan?"

Even as he spoke, he readied himself to move, gaze shifting over the man's shoulder briefly, looking for movement.

[nightmareofsin]

Vincent caught every miniscule movement, his eyes and features stiff, a single crease of consternation appearing in his brow. He didn't move from the spot, but his watched Kimbley place his hands in his pockets tensely before the man talked. There was a beat of silence before he finally spoke.

"..........what?"

At least half of what 'Kimbley" said was utter nonsense, and the rest of it was incomprehensible at best; the individual words were mostly understandable, but it was as though he were listening to a language he fully understood but in which none of the words were arranged in any meaningful order.

It was, in short, gibberish.

The most he caught was the title--he must have been some sort of SOLDIER or at least affiliated with ShinRa. He couldn't account for the workings of anything any more, especially not now--he cemented the connection, however, and caught the glance, immediately shifting to block the man's view.

[touchofcrimson]

There was a touch of tension in Kimbley's smile now, eyes narrowing slightly as his perusal of the room was cut off in a manner that left nowhere to look but at the man. He appraised the gunman's expression warily, searching for a trap, a bluff.

Oddly enough, it appeared the man was genuinely questioning. Something was off here -- no recognition of his name, real or assigned, no spark of shock, disgust, or fear. He'd given enough information, it was time to have some of his own. Hands slipped free from his pockets again, turned carefully so that the tattoos were hidden, fingers curled to keep them in shadow should the man choose to look down.

"And you are?"

[nightmareofsin]

".........."

Vincent stared at Kimbley, his red eyes focused and unblinking, his expression hard and searching. The silence stretched out for several long minutes, painful in its intensity and heavy with suspicion--Vincent weighed his answer, debating whether to give the truth or not. He answered on the tail end, waiting it was almost too late to answer at all before breaking the silence, though not the tension.

"Vincent," he replied simply, his voice curt. "Valentine."

He didn't need anything else.

[touchofcrimson]

Kimbley met the stare with his own, keeping the pleasant expression on his face, noting that the man had some strength to keep a gun (a heavy-looking one, at that) pointed firmly at him for such a length of time. He was half-certain he wasn't going to have an answer to his query, before Valentine's voice cut across his thoughts.

Vincent Valentine. The name meant nothing to him. He didn't bother to entertain the thought that he might be a hostage -- his reputation for lack of concern for allies had earned him none, and it wasn't like the homunculi to care for their tools (oh, yes, he knew, but it was working for him so far, so why make a fuss?).

Abruptly, he extended one hand, the very image of a gentleman. One final test -- would he hesitate?

"How very pleasant to meet you, Mr. Valentine."

[nightmareofsin]

Kimbley extended his left hand.

Vincent stared at it, his eyes breaking from the man's face time to fix on the proferred appendage as though perhaps Kimbley had instead presented a lump of gelatin or something equally alien. There were tattoos on the man's hand, some sort of concentric pattern lined with meaningless letters, like a ritual or religious symbol. Odd.

He stood, unable to put up his own hand or take the outstretched limb, the congenial gesture stranding him--his own left hand, heavy and metallic, hung by his side, claws curved like talons. He was unlikely to have taken it, never being one for social overtures or formalities, but now, like this...

... weren't you supposed to use your right hand for it anyway?

[touchofcrimson]

The complete lack of any sort of recognition in Valentine's face cemented the issue for him. Something was very odd here. A muscle tightened in his jaw as he retracted his hand, though he kept his face easy, relaxed. Yellow eyes couldn't help but sharpen slightly, though, as he took one more step closer, refusing to back down from the gun.

"Would you kindly tell me where I am?" He gestured as he spoke, a wide sweep encompassing the spacious hallway, coming back slowly to lightly rest one finger against the barrel of the gun, raising an eyebrow once more. "And why you are pointing a gun in my face, Mr. Valentine?"

[nightmareofsin]

Vincent couldn't help but feel a little ridiculous as Kimbley took away his hand, but that vanished quickly in the the ensuing seconds--Vincent's gaze snapped upwards as Kimbley advanced, his eyes hardening as the man spoke--there was something about the voice, the tone he was taking, that rubbed Vincent the wrong way, the questions almost too familiar, too condescending for civility. The finishing touch, Kimbley reaching out and touching his gun brought his dark brows together as he jerked the weapon back--though not away, the barrel still pointed squarely between Kimbley's eyes.

"If I knew, I would tell you," he growled faintly, the gravel in his voice becoming harsher, his tone more pointed--there was danger lurking underneath the darkened tone. "And I am pointing my gun at you because I do not trust you."

That was as close to the truth as he could manage.

He wasn't going insane. Yet.

[touchofcrimson]

Now there was a reaction, finally. Whether it was from the closed distance or his briefest brush against the gun, he wasn't sure, but there was no mistaking the anger lacing that tone. Kimbley hummed, cocking his head to the side as he stowed his hands back in his pockets, before looking away from Valentine now, about the room once more, leaning slightly to the side to look behind Valentine.

A lack of trust didn't bother him unduly -- he was used to working in such conditions. A previous partnership had ended in a sniper attempt on his life, before he decided to seek better conditions. Still, having a gun barring his way was becoming tiresome. Also, it was clear the man knew nothing of him or his reputation, making such a greeting rather unusual.

"You don't trust me?" he echoed, looking back at Valentine inquiringly, then pointedly at the gun. "And what merits such distrust, Mr. Valentine?"

[nightmareofsin]

Vincent narrowed his eyes, his expression sharpening and his eyes becoming crimson slits. He didn't say anything, but he didn't back up either, suddenly sweeping one arm up and out to block Kimbley--but he did not touch him. "I have reasons," he replied, not backing down from the mocking, pointed tone, falsified niceties or all-too-familiar smile.

He had reasons--he had reason to be suspicious, to be wary, to be on guard, he had reason to suspect Kimbley was something more, reason to think of too many coincidences, too many resemblances to be anything but...

It was all there, all of it, in the smile, in the face, the clothes, the hair and tone and brows. The white suit, the condescending smile and gracious gestures. The formality, the nice veneer and fearless insouciance in the face of that which could probably kill him.

And Vincent was falling for none of it.

[touchofcrimson]

Pale, so pale, with sharp features, was he Xingese? No, he'd never heard of a Xingian with red eyes, unless this was one of Ishbalan and Xingese descent, nearly impossible. And even a Xingian would know what a State Alchemist was.

Whatever was going on, he was fast losing patience. He estimated at least ten, fifteen minutes now he had wasted in fruitless banter. And while the man showed no sign of moving, Kimbley certainly didn't intend to let that stop him.

His smile twisted suddenly, something feral in it now, a hint of teeth. Leaning forwards to stare down (or was it up? he mused) the barrel of the gun, his tone had not dropped from its light, conversational tenor, but the all the mirth had gone from his face.

"Kindly move aside. I do have an appointment to keep, and I am afraid I am late."

So short, sorry. D:

[nightmareofsin]

That cinched it.

Dropping the gun, he snapped it into the holster, beinging his claw up in the exact same second... and seizing the white-suited figment by the throat, all but physically lifting him and slamming him into the wall, his eyes narrowed. They almost glowed red, though his face was still covered by the thick crimson cowl.

"Who are you?"

He had had enough--enough of riddles, of suggestions and mockery and manipulation, enough of allegory...

He was going to get to the bottom of this.

Now.