Author's Note: There really is no explanation for the existence of this story, aside from the fact that something you'll catch onto popped into my head and I thought, "I wanna write a story that always starts like that. Like Groundhog Day, just. . .legitimately possible! It'll be like the Turk Parties!" So that's why I'm typing this. It'll follow no major update schedule; it's like a. . .situation-dramedy, really, just from the eyes of ShinRa and in the writing style of yours truly, Reno fuckin' Spiegel. Enjoy the show. ( All chapters will be song titles. Hurrah! )
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Strange Bedfellows: First Day Out-
Her name was Elena. It's not exactly a common name around Midgar, and everyone knows how that name is taken, so, before you have to ask yourself, yes, she was the Turk. That's probably also a tip-off that she was blonde, about five-foot-four, and weighed. . .well, it was appropriate for that height. If followed the news during the AVALANCHE massacre, you would have known her face down to a tee, as it was plastered all over the television and papers.
She was born and raised in Costa del Sol, which made sense considering her lightly tanned skin during her first few weeks of the job. After that, she'd just gotten too busy to go back home. Being a Turk had that effect on a person; their social life went down the tube.
A tall, lanky man paced in front of her as she stood in his office, trying to look as straight into the wall as humanly possible. He looked her up and down in that way that said he was evaluating, not looking for someone to be his child's mother. "Cadet Simms," he snapped.
Her response was instinct through repetition by now; her hand flew to her forehead and she barked, "Sir!" She'd come from SOLDIER Second Class to the seventieth floor on a sudden command. Assuming she was going to be ordered out for some violation or another, her things were packed on her bunk and awaiting her. The other woman cadet in SOLDIER had been out all day and Elena thought that, perhaps, they were cutting them loose as an inconvenience thing.
She thought that wasn't the case, though, when she walked in and saw a table against the wall with three men behind it. One was a definite Wutain with beautiful black hair that fell below his soldiers and a cool, calm composure. On his left was a stoic bald man with sunglasses on and maybe five piercings in each ear and a small goatee, right leg crossed over his left. His hands were flat on the table and he looked very respectable. Left farther was a man with red hair, looking much more casual than the other two; his bandaged leg was on the table, his right arm was in a sling, and he was sipping loudly at a soft drink in his free hand. In front of them all were buzzers; for what purpose, she wasn't sure.
"Cadet Simms, do you know what the title of Turk fully entails?" the man asked her firmly, but not in an overbearing way. He was more like a stern father with a lesson to teach.
Elena's heart leapt into her throat. Those men were Turks; she had seen that by their blue suits. She could also tell that they were watching her reactions, responses, and very breath to the finest detail. Where she put her feet when she talked, how many breaths she took before answering, if she seemed to blink rapidly when asked a question. . .they were all being evaluated, and she could feel it. There was only one thing that meant. She was going to get every SOLDIER's dream offered to her. "Not completely, Sir, but I gather the gist of it."
The Wutain shifted, making his chair creak. Elena felt the sweat bead on her forehead, and she swallowed without trying to look like she was. She forced every muscle into retracting that sweat. The interrogator puffed his cigar, and suddenly the room was stifling hot. "Would you," he said slowly, "please tell the trio and I what it is you know about the Turks, precisely?"
She answered immediately: "They are generally sent to retrieving company property and dealing with faulted business deals involving said company, Sir. If needed, they also provide a task force and are greatly skilled in hand-to-hand as well as long-range combat." She breathed, and then saw a mistake. "S – Sir."
Another chair creaked, but it was too far to the left for Elena's fixed eyes to see. She would have glanced over, but she knew they were watching every inch of her; undressing her with their eyes, so to speak. She swallowed again, hoping that stutter wouldn't make too much of a difference. They had to know how nerve-wracking this was – they'd been recruited once, too, right?
"Cadet Simms, no need for so many formalities." He didn't sound overly stern about it, but she wasn't about to drop her posture. "For the most part, you're correct about the basic responsibilities of the Turks, but there are a few details missed, such as –"
"Sir, if I may." It was the soft voice of the Wutain man, which was the only mouth Elena could see. The tall man stepped backward with a brief nod and the other took his place, pacing along his very line. "Your rank and specialty, Miss Simms?"
She tried not to look as interested in him as she was; this is when counting the tiles on the walls was a very handy practice. "Cadet in SOLDIER Second Class, specializing in support weaponry and Materia, Sir."
"I see." He exchanged a look with his comrades, who were basically unreadable, but there must have been some silent communication. The bald man moved nothing at all and the redhead continued to suck on his straw annoyingly. Elena didn't know if this was an endurance test or if he was just damned annoying. "Cadet Simms, you're right about the Turks. We do exclusively work for ShinRa, Incorporated and will never work for anyone else until our retirement." He smiled. "Then we'll probably be too old to do much at all. Regardless, we do all of the aforementioned and a bit more; see, we negotiate hostage situations, ransoms, and kidnappings."
The bald man tapped his buzzer and the president nodded. "What side we're on is all speculation, Cadet," he chipped in. She respected his honesty, but it was something she certainly hadn't wanted to hear at a. . .what was this? A press conference?
"Now, now," the Wutain chuckled. "Let's not scare the poor girl off before she gets a full chance. Miss Simms, are you romantically involved with anyone at the moment, be they boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, or wife?"
She started. "No, Sir. But I –"
The red hair man's foot came down on his buzzer, hard. It was actually hard enough to keep the button stuck down, and his bald friend was forced to try popping it back up as he said, "Any known allergies?" The bald man finally got the buzzer shut off, but his companion didn't seem to care. He just chewed his straw and nodded to some silent music.
"Milk," she replied, but didn't feel obligated to call him Sir. Half of her mind said it would look awkward if there were just two Turks and they'd picked up a bum for this. The other half said to be careful around that one.
"Who the hell's allergic to milk anymore?" she heard him mutter, but the man with all the earrings tapped his buzzer again. "Do you have any distinct phobias? Distinct may be defined as a major health hazard if forced into them."
She thought for a moment, still keeping her eyes locked on that spot on the wall. She was afraid of Midgar Zoloms, but you were crazy if you weren't. She remembered being afraid of small spaces when she was young, but she'd had a reason. "No, Sir."
They paused for a moment, which was long enough for the redhead to light something. She didn't know it was him for a fact, but she didn't really think anyone else in the room would just light a smoke. The man who seemed to be in charge of all this looked disapprovingly that way, but she wasn't sure if he put it out. One glance away from the wall and she thought they might take this from her.
"Cadet Simms," said the bald man. "Are you aware of what deserters of the Turks are punished with?" When she said no, she didn't – it was an honest answer, but she had a feeling she didn't need three guesses – he stood up and walked over to her. Digging into an inside pocket on his suit for a moment, he came up with a photograph that made Elena want to hurl.
A man who had presumably been a Turk at one time or another was nailed to a pole by his hands, about twenty feet in the air. Someone had set fire to the bottom and it seemed to be slowly creeping up, toward this man's legs. The cruelty hadn't stopped at the nailing and fire, though; they'd cut his legs off at the kneecaps so he couldn't even defend himself. She tried to focus on the white border of the photo, but at the very bottom was a man with a gas can – a tall, bald man that looked to be indifferent to the whole thing as he poured more on.
He put the picture away with the same careless expression. "That is, of course, the worst case scenario. Poor Mac there had tried to leave on a mission. Generally, you put in your two month's notice, and when your time is up, we let you go after I've smashed your fingers and toes with a ball-peen hammer." Elena hoped her expression didn't give away her fear. "I'm not smiling, Cadet, because this is no joke. The Turks aren't just an organization, not just a team – the Turks are a lifetime commitment and you'd better be ready to accept the consequences if you join."
"Are you?" asked the Wutain, without missing a beat, and walked over to her. None of them smiled. The first man's face was twisted in a grim expression of understanding, the redhead was still smoking and appeared to have ADD, as he was following a fly with his face, but the two men in front of her had eyes that seeped into her soul. "This was, of course, just an offer. Should you leave now, there will be no punishment. You will go back to your cot, say nothing to your fellow cadets, live your life as you would have originally, and we find another replacement. If you accept now. . .you're in for good."
Her mind raced. From the redhead smoking and looking casual – bum, Turk, employee? – to the photograph – superimposed, reality, associate? – to the two men staring her down – full-blooded Turks – she was being fed information far too fast. She'd been called to the office to be asked into the Turks, she knew that, but they'd done a rapid-fire interrogation and shown her a picture of shadenfreude in its finest hour. Three trained killers were waiting for an answer that would take her life down a different path. She knew that. But at the same time, she knew that SOLDIER had its benefits as well.
The Wutain's eyebrow twitched, and she didn't know whether it was an itch he was too sophisticated to scratch or if he was giving her an impatient look. Either way, it spurred forth from her mouth what she knew was the right decision:
". . .I accept."
The interrogator pulled out and chewed a cigar, nodding. He stepped in front of her again, peering between the heads of his task force members. "Cadet Simms, as Head Employer of ShinRa Electric, Incorporated, I hereby instate you with the title of Turk Trainee. Your training will last one week and then, if passed, you will be a full-fledged Turk." He reached out toward the pocket of her uniform and pinned something there. Upon looking down – she felt safe doing that now – she saw it was a badge of the company's logo, engraved with a small T. "That will get you anywhere in the building that you need, Miss Simms." He turned. "Gentlemen, I trust you to shut down the office when she is ready." With a solid nod, he walked out of the office via the balcony, where a helicopter hummed in wait.
The Wutain extended his hand. "Now that the privacy is unneeded, my name is Tseng Lander, captain of the Turks. This," he said, nodding to the man beside him, "is Rudolph Hurst, better known as Rude. He normally doesn't like making speeches. And our oh-so-sophisticated peer," he announced, raising his voice, "is Reno Drannor, my second-in-command, who you are replacing."
"And she," the redhead called, still smoking, "is only a temporary replacement. Give me two weeks and we can skin her alive." He seemed more than a little bitter about this whole thing to Elena. Rightfully so, she supposed; he'd just watched himself be replaced, however temporary it may be.
Rude walked over toward him in a way that said 'I'm gonna bludgeon you now,' but all he did was take a cigarette from the open pack on the table and light it. Elena was kind of disappointed; she had a feeling that this Rude fellow could really pop heads open like melons and would feel absolutely no remorse for it. Either that or he was a big softie. She wasn't sure. Turks were pretty unreadable.
"Elena, you're welcome to relax any time you'd like." Tseng smiled at her the way the other two never would, and she felt compelled to drop her stiff stance and lean casually on one leg. "If you're thinking that this is all a publicity stunt to make the Turks look gender-acceptant" – it hadn't occurred to her, really – "don't worry. We run strictly on statistics, records, and loyalty. Besides, we're generally a pretty air-tight organization outside the building, and our public appeal doesn't truly matter to us."
Reno scoffed around his cigarette then pulled it out. "Don't humor her too much, Boss. We were a pretty secret, covert team, but since that Sector Seven Pillar shit and the Prez gettin' whacked, the Turks got blown as wide open as a three-gil crack whore. You coulda gotten hired onto a team that worked without hassle and got paid for it, but now the world knows we exist and you're gonna take a lotta shots. Don't expect an easy time around town these days – if you thought the slums were bad, try strollin' through in a blue suit with a gun and intent to kill. That's some rough shit." He replaced his cigarette, done with that conversation.
The Wutain clapped once. "Enough. We're supposed to be out of the office as soon as possible, which leaves us to what Rude and I discussed in the elevator."
Reno's head perked up. Elena knew that feeling; he'd been left out of something that most certainly pertained to him, and that wasn't good. Something had gone down, he was out of the loop, and that probably meant that it was going to do him over.
"Seeing as how we've yet to secure a home for a trainee – understandable, I assume, seeing as how this is very short notice – then living conditions should be decided for the next week of training. Rude and I have come to the decision that you, Miss Simms, will be staying the next week with Reno." He nodded firmly, as if to say "No backtalk."
The sloppy Turk slammed his foot down on his buzzer again, leg apparently not too hurt to be slung around, but the power had been cut on those. His neck jerked about for a moment before he yelled out, "Why?!"
Tseng composed himself, which wasn't too much of a stretch. "Reno, let me say this simply. I, as captain of the Turks, cannot trust such a new member around my private documents. Rude, as a very personal and large man, cannot have someone so new running around his house at will. And you, Reno, as the one being replaced, own a trashy apartment with two bedrooms because you like to think you're as successful as a three-gil crack whore." He smiled softly, but there was some pleasure in this behind those eyes. "Thus, you will be housing Elena for the week. I do believe you can go that long without company, and if not, then perhaps you're well enough to be sent on a timed hike to Icicle Inn. Is this clear?"
He didn't look too pleased with it, but he muttered something that sounded like a resignation and pitched his cigarette at Rude, who caught it and crushed it in his palm. "If she breaks one thing – one fucking toothpick, Tseng – she's out and she can find her own damn place." He stood up slowly and hobbled over to them.
Elena looked around at them with a bit of hesitation. "If this is just gonna be one big inconvenience, I coul –"
Suddenly, she heard a click. She glanced back and forth, feeling the pressure of a gun barrel at the back of her neck, breaking into a cold sweat. Tseng and Rude were impassive, even demanding – of what, she didn't know. Reno suddenly spoke up, coldly, from behind the barrel: "This is what happens to inconveniences. If you were an inconvenience. . .heh, you wouldn't know it right now. But you can be one. Say one wrong thing, put one toe the wrong way outta line, and you can be one. And I promise you, I won't mind having to. . ." The gun cocked, but then he pulled it away from her head, pulled the trigger to fire the blank at the wall, and holstered it. "Apartment key's under the building's welcome mat, Rookie. ShinRa Housing Systems, right next door. Says my name on it."
The other two Turks held no silent apology for her in their eyes as he turned and left the office. No, what was there was grim understanding – and truth. If she screwed up, the next one out of the chamber wouldn't be a blank. She could be Mac the deserter and have to dangle on the pole.
She swallowed as hard as she could, calming the bile rising in the back of her throat at the vivid image of dangling twenty feet off the ground and watching her own legs burn to crisps while these three men poured more gas on and took bets to see how long it would be before she screamed. She breathed out, as if she'd just said that to them all on one breath, and nodded. "Right."
Rude gave a look at Tseng that was unreadable – who could read a man that didn't show his eyes to them? – and followed Reno out. The Wutain quickly locked the outside doors, turned on the alarm system, and ushered her out to finish the process. He pulled a key from his belt, turned a lock on the staircase, and the floors shifted to seal the office off. A quick turn and he was facing her again, half-smiling.
"We need to work on the attitude, toughen you up a bit. But you'll come along nicely." He flipped her a wave as he passed her by, telling her she had the rest of the day to do absolutely whatever she wanted before disappearing around the corner, murmuring about something or other.
She figured that was the first time she grinned wildly, croaked in her throat, and tried not to fly down the rest of the stairs. A Turk! She was a goddamned Turk! And she would be working with Ts – . . .Turks! Elena looked around as if she were afraid someone had heard that, straightened herself, and walked to the elevator in a giddy schoolgirl daze.
She got into the elevator with her legs feeling weak, actually quite surprised at herself. This really wasn't like her. Still, when the doors slipped shut and she was the only one riding, she let her forehead hit the wall and a small groan slip through her lips to the effect of, "My goooooooood, Tseng!"
Anyone watching her would have clicked his or her tongue and said, "So unprofessional."
Rufus ShinRa, in a temporary office, did just that. He had microphone access to the entire building, and might have warned her on any better of a day for his malice that Palmer had just been crying to himself and beating off in there. However, the blonde was just in a really shit mood and didn't think seeing a reaction to even that was going to make it better.
If you knew Rufus, you knew that screwing with him in a mood like this was just off the platform that fell anywhere near considerable. No, you were best off keeping clear of him on a day like this, when his office was being used as a set in some kind of play and he hadn't had his coffee.
Every rule has an exception, though, and therefore everyone's limits have an exception of a certain person. Even if tampering with Rufus was like taking fifty wires on a bomb and snipping a few at random, one person could cut through that line, and that was just because his job said to.
War General Randolph Heideggar.
Heideggar knew that no one particularly favored his company, and he knew why. He was large, had a short fuse, and laughed a lot. Probably the worst thing anyone ever did was let him know these were the reasons he was so disrespected among the higher-ups, because now he had a tendency to think he was absolutely imperative for the company and used those annoyances to his advantage. The fact he had his own chairs made – actually, they were made for Palmer and no one had the nerve to tell him that – was enough convincing for him.
"Gya ha ha," he coughed. He rocked back on the reinforced legs of his chair happily. "Rufus, that's our newest Turk. What say we go demote her right under Tseng's nose and show that coward what real authority is?"
Rufus rubbed at his forehead, wondering briefly just how much legal trouble he would get in for shooting Heideggar where he sat. "Now, now," he said softly, "let's not jump on the gun." He smiled. "We both know the drawing power of our fellow employee, Tseng. Let's give her the week at least. If she just seems to be dead weight with a foolish crush, you and Rude can have your ways with her."
Through his beard, the general grinned widely as he stood, chair creaking. "Anyone else she latched onto and she wouldn't even be here. You just wanna see if she's a threat." His grin widened and his head tipped back. "Gya ha ha ha! Putting your relationship to the test and exploiting company resources, are you, boy?! Putting your father's name to sha --"
Something could cheer Rufus up that day, it was decided as Heideggar fled his mock office, a sizable hole in the back of his pants and being pursued by a loping panther named Dark Nation. The president's laugh followed them as well, all the way to the elevator. Heideggar got the door shut before the animal could catch him, then turned around and collapsed, panting, against the wall.
He did a double-take, and then promptly screamed, "PALMER, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!!"