FFVII: Different Country For Different Men (Vincent/Veld)
ONE MORE FIC I NEVER IMAGINED I WOULD WRITE.
Title: Different Country For Different Men
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Vincent/Veld
Summary: Vincent and Veld take a moment in the middle of Midgar rising.
Warnings: Hello, blast from the past. This fic is the total fault of (deep breath) logistika_nyx, knightlineninja, white_jenna, aikonamika and every other person who mentioned the name "Vincent" to me anytime in the last 24 hours. :D
1384 words and holy shit more worldbuilding, what the hell, and Shakespeare.
Different country for different men, back then.
Click. Static, because PHS grids were not up in old Mideel, and because the infrastructure in the rag-taggle-tumble-fall city of sectors was still sparking and driving men like Reeve to distraction. They kept their sentences short, and legible.
Have you received your rotation missives for this quarter?
I hear we're going to be in it together. Not just you and I, either. Interesting thought, really.
Ah. Midgar?
The recruitment office said that the first flow of immigrants are already settling their roots in.
Setting up shop, you mean.
For a country man, you're very cynical.
I've watched metal and iron bend over backwards in order for this city to get built, Valentine. It changes people.
Well, right. They've booked me on the new trains going in. Leaving at six hundred and two tomorrow morning. I should be there by the late afternoon.
Along with the rest?
There's one with me, the old scarface from Corel. They say we're to pick up three more along the way. That's it, apparently.
The department having ten people in it as it is terrifies me.
Feeling old?
No. Feeling tired, yes.
Hah. Midgar, Midgar.
Kalm is a three hour drive away. I'll leave it at the fact that I haven't had the time to ever make that drive.
You're not saying as much as you should be, Veld.
Grapevine matters.
Talk.
The board is coming together. Defining positions. Making ranks. Making rank, too.
This is going to be the story of your life, isn't it?
I'm glad you find it funny.
You deserve the role, what can I say?
I deserve a cleaner death.
Now you sound like you're thirty-five.
Were it that I actually manage to live that long.
Vincent had to go, and they were both used to the flow and ebb. You waited the days out because you had to. The Science department sucked funding away from the Turks like a drain hole at the bottom of an already emptying tub. Seniority ruled, after all. You paid the men who developed electricity into Mako into a hundred marketable derivatives. You brushed aside the men who tried to mop up the spill and mess of the thousands of trials that went wrong.
Midgar was fantastic. Vincent said as much, alighting at the station with his duffel slung over one shoulder and his rifle propped up against his arm. 'You lucky son of a bitch,' he commented, looking up and down the brand new concrete runs and the rails that were still so smooth you could see your reflection everywhere whenever you walked down stairs or in through elevators.
'Currently, I feel like a vampire,' Veld shrugged, his shoes tap-tap-tapping down the stairs that led the way to the newly-installed inter-Plate subway. 'I haven't seen the sun in weeks.'
'It's not a pretty job, sitting around Corel watching the Engineering department shut down coal mines and taking notes on who pissed off whom,' Vincent said, lips tugging upwards. They nodded at Scarface, who shrugged them off and went for the outskirts; together, they stood waiting for the first of the new line of Shinra express services to pull in.
'I can imagine that they're not very happy with the state of affairs there,' Veld snorted.
'You sly politician,' Vincent said, looking upwards and refusing to smile. Veld looked at him, flat. 'I mean, once upon a time you would have sworn out the engineers and told me that I should've bought pints for the miners. Now you say that and I don't know who you think is worse off. City-boy.'
Veld rewarded Vincent with a low chuckle. The sound of it was almost lost as the train pulled in. 'And I am supposed to call you an uncouth country hack?'
'Taking a look at this city,' Vincent said, rapping his fingers against the freshly coated side of the locomotive, 'it won't be long before you'll be justified in saying that.'
They rode up to the Plate in general silence, the kind that partners wore around each other to keep the words for when they mattered more. Vincent made the occasional joke. Veld made the occasional comeback.
The main offices almost surprised Vincent. 'It looks like we're finally going somewhere in the world,' he whistled, patting his (his?) desk with the palm of his hand. The sniper was better used to sharing one dingy room with one or two Turks and a few odd staff in the middle of whichever godforsaken place the company needed the Turks at.
'Comes with the territory,' Veld said. 'You'll not be interested at all to know how many levels the Science department has.'
Vincent asked, 'How many?'
'Eight,' Veld replied. 'With room for expansion. Discounting the basements.'
'How many do we have?'
'One,' Veld replied, lips twitching.
'We're never going to hear the end of this,' Vincent sighed. 'We have three new rookies, and the first thing they'll see is how pathetic we are?'
'We also have rights to, I believe the official phrasing is "evaluate and exterminate",' Veld reminded him.
'I evaluate the situation and determine the need for a beer,' Vincent pronounced. 'I choose to exterminate your gil for this cause, since I have none of my own.'
'My treat,' Veld drawled, wryly, and took out his wallet to flip through the currency of the new age.
Less cameras in those days, too. Less places to watch, more places to run away to. The sectors were new, and everyone knew everyone. In the fresh plaster of Sector One, Veld had carved out a private niche in a bar that knew his face and what the lapels and leathers meant.
'Private room, not bad,' Vincent summed up, sipping on a Kalmish brew that had recently acquired a brand name, a logo and trademarked glass bottles. Veld knew the owner, or he thought he did. 'Moving up in life, definitely.'
'I think I almost preferred it when we used to starve on the field rations that they came up with,' Veld muttered.
'You wait until your turn on active duty,' Vincent said merrily, with the air of one who was free from that particular vice for the next six months or so.
'There won't be a turn,' Veld shook his head.
Vincent stopped laughing. 'Grapevine?' he echoed.
'Every department needs a face,' Veld said, looking up at the ceiling. 'Even the ones that have no face.'
'Fuck,' Vincent said.
'Funny,' Veld agreed, tossing a few hundred gil on the table and grabbing his coat. 'I had the same thing in mind myself.'
Vincent had spent the better part of the last quarter in a dusty room that had him fighting to keep flecks off of his blazer and where his starched shirt wilted in the heat. Here in the Midgar night, he finally felt - for the first time in a long while - like their uniform fit them; like it was right, and not exaggerated. It was partially frightening, but absolutely empowering. Veld's apartment suited him now: no more the chocobo-riding Kalm child, now the executive with the box in the sky and the cold bed to go with.
'What would your wife say?' Vincent said as he slipped his hands under Veld's shirt and touched warm skin and tasted trust.
Veld growled and shoved Vincent against the nearest wall. 'Same thing as your conscience.'
When they finished, they shared a cigarette and watched the lights of the city come on. Old vistas for Veld, new expanses for Vincent. 'Brave new world,' the sniper said, his back to the edge of the bedframe and his hand draped over Veld's knee. They were on the floor, having never made it onto any other surface in time.
'And it has such creatures in it,' Veld agreed, stubbing out the cigarette and putting out the lights.
In the morning, they dressed together in front of the wall-length mirror in Veld's bathroom. Vincent's hair was too long, but Veld didn't bother to bring it up any more than Vincent bothered to comment on the hard lines that had formed at the edge of a twenty-eight year old man's eyes.
Veld shrugged his shirt on, and tied his Windsor with his right as Vincent tugged on a half-in-hand with his left.
Title: Different Country For Different Men
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Vincent/Veld
Summary: Vincent and Veld take a moment in the middle of Midgar rising.
Warnings: Hello, blast from the past. This fic is the total fault of (deep breath) logistika_nyx, knightlineninja, white_jenna, aikonamika and every other person who mentioned the name "Vincent" to me anytime in the last 24 hours. :D
1384 words and holy shit more worldbuilding, what the hell, and Shakespeare.
Different country for different men, back then.
Click. Static, because PHS grids were not up in old Mideel, and because the infrastructure in the rag-taggle-tumble-fall city of sectors was still sparking and driving men like Reeve to distraction. They kept their sentences short, and legible.
Have you received your rotation missives for this quarter?
I hear we're going to be in it together. Not just you and I, either. Interesting thought, really.
Ah. Midgar?
The recruitment office said that the first flow of immigrants are already settling their roots in.
Setting up shop, you mean.
For a country man, you're very cynical.
I've watched metal and iron bend over backwards in order for this city to get built, Valentine. It changes people.
Well, right. They've booked me on the new trains going in. Leaving at six hundred and two tomorrow morning. I should be there by the late afternoon.
Along with the rest?
There's one with me, the old scarface from Corel. They say we're to pick up three more along the way. That's it, apparently.
The department having ten people in it as it is terrifies me.
Feeling old?
No. Feeling tired, yes.
Hah. Midgar, Midgar.
Kalm is a three hour drive away. I'll leave it at the fact that I haven't had the time to ever make that drive.
You're not saying as much as you should be, Veld.
Grapevine matters.
Talk.
The board is coming together. Defining positions. Making ranks. Making rank, too.
This is going to be the story of your life, isn't it?
I'm glad you find it funny.
You deserve the role, what can I say?
I deserve a cleaner death.
Now you sound like you're thirty-five.
Were it that I actually manage to live that long.
Vincent had to go, and they were both used to the flow and ebb. You waited the days out because you had to. The Science department sucked funding away from the Turks like a drain hole at the bottom of an already emptying tub. Seniority ruled, after all. You paid the men who developed electricity into Mako into a hundred marketable derivatives. You brushed aside the men who tried to mop up the spill and mess of the thousands of trials that went wrong.
Midgar was fantastic. Vincent said as much, alighting at the station with his duffel slung over one shoulder and his rifle propped up against his arm. 'You lucky son of a bitch,' he commented, looking up and down the brand new concrete runs and the rails that were still so smooth you could see your reflection everywhere whenever you walked down stairs or in through elevators.
'Currently, I feel like a vampire,' Veld shrugged, his shoes tap-tap-tapping down the stairs that led the way to the newly-installed inter-Plate subway. 'I haven't seen the sun in weeks.'
'It's not a pretty job, sitting around Corel watching the Engineering department shut down coal mines and taking notes on who pissed off whom,' Vincent said, lips tugging upwards. They nodded at Scarface, who shrugged them off and went for the outskirts; together, they stood waiting for the first of the new line of Shinra express services to pull in.
'I can imagine that they're not very happy with the state of affairs there,' Veld snorted.
'You sly politician,' Vincent said, looking upwards and refusing to smile. Veld looked at him, flat. 'I mean, once upon a time you would have sworn out the engineers and told me that I should've bought pints for the miners. Now you say that and I don't know who you think is worse off. City-boy.'
Veld rewarded Vincent with a low chuckle. The sound of it was almost lost as the train pulled in. 'And I am supposed to call you an uncouth country hack?'
'Taking a look at this city,' Vincent said, rapping his fingers against the freshly coated side of the locomotive, 'it won't be long before you'll be justified in saying that.'
They rode up to the Plate in general silence, the kind that partners wore around each other to keep the words for when they mattered more. Vincent made the occasional joke. Veld made the occasional comeback.
The main offices almost surprised Vincent. 'It looks like we're finally going somewhere in the world,' he whistled, patting his (his?) desk with the palm of his hand. The sniper was better used to sharing one dingy room with one or two Turks and a few odd staff in the middle of whichever godforsaken place the company needed the Turks at.
'Comes with the territory,' Veld said. 'You'll not be interested at all to know how many levels the Science department has.'
Vincent asked, 'How many?'
'Eight,' Veld replied. 'With room for expansion. Discounting the basements.'
'How many do we have?'
'One,' Veld replied, lips twitching.
'We're never going to hear the end of this,' Vincent sighed. 'We have three new rookies, and the first thing they'll see is how pathetic we are?'
'We also have rights to, I believe the official phrasing is "evaluate and exterminate",' Veld reminded him.
'I evaluate the situation and determine the need for a beer,' Vincent pronounced. 'I choose to exterminate your gil for this cause, since I have none of my own.'
'My treat,' Veld drawled, wryly, and took out his wallet to flip through the currency of the new age.
Less cameras in those days, too. Less places to watch, more places to run away to. The sectors were new, and everyone knew everyone. In the fresh plaster of Sector One, Veld had carved out a private niche in a bar that knew his face and what the lapels and leathers meant.
'Private room, not bad,' Vincent summed up, sipping on a Kalmish brew that had recently acquired a brand name, a logo and trademarked glass bottles. Veld knew the owner, or he thought he did. 'Moving up in life, definitely.'
'I think I almost preferred it when we used to starve on the field rations that they came up with,' Veld muttered.
'You wait until your turn on active duty,' Vincent said merrily, with the air of one who was free from that particular vice for the next six months or so.
'There won't be a turn,' Veld shook his head.
Vincent stopped laughing. 'Grapevine?' he echoed.
'Every department needs a face,' Veld said, looking up at the ceiling. 'Even the ones that have no face.'
'Fuck,' Vincent said.
'Funny,' Veld agreed, tossing a few hundred gil on the table and grabbing his coat. 'I had the same thing in mind myself.'
Vincent had spent the better part of the last quarter in a dusty room that had him fighting to keep flecks off of his blazer and where his starched shirt wilted in the heat. Here in the Midgar night, he finally felt - for the first time in a long while - like their uniform fit them; like it was right, and not exaggerated. It was partially frightening, but absolutely empowering. Veld's apartment suited him now: no more the chocobo-riding Kalm child, now the executive with the box in the sky and the cold bed to go with.
'What would your wife say?' Vincent said as he slipped his hands under Veld's shirt and touched warm skin and tasted trust.
Veld growled and shoved Vincent against the nearest wall. 'Same thing as your conscience.'
When they finished, they shared a cigarette and watched the lights of the city come on. Old vistas for Veld, new expanses for Vincent. 'Brave new world,' the sniper said, his back to the edge of the bedframe and his hand draped over Veld's knee. They were on the floor, having never made it onto any other surface in time.
'And it has such creatures in it,' Veld agreed, stubbing out the cigarette and putting out the lights.
In the morning, they dressed together in front of the wall-length mirror in Veld's bathroom. Vincent's hair was too long, but Veld didn't bother to bring it up any more than Vincent bothered to comment on the hard lines that had formed at the edge of a twenty-eight year old man's eyes.
Veld shrugged his shirt on, and tied his Windsor with his right as Vincent tugged on a half-in-hand with his left.