Disclaimer: Much as I'd love to, I don't own a single bit of the FFVII franchise.

Warnings: Offensive language, graphic violence, drug allusions, homicide—it's M people. I think the only thing I've left out was sex. (And I hear a wave of disappointment...)

A/N: So. This is my gangsterific Reno-centric AU, based largely on a short story written for my English class, and it borrows heavily from concepts, themes, and titles present on the critically acclaimed rap album Tha Carter II.

Also, many fervid and passionate thank-yous to my amazing betas, Moiranne Rose and , and also to Pen Against Sword for her valuable tips and advice. Those three are freaking amazing writers. Seriously. If you haven't read their work, you're missing out.

But enough of my yammerin'. On to the fic.

Preface.

Here's how the story starts:

Once upon a time in a slimy metal prison called Midgar, there was a group of heartless bastards called the Turks. They sold illegal substances under the counter, cut throats, and tried to claw a living out of the concrete.

Once upon a time, they got fucked over.

One little Turk decided he wasn't gonna let things end the way they did, so he spit the blood out of his mouth, grit his teeth, and started a war. Because he was the scummiest of the scummiest and the fucking best of the best.

One little Turk decided he'd give Shinra its due.

The Shinra Electric Power Company: the corporate monster that ran the facilities, the money, the cities, the countries—the world. The well-oiled money-making machine with one hell of a strategy: Burn your enemies to the ground and then pump out their mako.

Mako. The thick, green fluid that made the world go round.

One Turk against the world.

Heh…what the hell was I thinking?

Bulletproof Diary

Entry I.

Ride In.

I slammed down on the alarm clock as it went off; it'd been screeching and shrieking like some animal crying out in pain. Damn thing. I hated the noise, hated what it meant: welcome to a brand new, completely fucked day.

I sighed and let my lids droop back down, easing the burning in my eyes for a moment. I didn't want to get up, but I knew soon enough I sure as hell had to. Still, that didn't mean I couldn't put it off for a while; I was lazy and selfish enough to do it. The bed springs creaked under me as I turned over to stare across the pillows.

Damn. She was hot.

And that was about the best I could say.

I reached out and brushed a finger across her cheek, and her eyelids fluttered before they closed again.

Heh. She slept like she was Petrified.

In some ways, we were natural—perfect—for each other: the kleptomaniac and the crook; the thief and the murderer. "Dry out Shinra's fat pockets" seemed to be the motto that kept us together. We were both a little half-crazed, maybe, but we were damn well proud of it, too.

She'd talk about Wutai, sometimes; about its green, green fields and red, peeling paint pagodas; about the swish of silky robes and the clang of ninja steel on steel. And when she did, her eyes would light up as if she were seeing all of Gaia at once, breathtaking and beautiful.

It made me wonder what the hell she was doing here, at the very bottom of the world, with a blood- and grit-riddled crook like me.

I remember the day she'd dragged herself into town, covered in soot and more than just a few battle scars as she limped deeper into the heart of Sector Five. I found her half-unconscious at the back of an alley with five bodies knocked out cold littering the ground around her, and the smell of something sharp and metallic in the air.

On her near deathbed, she'd told me, "Touch me and I'll fucking kill you."

I'd said something clever and funny like, "Only if you don't get beat to death by a Turk first."

And she'd stuck around ever since.

I looked over at her again, at the long lashes, the tan skin, the silky black hair, and the round cheeks that were slightly red and curved with her sleepy smile.

I tried to keep that image in my mind as I shrugged the covers off and let my feet touch the cold floor. I didn't want to lose the picture of her smile, frozen and beautiful in sleep. Because, chances were, I'd be dead before dawn. Savor the moments and cherish the memories, someone once said (or at least if no one had said it before, they damn well should've). Savor them, before you're dead and rotting in an alley somewhere, with a bullet through your brain.

That sorta sentiment.

But that word. Turk. It did something to people who didn't understand. Plastered fear on their faces like bugs on the windshield of a really fast train. I didn't get that.

People said we were a street gang, just a violent, belligerent street gang that crowded the slums and made an already dangerous place even more dangerous. People had perceptions of what "Turk" meant, but it was really all the same:

Murder and misery and grief. Something along those lines.

Those were the idiots, because they didn't understand it was a lot more than that. It wasn't something we loved to do. We didn't like taking lives—most of the time—but it was necessary to keep what mattered intact.

I spared an involuntary glance back at the bed.

Yeah, I wouldn't have changed things. Why would I, when Shinra ran the world and kept us under Midgar like filthy rats in the sewers? When power-hungry, money-grubbing bastards were sitting their fat asses on toilet seats of gold and raking in all the benefits? Everyone was pretty much powerless under the damn company's thumb, roaches that scattered under the bright light. It was disgusting. I'd rather kill for survival than live like that.

Did that make me wrong, though? Did that make me a monster?

Probably. But at least I had better intentions.

I was at the bathroom before another thought had crossed my mind. I pulled open the white door a bit and slipped into the room. It was murky in the morning darkness, so I fumbled around until I found the light switch on the wall and flicked it on.

I peeled off the black sweats and grey tank that seemed to cling to my damn skin like the heavy sins of yesterday, a thick second skin, and then I slipped into the shower, turning the faucet as I went. The hot, steamy water washed out some of the grogginess, washed out the silly doubts that always nagged at me when they didn't make a damned bit of sense.

My fingers found the white towel on the curtain rod as I stepped out, and I pulled it down and buried my face in it, letting it soak up all the drops of water that were oozing slowly out of my damp hair.

I shook the rest of the wet out and ruffled my hair on the towel. When I looked at the rack on the wall, what I needed was already there: a pair of black pants, a wrinkled white dress shirt, a really uncomfortable jacket, and a lame black tie. They looked pretty tame, pretty standard fare— and somehow always managed to scream run the fuck away.

I stretched out and shrugged into the clothes, leaving the tie hanging on the rack. The getup looked more badass without it.

It was weird, though. You'd think a dress suit would mean being civil and polite and all that crap, but on a Turk it always seemed to mean something a whole lot more sinister. Detached. Professional. Cold. And the all black scheme...it was like we were always mourning for someone. Technically, I guess we were. I couldn't count all the faces with my hands...

I glanced up from the sink and stared into the spotted, cracked mirror. My eyes were bright, alive; my hair was shaggy, and a bit unkempt in its ponytail; the suit looked good on me, dangerous even. I was a funny sight, the right mix of deadly and careless. I looked like I could've belonged to a mob or something.

I grinned at my reflection.

Nah, I wouldn't've changed a damn thing.

I crossed to the bed one more time and sat on the edge, careful not to wake her; the warm light of a street lamp was filtering in through the window blinds and flickering over the creamy pillows, casting patches of buttery yellow light on her cheeks.

Staring at her face while she slept...well, it made me realize something: not a single greasy bastard could tell me that what I was doing wasn't right. And if it was wrong, if I was going to burn in hell for this…

Well, shit. Had to make a living somehow.

The sheets slid and ruffled as she stirred in her sleep and turned over to look at me.

"Hey there, sexy beast." She paused to stifle a yawn. "What's up?"

"The usual." I shrugged as she rubbed a hand in her grey eyes, trying to clear the fog of sleep from them.

"Now?" she whined.

I chuckled. "Yeah, now. Quit being such a baby, alright? It's annoying."

She waved her hand dismissively. "I get it, I get it—you're an asshole-y grouch in the morning. Get out before I shave you bald."

I ruffled her black hair and stood to go after she squawked loudly. "The hell you would. You wouldn't get close enough to try."

"We are so not having a discussion about how hard I can kick your ass when my breath smells like a musky chocobo that's gone a week without a good scrubbing. Later, maybe."

It was hard to miss the hopeful tone in her voice. Made me wonder again why she put herself through this, through the fear and worrying.

I walked away, and couldn't help but notice how loud my shoes sounded in the darkness. Echoing. Kinda cool, too.

"Hey, Reno?"

My hand was already on the cool brass knob of the bedroom door when I looked back over my shoulder to see her. Yeah, still that worried expression. She was chewing the inside of her cheek, too.

"You know I love you, right?"

I smiled in spite of myself. "'Course," I quipped. "Who could resist a face like this?"

"Come back, jerk wad."

"Yeah, yeah. Like I need you to tell me that, Yuffie."

I didn't look back at the mound of wrinkled covers—couldn't bear to see the worry and panic on her face again—so I turned the knob and walked out, letting the door snap shut behind me.

Everything seemed so lifeless in the dark shadows of our apartment, hard and bitter. Like the world was reminding me to shake off the lovey-dovey mush and come back down to reality, where money and murder was waiting for me. Reminding me that Shinra was out there, watching every corner, every shadow—my every breath.

That sobered me up pretty quickly.

I was out the front door before another thought came to mind.

I heard the sirens first. Typical at—I spared a glance down at the battered gold watch on my wrist, a birthday present that Yuffie'd probably picked off some hapless idiot on the street, and checked the time—four in the morning.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and crept down the craggy, granite steps. The alleyway made up of chipped, grey bricks was small and cramped, and the dirt road was littered with dips and potholes. The sky—a funny inside joke I'd taken up—was black and still as night. And really, what did I expect to see from the slums? A dazzlingly warm sunset? Poofy clouds? Purple skies? The Plate put an end to any silly dream like that.

Rude was around the block. I could see the car as I paced slowly towards it, its black paint gleaming under the flickering lamp posts. I wasn't really all that fond of the thing. If it was up to me, I would've picked something better and sportier—something red. But whatever; it was Tseng's call.

The passenger door opened as I approached, and I slid into the leather seat easily. Baldy had both his hands gripped on the steering wheel, shades staring into the windshield like he could make out a really authentic toupee that'd work for him. I snickered.

"Heya there, Rude. I'm flattered that you picked me up. Where the hell are my roses?" He quirked an eyebrow at my toothy grin. "What, no flowers?" I scowled. "Worst damn date of my life. I want out."

I heard him chuckle as he reached for the glove box and rummaged through it for a manila envelope before he flicked it onto my lap. The engine started.

"This the hit?" I asked. Rude nodded once as he concentrated on the road, and left me to sliding open the envelope and memorizing the picture of the guy—well, kid, really. He was about seventeen, sandy-hair and wide, warm brown eyes. Looked like someone'd just scared the shit out of him, too.

"Doesn't look shady enough," I muttered. Which was true. We normally got huge, hulking guys with bulging eyes and yellowing teeth. Those were the kinda people we dealt with, thugs and bums—not this. "He's just a kid. You sure?"

Rude gave me a long look from behind his shades as he turned a corner.

"Yeah, you're right. Tseng's too prim and uptight to make mistakes."

He grimaced, probably not too amused by my take on his message. But hey, I was eloquent. What more could I say?

We rode in silence for a while. I leaned my head against the cool window and looked out the slightly fogged glass, past a refection staring back at me. The dim yellow lights, buzzing and luminescent in the dark; the shoddy huts and hovels, pathetic excuses for homes; and the filthy, grimy street corners all blurred into one continuous, dull grey image.

This was Midgar; this was the Sector Five Slums. There was no way up, because you were born without a ladder; no way down, because you'd already hit rock bottom. So you stayed there, rotting and wasting away in the murky alleys and dark streets, waiting and praying for a miracle that wouldn't happen in a world where Shinra was God.

That's why people should've understood that what we did was necessary. That if you wanted a shot, if you even had a hope in hell to get out, your only option was to be something dangerous, something that broke the law and then stepped all over its broken fingers, something that was willing and desperate enough to do anything that'd give you a way out—they'd understand that your only option was to be a Turk.

The car slowed down and lurched to a stop.

Rude pushed his door open and walked around to the back. He flitted past the rear-view mirror, popped open the trunk, and then shut it again. When he walked back past the driver's door, he jerked his head, and I opened my door to follow.

Yeah, the stale air here sucked, too. It was dead and lifeless, full of rotting stenches and odors—you'd think someone'd just dropped a load around the corner and left it there.

I caught up with Rude as he made his way around to the front and sat on the car's hood, the black duffle-bag in his hands jangling and clinking merrily as he jostled it about. The headlights were still on, lighting up the street in front of us for a few good feet. I sat next to him and crossed my arms over my chest.

"Any idea how long he'll take?" I asked. Rude shrugged. "Well, that sucks," I muttered. "I could totally be back in my warm bed, doing very exhausting and strenuous exercises with Yuffie right now." I waggled my eyebrows a bit, and a light blush crept over Rude's face. I punched him in the arm.

"Loosen up, Baldy! Can't I crack a joke without you fightin' down a laugh? Alright, here. Why did the chocobo run across the pasture?"

Rude cocked an eyebrow behind the shades.

"Because a hungry Chocobo Eater was chasing it and wanted dinner!"

A set of chuckles hung on the air for a minute, before I realized that Rude wasn't laughing with me and cut it short. I narrowed my eyes and scowled. "Rude, seriously, you're killing my morning buzz. What does it take to make your uptight ass—?"

He lifted an arm and pointed a gloved finger into one of the darker corners just outside the headlights' range; I followed his lead.

Yeah, I saw him. That gangly kid with the wide scared eyes and the sandy hair, face covered in grime and dirt and soot. A wooly striped beige sweater with long sleeves hung loosely on his skinny frame, and his cut-up pair of black jeans looked like it'd seen better days.

His face was peeking around the wall of a curb, and when he saw us staring at him, he jumped a little and scuttled out into view. That only made it worse. He was trembling all over, kinda like a mini-seizure, except he clearly wasn't foaming at the mouth. He was scared out of his mind, though, I could tell. His hand was gripped around something metal and gun-shaped in his pocket.

Nice. The twitchy-nervous type. It was gonna be a thin line to tread.

I looked up at Rude and he nodded, so I took a careful step forward—the kid was jumpy, after all.

"Hey there." I tried to make my voice soothing when I extended my arm out as a greeting. He just kinda stared at it numbly. I let my arm swing back down to my side. "You"—I checked the crumpled photo in my pocket—"Benjamin Witlock, right?"

The kid nodded. "M-my f-friends call me B-B-Benjy," he whispered. Like he was scared. Horrified. The kid really didn't know what he'd gotten himself into.

"Cool, Benjy," I ventured. "See, me and my partner"—I cocked my head over towards Rude—"we'll be handlin' the transaction today for the Turks." He jumped at the word. "You got—?"

"A-all t-thirty vials!" His voice cracked on the last word.

I looked back over at Rude, who was clearly seeing the same thing I was: a scared kid, shaking and trembling in our headlights, minus the thirty vials that he was supposed to have.

"The vials...?"

"Around t-the c-corner. I w-wasn't sure if y-you were T-T-Turks." He was gonna give himself a brain aneurism at that rate.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and edged around him; his brown eyes followed me.

"Yeah, cool," I said. "I'm just gonna check the merchandise, count the wares. Standard procedure."

His hand clenched and unclenched in his pocket as he rose the other to wipe the cold sweat off his lips.

"N-no!" I stopped pacing, standing long enough to throw him a quizzical stare. "I m-mean..." Benjy paused for a deep breath. "Boss s-said don't let you s-see the v-vials till I see the g-gil."

"And your boss is smart," I offered. "People tend to rob and steal and backstab 'round here. But the gil is right in front of you"—Rude held up the bag—"and I'm sure you can understand that we have every right to check your end of the deal. So..."

Benjy shook his head. "I c-can't. Give me the g-g-gil first."

I was getting annoyed. All the damn kid had to do was let me see the vials, let me make sure we weren't being crossed, and we'd all be on our merry way. But no, we had to broker with a twitchy little amateur who didn't understand the basics—you sniff my butt, I sniff yours. Then we exchange. Simple as hell.

"Kid, look." I took a step towards him—

"Don't move!"

—and he fired a shot into the air.

Benjy brought the gun down, chest heaving, and fixed it on me, his fingers shaking on the trigger.

Kid was really, really starting to get annoying.

"Just g-give me the gil and t-then you c-can see the vials!" he stammered.

I sighed in annoyance.

"You don't get it, kid," I drawled. My voice came out sounding a helluva lot like a growl. "You check to see if we're legit—and the money's obviously right over fucking there. Then we check if you're legit—as in, we see the fucking vials."

The kid just shook his head again. From the corner of my eye, I saw Rude take a small step forward. Benjy saw it too; he spun around like a top.

"Don't try anything f-funny, big guy."

Rude didn't move. He just stared back calmly at the kid, heavy shades and all, and I could see that it was making Benjy even more anxious than he already was. Probably thought Rude looked kinda menacing, and I guess he did. Wearing a Turk suit and being as tall as he was did that.

Benjy swallowed and his finger tightened a little on the trigger.

"Take a s-step b-back! Now!" he yelled. In my head, I played back the sound of his weak, shaking voice giving demands. It sounded funny.

Rude didn't back away, but he did drop the bag of gil; the sound of the jingling coins and ruffling bills made Benjy twitch. His finger shook on the trigger, and he banged out another shot—and it whizzed right by Rude's bald shiny head.

It wasn't that I wanted to, because I didn't, really, not that early in the morning. But we'd tried calming him down, tried talking to him. I had to—didn't really have a choice. My hand was already in my pocket, wrapped around my electro-mag rod. He wouldn't see me coming, not if I was fast enough...and he'd be too concentrated on Rude anyway. So I did the smart, logical thing.

I bashed his head in.

It was easier than I'd thought it'd be. The rod whipped around and smashed into the side of his face; the bolts ran over him like water. There was a small cracking noise, a spurt of blood, and then Benjy crumpled to the ground in shock. He'd never seen it coming.

I looked over at Rude, and he was giving me a look that pretty much scowled, You really didn't have to do that. I grimaced as I crouched down and put two fingers on Benjy's neck to check his pulse; the blood was racing in his veins.

"Hey, Benjy," I said. "I need you to calm down. Yeah, that's it. Deep breaths, nice and easy." My fingers felt around his skull and hair, pushing his red-soaked and sopping wet hair out of the way. "There's a small break around your ear. It'll hurt like a bitch for a few weeks, but the pain'll go away, alright?"

I hated lying to him. The poor kid.

Rude knelt down next to me and slipped his hand under Benjy's head to prop him up. The kid started coughing, choking a little on his blood as it flew out and flecked his sweater; a few drops welled up in his eyes.

"Dammit," he coughed. "I'm so sorry. I was nervous, and stupid, and scared and and—and you're Turks, y-y'know?"

"Yeah, kid," I said. "I know."

"I'm gonna die now, aren't I?" The blood trickled down the corner of his mouth as he choked the words out, dizzy and scared.

"Nah, no way," I lied. My voice was smooth and cheerful.

"T-Thanks," Benjy said, and then his voice broke a little, "but I'm not stupid. I'm b-bleeding my brains out on the pavement."

Rude shifted his hand and lowered Benjy's head closer to the ground so that the bleeding would slow. It didn't work.

"The vials—they're around the corner"—Benjy let out a hacking cough—"where I was"—a twitch, an aftereffect of the rod's shock—"hiding." He choked up some more blood and wiped it off his shaking lips before he turned to Rude. "Listen, this really"—another choke, a bit more violent—"fuckin' hurts, big guy, and I never wanted to die long and"—a bubble of blood on the corner of his mouth—"drawn out in the first place. I'd prefer a quick and painless exit. Can ya help me out?"

I didn't wait for Rude's response. He was warm-hearted and kind enough that he'd do the kid a favor.

I got up, plucked Benjy's discarded handgun from the ground, and strolled over to the alley where he'd been hiding in and peeked around. They were there. A flatbed, loaded with thirty brown brick-shaped packages. I picked one up and ripped a small tear in the paper. The green glow pulsed back at me.

"Yo, Rude!" It was a few seconds before he reached me. "Yeah, we're good. I already counted, it's thirty vials." He gave me a stiff nod and then walked back over to the car to back it into the alley so that we could load the trunk. It took a few minutes, but we fit 'em all.

"C'mon. Let's get the hell out of here before someone gets too curious about those gunshots," I muttered. I walked toward the passenger's side, but then Rude grabbed my arm and jerked his head back towards the street.

"The kid, huh?" I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. "Yeah, you're right, we can't leave him there—wouldn't be right. And someone'll trip over his body and steal the gil. Stuff him in a corner somewhere in the alley, like behind the flatbed. And bring the loot. Don't want anyone claiming we stole our shipment."

Rude took care of it. By the time he was done, I was already in my seat in the car, tapping my fingers against my knee. I was a little irritated that the deal hadn't gone as smooth as it should've, but it was too late to stress on it now. So I'd killed someone—was it really all that different from normal?

Rude started the engine and we pulled away. The street fell away into the black as he drove, passing buildings and huts and all the rest; I tried to block them out.

"We moving bases today or what?" I quipped.

Rude shook his head. "No, same one."

"Hoho! He speaks for the first time today!" I teased. "Huh. So all it takes is your standard death courtesy of a poorly trained kid to get you to squawk—"

I saw a flash of pink through my window, standing on the edge of the road.

"Stop the car," I grunted. Rude gave me a questioning look. "Just stop the car, I'll be right back." He didn't ask any more questions as he pulled onto the side of the road, and he left the engine running as I got out.

The air was still stagnant as I stepped across the street, walking briskly. I couldn't believe this shit. They didn't belong out here. It was different for Rude and me, we were older. But Benjy and now her... What were these kids doing on the streets?

I stopped short when I reached the other side. I'd been right: another kid working the streets when she probably didn't have a damn clue how dangerous it was. There were people who'd hurt her—people like me.

She was about the same age as Benjy, with big green eyes and long tresses of brown hair. Nearly my height, too. I thought all the pink was a little deceiving, though; it implied a sense of innocence, something she obviously didn't have. Guess her customers got off on it. The thought made me shudder a little.

"Hello," she said. Cheerily. Like she still had that innocence. The false piety kinda pissed me off. "Would you like—?"

"No, I wouldn't," I snarled, and she shrank back at the force of my words. "Girlie, the hell are you doing out here? The streets are no place for you, and you're already playing with a risky game. Not only is being passed around like a bottle nasty as hell, it's dangerous. They've got psychos out here, girlie. And sick bastards who like how little girls scream, so I'm telling you to get the fuck—"

"I sell flowers," she told me flatly. I blinked twice in surprise, feeling kinda sheepish, as my mind drew a blank. My rant pretty much went out the window, too.

"Oh."

She seemed to be waiting for more of a response, so I tried to put my scrambled thoughts together.

"Huh. My mistake," I muttered. "Been a long morning, and I thought... Kids should try to enjoy the youth while it lasts, y'know? Not right to want to be a part of this"—I looked up and down the street—"anytime soon."

She nodded quietly, appraising me with her soft green eyes. "You're a Turk." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," I said. "Isn't this the part where you run screaming?"

She smiled like she thought it was a funny joke and extended her hand. "I'm Aerith. You're...?"

I shook it. "Reno." After a bit, I added, "So, flowers, huh?"

"Yep," Aerith said. I looked behind her and finally noticed the rickety wooden cart, filled with pinks and yellows and whites and blues.

"Where do you grow 'em all?"

"At the church, nearby. It's the only place they'll grow at all."

I eyed the cart. Flowers...they weren't something you usually saw in the slums—if at all. It was kinda weird to look at them; they seemed so wrong and out of place against the harsh backdrop of Sector Five.

"Do you want any?"

"...What?" I stared at Aerith, trying to break out of my thoughts. "Want any what?"

She chuckled. "The flowers, silly. I'm selling them, remember?"

"Oh. Right." I shook my head. "No thanks, though. I'm not into flowers and hearts and puppies. Or pink, to tell you the truth."

Aerith laughed softly again at my words. "Right, I guess I can't really see you with roses in your hair either."

I grunted. "Yeah. Well, nice talking to ya, Aerith, but I'd better get going. Turk stuff to do."

Her shoulders tensed a little, but the smile was still genuine. "I understand. It was nice to meet you too, Reno."

I nodded once and turned to go before a thought struck me. I pivoted on my heel.

"Scratch that. You sell white roses?"

Aerith beamed, the smile breaking out wide on her cheeks. "Yeah, actually, I do. They're really hard to grow, but I manage it. What do you have in mind?"

I pulled at the open collar of my shirt nervously. "I was thinking... maybe... a bouquet. For a friend."

I don't think the word "friend" went unnoticed, but she didn't comment on it. She reached into the cart and plucked out a flower with a wide bud that drooped over the sides: a white rose.

"How many? Do you want a bow? And if you do, what color?"

Yuffie would've gotten a kick out of this. "Eleven. And a red bow, I guess."

Aerith nodded and busied herself with pulling the flowers out by their stems and wrapping them in clear green plastic, before she finished the package off nicely with the bow.

"I can add a note, if you want," she told me.

I shook my head. I wasn't a romantic. I couldn't spout flowery speeches about love and forever and all that other shit, and I don't think Yuffie really expected me to. We pretty much already understood each other without talking in the first place anyway.

"Nah. Just put 'Reno' on the card. She'll get the message."

I didn't miss the smile on Aerith's face when I said "she," even as she turned to pull out a small white card from the cart—but I wasn't going to push it. Probably a coincidence, after all.

Aerith latched the card to the flowers and handed them to me. "Here you go, Reno. A bouquet of flowers, for your special lady friend."

Dammit. Yeah, she'd noticed.

I eyed the flowers warily, and realized that I couldn't take them. Not when Rude or any of the others would see 'em and tease me mercilessly about getting soft—I had a damn reputation to uphold. The thought made me muss my hair impulsively.

"Think you could deliver 'em instead? Say"—I checked the watch again—"six hours from now, 'round eleven?"

"Sure..." She said it slowly, a little unsure despite the word.

"I could pay you extra," I added.

"No, no, it's fine. I've just never delivered flowers to anyone's home before. I've never really thought about it. Where do you—?"

I reached for one of the cards and her pen and scrawled my address on it in black ink.

"There," I said. "How much'll it cost me?"

"Two gil."

I rummaged into my pockets for a handful of bills and pushed them into her hands. When she opened her mouth to argue, I said, "It's cool. Just take it." I smiled a little so she'd understand I'd meant it, and she smiled softly back.

"Fine, but only if you let me write up a receipt."

"Don't bother," I said, and waved away her protests lazily.

Receipts were for regrets, for people who weren't sure of the choices they'd made in life, who were willing to go back for a chance to do things different. I didn't believe in that sentimental shit. There were no second chances, and I didn't have any regrets I could think of anyway. A few things I wasn't proud of, but never any regrets. 'Specially when it came to Yuffie.

"Alright," Aerith smiled. "Thank you, Reno. It really was nice meeting you."

"Yeah, yeah." I was already turning to go. "Do me a favor and stay off the streets, Aerith. Isn't safe around here for nice people like you." I didn't hear what her reply was...but I really hoped she'd listen to me.

Rude was still waiting when I hopped back into the car. He gave me another confused look, so I shrugged. "Just a flower girl," I muttered, and he seemed to understand what I'd been so pissed about: teenage prostitutes and kid dealers who were way too fucking young to be working the slums in the first place.

He nodded once, throwing the car into drive, and pulled back onto the black pavement without another comment. It was one of the reasons I was so damn thankful that Rude was my partner; he never asked too many questions.

"To the warehouse," I sighed, and Rude gave me another small bow of his head.

We sped on into the dark.