Chapter 1: Morning Routine

Dusting glasses had to be done in just the right way. If it was not, the dust would smear onto the glass, and that would require it to be washed again. This was something that Tifa had learned from her father, and he had learned it from his mother several years prior. The later two had since passed the world of life into the fine spectrum of dust, which at the moment covered Tifa's drinking glasses. If they were watching over her now, she did not know it. Her own beliefs regarding an afterlife had been nipped at over several years of thinking. Years that she spent just living. The Slums did little to help with her melancholy stupor. If anything, they had taught her the fine art of lying to people who were quite often lying themselves. She longed for some happy moment from her youth to return to her. But then the past held so many horrible things to remember.

With careful precision she wiped the dust away from the glass to produce the faintest squeak. That was life in Sector 7, Tifa thought, it was a squeak made from dirt that was on something pretty, but still empty. Shinra didn't care about the people living under its malignant pillars, rising to the sky like the shameful legs of a dirty god, not noticing the lice living off of the blood it produced. The Mako. Overpriced, and not working most of the time, the Mako kept Midgar glowing at night. She hated it. It did not make sense for a person to hate something as abstract as a mysterious energy which was somehow sucked up from the center of the earth, except that it came from Shinra Inc. That fact alone made her want to dash Mako's brains out with her boot heel.

"Miss Tifa," she heard the soft always eager sounding voice, "Are you alright?"

Jesse was someone who cared about everyone, and everyone did not often care about her caring. However, Tifa felt that she added something pleasant to the neighborhood, and that made Jesse indispensable. "Yes Jesse?" She must have looked angry or something. The dust on the glass was red. No. It wasn't dust. "Damnit," Tifa cursed herself and the glass, while throwing it into the trashcan. She had dusted too hard again. They had lost several glasses already to this.

"Are you ok?" asked Jesse, with the first-aid kit in line of sight, and the proper bandage already applied in her very considerate mind. Tifa nodded. This was her fault. She was supposed to be the older and wiser of the two. As it was, this bright, cheerful, and naive girl was the better of her.

"I'll be fine, Jesse. Why don't you bring up some of the other glasses from downstairs?" Anything to get the cheerful girl away for just awhile, would allow Tifa to bring her moment of reflecting hatred to its climax.

"Oh those… well…uh…the guys were…uh…Mr. Barret, he wanted to teach them a lesson, and well… they got smashed."

"Smashed?" Just like Barret. The man had all the charisma in the world when he needed it, and all the grace of a crowbar scraping someone's teeth. "Alright. I'll give the shop a call. They might still have some in their overstock. If they got them, could you pick them up for us?" Say 'yes' Tifa urged with her mind.

"Sure I will," the girl chipped, and went about the normal duties of cleaning the dust off of everything. She would also tend to the appliances, and any other gadgets they had there. Tifa could tell that she was eager to hear the order to go to the store. Eager to help someone. Anyone.

"I'm sorry, Jesse." But the girl did not hear, for Tifa, when she wanted to, could speak softly as well.

X

Though he never admitted it to anyone, because it would make him look weak, Reno had an acute allergy to dust. He could not allow such a flaw to weaken him, so he took pills. The problem was that the pills could make him hazy. To counterbalance that he took a weak dosage of the pills followed by a ration of uppers. The result was an allergy that was invisible to everyone but him, and a great deal of tension, which he kept in line with a slight depressant to mellow him out. Reno had dug himself a hole, and he was not the only one who knew about it. Rude had figured it out after awhile. It was to be expected, Reno assured himself. He worked with Rude all the time, and the silent but effective Turk was very much aware of everything.

Eggs, bacon, hash browns. For him breakfast was a matter of well-ordered combinations that he had memorized before hand. Reno preferred the standard, with a side of hot cakes covered in syrup and powdered sugar. Coffee was a must. Rude ate a pool of hot sauce with an island of corned beef hash and eggs floating in the center like a developing continental mass. In the slums Rude was a fan of anything made with meat and peppers charred by dirty oil. The creation he feasted on in the diner where they were eating was washed down by a mountainous glass of orange juice. Real juice was a privilege enjoyed by the rich, and the employees of Shinra Inc. They got together for breakfast on Fridays, because the end of the week was often uneventful.

Tseng, ever their calm leader, was the possessor of company credit card without limits. To be respectful to Tseng was to ensure a nice meal on the company ticket. It was one of the many things that kept Tseng at the top. Reno stole glances at his immediate supervisor between the coffee, the hot cakes, and his combo. Tseng always settled for colorful plate of fruit, and a small bar of grain. A small glass of kiwi juice and a cup of steaming green tea were satellites to this rainbow-splattered circle. He seemed calm as always. Reno suspected that the man was in a constant state of meditation. But that was probably reading too much into it.

It was good to be Turk, and Reno knew that. They had come a long way with Shinra; originally they had been a common crime syndicate several years ago. A few of the more senior members still had stories to tell. One was of an unnamed Turk who supposedly got too close to a girl who was spoken for by one of the Shinra elites. This Turk had been one of the leaders for a long time, and was considered to be their most effective silencer. It did not matter though, he broke the rules, and he got what he had coming to him. Reno often wondered if this story was true, or was a fairy tale designed to keep them away from the ladies in the Shinra office.

"What's bothering you, Reno?"

He looked up to see the face of Frost, one of the senior Turk members who had come out of early retirement because the money was good with recent terrorist troubles in the city. "Nothing. Just fine. How about you?" There could be no show of weakness.

Frost leaned back into the booth. He was a tall man with a very dark complexion: almost coal-black, and a thick Afro with just a tinge of white at his temples. A bushy mustache had that same degree of wisdom, and this connected to the rest of his hair to form what Reno thought they called muttonchops. "Nothing wrong over here, Reno. You just look a little…antsy."

Reno stared at Frost's breakfast: a half-eaten muffin and a large coffee with two creams, and two sugars. The older man was calm, but ready. He had seen things that Reno has only dreamt about. Years ago, he had been part of a group of Turks who took a young Sephiroth out for some fun in a disputed town. Frost had been there when Sephiroth had first become a legend in the ranks of Soldier. The Turks and Soldier were often closely associated, but this was kept out of the news of course. People were supposed to be proud of Soldier, they were supposed to fear and loathe the Turks.

"He is just fine, Frost." Reno looked back at Tseng who had answered for him. "He is still young, and he has a young man's energy."

Frost laughed. "I meant nothing by it. I just like to give these rookies some Hell."

"I'm no rookie, Frost."

"That's right," Rude spoke finally. "I follow Reno. After Tseng of course."

"Well that's just like you, Rude. You got the talent and the balls, but you always let a fast talker be your master."

"There is no master." This was from Waingro, the other senior member. He had been forced out of the organization for some…problems. The kind of problems that he now was required to take medication for. "I don't need any master. Must be somethin' with the new wave of Turks workin' for the company." The older Turk wore his dirty stringed hair long, which was a stark contrast to the hairline which receded to the last quarter of his head. He never shaved; he merely trimmed his ratty facial hair when it started getting in the way of his drinking. His breakfast consisted of a large cup of coffee that he let his pills dissolve into. When he walked away to the bathroom, which was frequent, he stole shots of bourbon from an old flask he kept in his coat.

Reno had no love for Waingro. The older Turk was an embarrassment to the group at large. Half of his career had been spent in prison cells and drunk tanks, and he was not ashamed in the slightest. When Reno wondered why they have brought Waingro out of forced retirement, he was reminded of the fact that the man did not have the slightest problem with killing anyone. Going back to his stint as a Shinra trooper, Waingro had made death into his past time. He killed two fellow soldiers for looking at him in the shower. Actually, the other one was killed mercifully by Tseng on orders from Heideggar. The man would have taken several days to die, if he had been lucky.

"So…uh…what are we doing today?" asked Ross, the newest member of the group.

"Are you makin light of me, boy?" Demanded Waingro, instantly hating the younger green horn of a Turk.

"NN No…no sir." He was quick to plead. Ross was supposed to have been a paper-pusher in the head office. A degree paid for by the corporation had supposedly guaranteed him a top place in Research and Development. But, Scarlet had not been impressed with him personally, and demanded that he get some hands-on experience with weapons and tactics from people who would know. So after a week of insufficient training, Ross had been sent to Tseng to learn how to be a "man" as Scarlet put it. Tseng could not disagree with her for she had the ear of Rufus, and Rufus had the ear of the president who would either order Heidegger to do it himself or have Tseng killed and someone else do it.

"You really shouldn't be here, Ross." Frost was being as civil as he could, but honest. "You're not made for this stuff."

"We need to keep our exchanges professional," said Tseng, putting an end to whatever he thought was building up between the two sides of the table, "Do not forget that we all work for the same people. We are all the same people. You may like that, or perhaps you do not, but it does not matter. If you want to remain and make more money than you ever could out there in the slums, you will control yourselves. Now, I would like to finish my breakfast in relative peace. We are expected in precisely an hour. Let us not waste these quiet moments."

No one said a word following Tseng's speech. They ate their meals in silence, for the most part not looking at each other. Reno ordered more coffee, and decided on a second order of hotcakes. The waitress was quick to bring Reno his second helping complete with an extra dusting of powdered sugar on top of his regular compliment. On her way to the table, she made a stop at the register to drop off check and credit card. She noticed that the receipt printer looked a different color than usual. Touching it she realized that no one had dusted the machine in weeks, and that dust altered the hue of her own hand. Unable to put the tray down, she ignored it and kept moving.

For the most part the Turks were finished with their breakfast. Tseng was finishing his tea, and already had his credit card out to cover everyone. This was just another day on the job.