THE BOXER by Kiraya
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and all associated symbols and characters are the exclusive property of Square Enix and their associates.
--
He had been watching the boy for nearly a month.
Not that he was much of a boy anymore, even at fourteen, fifteen, whatever it was; living in the slums below the Plate forced one to grow up fast. And some of them grew up faster than others, picking up a variety of abilities that, if used well enough, occasionally caught the attention of certain Powers That Be, who were always on the lookout for those with sufficient skill.
He had been one of them once, more recently than he cared to remember; now, though, it was his turn to hunt down fresh meat for the company.
When the Turk approached his target as he leaned casually against the Sector Eight wall, he was unsurprised to find that rod crackling at his throat before he could even open his mouth. He'd been expecting it, really; would've been disappointed by any other greeting.
"I wouldn't move if I was you," the boy informed him coolly, still staring with narrowed eyes upwards into the dull artificial light that illuminated the slums. He took a long drag on his cigarette, then finally turned to look at his companion, raising an eyebrow. "A Turk, eh?" He chuckled. "Shit, I didn't think I done anything dumb enough to get ol' Shinra pissed off…"
They both knew that if the boy had been meant to die, he would have already been dead, and so the elder of the two ignored the comment. "I have a proposition for you."
The kid squinted at him, cocking his head. "Sorry, man, but I ain't desperate enough to get into that business. Know a couple cute boys over in Wall Market, though, if you're really itchin' for somea that kind of thing…"
The Turk simply looked at him.
And the kid sighed and stood up straight, grinding out his cigarette under his heel. "All right, all right… let's go find someplace to sit and have a drink and talk it over, then."
--
When the Turk had finished speaking, the kid took a long swig of his beer (they never checked identification in these seedy bars under the Plate; as long as the hand gave good gil, it didn't matter whether it belonged to a boy or a man) and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "That's it?"
"Yes."
"So—" and his voice was curious "—what happens if I refuse?"
"…I'll have to kill you."
The boy snorted. "Figures."
They sat in silence for a long time, the Turk's beer sitting before him untouched as he watched the boy finish his drink. Setting the mug down with a sigh, the kid nodded. "I'll do it, of course. That's the clincher, isn't it — people'll do anything to cling to life just a little longer."
"Most of them," the Turk replied, rising.
--
"The name's Reno," the kid told him later when they had gathered his meager possessions and boarded the train at the Sector Seven station. "Since we're gonna be working together, figured it might be important. So, what's yours?"
"Tseng." After a moment, he asked, "Do you have a last name, Reno?"
The kid shrugged. "If I ever did, can't remember it."
"…Good. In this job, it's easier not to."
--
21 December 2006.