The stock of the standard-issued pistol was a welcome feel in the director's hand. It had been such a long time since he had been placed on a mission, yet here he was. His bearings and reflexes hadn't left him, and he silently thanked Leviathan that several years behind a wooden desk had not robbed him of his senses in a danger zone. With his back to the wall and gun at his side as he peeked around the corner, no one would have ever guessed that the director of the Turks had not seen a mission field in several years time.
If the decision had been left up to him, this would not have been the case; however, many of the decisions about his person were not left up to him. Instead, they fell to Heidegger, who did his best to keep the Wutain behind a desk even if that was not where the latter felt he belonged. But, those were the consequences of his actions against Shin-Ra. So what then was this mission, exactly?
Cold, black eyes scanned the length of hall to the left and to the right of his position. Something was amiss in his scan, but he could not quite place where the unease in his stomach was coming from. Out of habit, he backed away from the corner and flicked his gaze down the path he had come. Nothing was out of place in the old metal corridor; the shadows were even as he had left them. Now that was peculiar.
The Wutain's eyes narrowed as he regarded the path he had just trod, but the noise of another human being drew his gaze to the former object of his attention: the right hallway. With his pistol ready, a practiced movement brought him soundlessly to the opposite side of the hall. He mentally armed himself for battle as the footsteps drew closer, but that battle never came. The other person did not turn down the hallway or even spare a glance at the dilapidated, metal hall that hid the Turk in plain sight; the being simply kept walking. Thoroughly perplexed, Tseng lowered his gun and shot a curious glance after the other being.
The blinding pain that followed the being's disappearance was wholly unexpected. It brought him to his knees before he had a chance to get his bearings. He heard the gun hit the floor, but to his surprise there was no discharge. He remembered thinking how odd it was until he blacked out.
Cold sweat dripped from Tseng temples as he awoke with a start in his room. Much like his hair that was plastered to his forehead, his night shift stuck to his skin uncomfortably, and the old scar on his chest gave a phantom ache, drawing a shudder from the director. It had been such a long time since he had such a vivid nightmare, if one could even call it that. A ragged breath slipped out from between his lips as he calmed his racing heart with the diligence that only an experienced Turk could muster.
After a few moments, the covers were tossed unceremoniously from his body as he pulled himself up into a seated position on his tatami mat. He tired black eyes scanned about the rented room as they always did when they first opened in the early morning with their trek ending at the glowing green numbers on the alarm clock. The time was always too early or too late, but tonight was an entirely different story. The digits flashed back at him as if to say the power was not functioning as properly as it should be. This hardly surprised the Wutain. Power had been unreliable for quite some time now, but that was at Tsueti's directive. A forlorn sigh fell from his lips; certain things about time's past were missed, Tseng allowed. As if to reprimand the clock for its failure, he gave the cord a sharp tug and unplugged it from the wall. With the action complete, he let his head fall back against the wall to allow a clear view of the ceiling.
Absently, his left hand traced the ugly scar on his chest as his mind wandered off. He was lucky, perhaps too lucky. His eyes snaked closed in sadness as thoughts he had not entertained in so many years filtered through his mind. Work had kept him busy, and now that it had died down, there was nothing to distract him from the memories that would assault him at night. Reno had suggested that he try to find himself a nice girl to settle down with, but the thought of losing another potentially precious person kept Tseng in check. He didn't let people in; he never had. In the event that he did, he lost that person. Aeris, Zack, Sephiroth, and countless others that he held dear at one point were all gone now, yet here he was. Someone that many considered to be the scum of the earth, he was still here.
Tseng's out of focus eyes opened as he finally dragged himself from the sanctity of his covers as he no longer wished to dwell on the thoughts of the past. As he slid his foot from underneath a cover, the tell-tale sign of a glass bottle striking the hardwood floor and rolling away registered in his muddled brain. That certainly explained things, he thought as a chuckle escaped his lips. No wonder he was feeling so nostalgic; he had probably been doing this all last night and turned to alcohol to shut his mind off. A louder laugh escaped his lips. Who was he, Reno? This isn't how he handled this sort of thing before, and he did not want to turn down this route at all.
With a definite shake of his head, he stood and stretched his arms above his head before stooping to scoop up the empty whiskey bottle and discarded glass from the night prior. His muted footsteps brought him to the thresh of his door where he paused and glanced over his shoulder, which earned him a sharp pain shooting through his head. His hangover headaches were always like this and always affected his vision, but despite that, he was quite certain there was a figure just beyond the window observing him. Black eyes narrowed in an attempt to focus, but the figure was gone before his eyes had properly adjusted. His paranoia flooded through all his nerves as he hastily threw open his door and shot through the opening. The whiskey bottle and glass were discarded on the couch, and the Turk instinctively went from his gun as he battled with the post-alcohol and sleep fog.
Pistol safely in his hands, he dropped to a crouch in the small alcove that housed his pantry. The couch and a handful of unopened cardboard boxed blocked his form from view as he systematically checked the ammo in his arm and cocked it. He always kept the safety off to shave away a split second that could mean life or death, and to his pleasure, he had never had a misfire to date. Reflexes and instincts now ruled in a shoot-first-ask-questions-later fashion. Let that person come; Tseng could wait all night, for he was a patient individual by nature.
Surprisingly, the Turk did not have to wait long for his stalker to appear. The window in his living room was shattered, which agitated the director through and through. He rolled his black eyes emphatically as he chanced a look around his cover. The intruder had their back to him, but that didn't offer the director any solace. A simple move would leave him exposed, and thanks to the lighting—or the lack thereof—he could not see the intruder's face or make out any significant details about their appearance.
Something in his gut told him to move and to move now. A roll brought him out from behind the boxes, and without pausing to think, a bullet felled the intruder in house. Another roll safely placed him out of the open and in the safety of the couch. There, he could wait until he knew the cost was clear to investigate the fallen person. At least, it would have been clear if the phone in his jacket pocket hadn't started to ring obnoxiously. He leveled the pocket with a glare and silently cursed the person electing to call him at such an awful time. Within seconds of his cell phone hanging up, the phone in his apartment rang its clear shrill tone. He hadn't given that number to any of the staff from Shin-Ra; why the all the rings of hell was it ringing? Curiosity nearly pulled him from his hiding place when the answering machine picked up the call.
"Hello, please leave a message after the tone," the generic, robotic voice told the caller that was shortly followed by a small beep.
"We know you're in there, Director," Rufus's voice chimed over the loudspeaker. "Do come out and make this easy for us."
Rufus?
The indignation and rage broke through the hangover's now limited fog and left him seething. Who did that little spoiled brat think he was? Yet the emotions never showed on Tseng's face as he coldly considered his options. He could attempt to fight his way out, but with limited ammo, there was no way that he would make it far if he even made it out. That left attempting to get out through a rear entrance and praying that no one else was at the bottom. A quick sprint brought him back into his bedroom and a slide to his closet. He pulled himself into it without even blinking. Once safely inside his closet with the door shut, he easily located his pocket flashlight in one of his old coats and clicked it on. He snatched up on his old mission bags and checked its contents. Ammunition, some wires, and a note pad greeted him. He mulled over the contents before pulling some pants and shirts and abruptly shoved them into the bag with a grimace etched onto his features the entire time. He clicked the flashlight off and left himself in complete darkness as he let his night vision come back into play.
Eyes fully adjusted to the dark, Tseng cracked the closet door and peered into the darkness apprehensively. No movement reached his observant eyes, and no sounds reached his keen ears. The closet door opened fully in a fluid movement and, with the grace of a cat, Tseng crossed his bedroom. He even went as far as to avoid the window in a silent roll. He heard the door to his apartment come crashing in, but he was long gone as he shoved open his hidden door. It locked shut behind him as he casually made his way down the corridor.
Before the invaders had even known what was happening, the apartment that had house the director of the Turks lit with a brilliant flash of crimson. The resounding boom and screams of those entering broke into the previously silent night; however, the blast never reached the Wutain. He was long gone and slipping in and out of the scattering crowds of Edge seeking to escape the fire. All the while, he kept glancing over his shoulder despite the crooked smile on his face.