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The Gold Saucer is, quite possibly, the loudest place Tifa has ever visited.
Nibelheim was silent. Corel was desolated. Even Midgar, despite its massive population, wasn’t quite this loud. They’ve been spending so much time in quiet, run-down places that the Gold Saucer feels like an affront to Tifa’s senses. She stands beneath the massive pink moogle entrance, drowning in high-pitched pop music and flashing lights, and watches Cloud and Barret as they try to haggle down the price of admission. “Ten fuckin’ gil? Per person? ” Barret booms. “You’re kiddin’ me! We’re on a goddamn budget!”
Tifa—the person who actually maintains the budget—rubs her forehead and sighs. She sees Aerith’s hand out of the corner of her eye, hovering over her shoulder, ready to comfort—only to see it recede. Instead, Aerith looks the other way. “Are you looking forward to this?” she asks.
For once, Tifa hears silence. She glances over her shoulder and sees the newest member of their group— Vincent, Tifa reminds herself—turn away, ignoring Aerith’s question. Which is to be expected, of course, because he hasn’t muttered a word since they pulled him out of the coffin three days prior.
To say Vincent is an ‘anomaly’ is an understatement. A silent, pale-as-paper figure who sometimes shoots and never speaks, he’s more of a bat than an authentic human. Tifa had thought him odd when she’d initially woken him up, and her opinion has yet to change—and as she watches him meander after the others, his hole-filled cape fluttering dramatically behind him, she simply comes to the conclusion that he’s incomprehensible.
Will he like the park? Will any of them? Tifa shrugs and follows the others.
As soon as they’re settled in their creepy hotel, they scatter. Tifa walks into the foyer, freshly showered and slightly hungry, spots Cid dozing in an armchair, and decides to leave him be. Every slide in the park seems to take her somewhere different: a chocobo stadium, where Cloud is badly losing and both Aerith and Yuffie seem unwilling to accept that fact; a fighting ring, where Barret is mowing down enemies with a tuft of cotton candy in his right hand; a theatre, where Red is quietly enjoying a stripped-down version of Loveless; and an arcade, which is where Tifa decides to rest and let her newly-nauseous stomach calm down.
The Speed Square is the largest area in the facility. Outside the arcade is a balcony, as wide as a highway, wrapping around the Gold Saucer like a ribbon on a gift. The sky is fully open to the elements, dampening the din of carnival music and screaming children; the only things above Tifa’s head are strands of rainbow lights. Tifa stops, sighs, and tips her head up, basking in the fresh air—
“Hey you!”
—And is suddenly pulled back into reality.
She turns towards the noise. A brutish-looking man, dressed in a colourful uniform, is pointing at her with a wooden mallet in his hands. He’s standing in front of a tall contraption with a bell at the top. “You look strong!” he yells at her. “Wanna give it a go?”
She shrugs. Tifa saunters up to the man, listens carefully to his instructions, and easily sets a new record with the force of her smash. The man stares at the newly-cracked bell, hands Tifa a handful of Gold Saucer currency, and closes up shop for the night. Tifa walks away, counting her new play money—
“Hey!”
—And starts anew.
The Battle Square has a wide variety of games: slingshot games, tests of strength, whack-a-mole, ball-throwing games and dancing competitions. Tifa demolishes them one by one, collecting an absurd amount of play money and dozens of tiny trinkets (all of which she gives away to the first child she sees). The game attendants stop calling out to her, some even seem to be wary of her—except for a few.
“Can’t smash your way through this one, eh?” the attendant drawls. “Shame.”
Tifa scowls, sets the toy gun down and slaps another colourful coin on the counter. “Again.”
With a smirk, the attendant gestures for her to pick the toy gun back up. Tifa swipes it up, aims it at the target, pulls the trigger—and misses it by a foot. She pulls out another coin, tries again, misses, pays again, misses, all while the attendant smiles, growing rich on her stubbornness, luxuriating in the fact that she can’t aim for the life of her—
“I’ll try.”
The attendant’s eyes widen. Confused, Tifa whirls around—and freezes.
Vincent is standing behind her. Draped in black and silent as a mouse, he seems completely at odds with the loud, fluorescent surroundings. He holds out his hand—the one not covered in the strange claw, she realizes—and Tifa stares at it. He stares back, his expression blank, before he plainly says, “Give me the gun.”
With a gulp, Tifa shuffles over. Vincent steps forward, grabs the gun, aims it at the target, and cleanly hits the center.
The prize is a floppy-eared dog plushie.
Tifa quickly hands it to the nearest child and runs after Vincent, who is already ten metres away, seemingly intent on moving on to the next distraction. She yanks on his cloak, making him stop. “Why are you here?” she asks plainly, forgetting her manners.
If he’s offended by her brusqueness, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he looks away and mutters, “I don’t like Loveless.”
She wants to interject— there’s plenty of things to do here besides watching Loveless —but then realizes that he’s speaking in half-truths. There’s a reason why he’s avoiding the others, and she imagines it has something to do with how inquisitive they all are. “Why are you alone?” he asks her, just as plainly.
Truthfully, she’d just wanted some quiet time; it had become increasingly hard to find as of late. Vincent, however, isn’t violating her solitude, if only by virtue of the fact that he isn’t talking her ear off. “I don’t like Loveless either.”
Vincent slowly nods. “Then we’re in agreement,” he says. “No Loveless.”
“Right,” Tifa breathes, “no—“
“Hey!”
They whirl around. Another game attendant is waving over to them, a toy gun in his hands. Behind him are rows of glass bottles, pristinely placed. “Wanna give it a go?”
Tifa glances at Vincent, who is expressionless. With a shrug, she steps forward. For some reason, he follows, though she doesn’t know why—if it’s because he’s lacking other things to do, because he doesn’t want to be alone, or for some other reason that Tifa can’t quite parse. She’s given plenty of time to ruminate over it as they move from game to game, collecting trinkets as they go. And ultimately, the fact that he’s completely silent—even when he wins—makes her think that he, too, is simply looking for quiet companionship.
Which she is more than happy to provide.
Most of the trinkets they win are silly, immaterial things, better suited to a child than two fully-grown adults. Whatever Vincent wins, he gives it to Tifa, who promptly gives it away. Besides, they’re constantly on the move, and Tifa doesn’t have the room to haul—
“What are you looking at?”
Tifa blinks. “What?”
Vincent is looking at her, a plastic gun in his hands. The attendant is standing off to the side, impatiently waiting for him to shoot. “You keep staring at the wall,” he says. “What is it?”
“Oh,” Tifa says. “It’s, um—” She points to a plushie on the far side of the stand. “I used to have one of those as a kid,” she explains. “I haven’t seen them in years.”
Vincent frowns, following her line of sight. “It’s a potato.”
“Potato-chan,” Tifa clarifies—as if that’ll aid his understanding. “It was a popular cartoon. They made it in Rocket Town.” Her cheeks turn warm. Looking away, she mumbles, “She was married to Steak-san, and they—”
Bang!
Tifa turns back to the stand. All of the bottles are down—except one. Vincent is glowering at the attendant, who seems uncharacteristically thrilled at the sight of Vincent’s failure. “Again?” he asks.
Vincent pulls out a Gold Saucer coin from his pocket and slams it down on the counter.
Bang!
The bottle still stands.
“This one is probably rigged,” Tifa whispers to Vincent. “We should—”
“I know,” Vincent mutters. He slaps another coin on the counter. “Again,” he tells the attendant.
Bang!
The bottle still stands.
“Vincent.” Tifa tugs on his sleeve. “It’s definitely rigged—”
“Quiet.”
Bang!
The attendant smiles even wider. The chances of Vincent pistol-whipping him with the fake gun seem stunningly high. Tifa pulls on his arm, trying to steer him away; Vincent dives through his pockets with his opposite hand, reaching for another coin. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“Hold on,” Vincent says shortly. He raises the gun.
Crack!
The pellet bursts through the bottle’s base, smashing it into pieces. The attendant’s face falls. His stunned expression turns into a glower when Vincent snaps his fingers and points at the row of plushies. “That one. No, not that one , ” he hisses, waving away the three-foot pink dinosaur. “The potato.”
The attendant gives it to Vincent, who promptly pushes it into Tifa’s arms. It’s cheaply made, meant as a consolation prize, but all she can see are the happy memories of her childhood—before everything had turned into a nightmare. It’s a treasure beyond measure, and Tifa’s breath quickens as she looks up at Vincent. “Thank you,” she whispers.
Vincent looks at her for the briefest of moments, his eyes meeting her captivated stare, and Tifa feels the frantic energy of the Gold Saucer slow down to a crawl. The lights above her head flicker as slowly as molasses; the roaring noise recedes to the faintest of whispers; the breeze, stirring Vincent's loose stands of hair, stills completely. But then he quickly turns away and retreats, shoving through the thinning crowds. Tifa follows after him, willing her pounding heart to calm down.