Author's Note: I've been working on this one for ages. There's one section that I must have edited at least a dozen times to make it sound right. It didn't turn out quite the way I expected, but do they ever? Anyways, this is just an idea I had where Cissnei left the Turks after Zack's death and what happens several months later. It can happen anytime between the fall of Sector Seven and the defeat of Sephiroth, basically.
Heavy footsteps drag across well-trampled soil. It is a path innumerable humans have already trudged across over the decades since its formation. Like many others, the figure has a burden weighing them down, pressing against their shoulders in a way almost certain to leave a permanent arch in their spine.
Some burdens are misconstrued by their owner to weigh more than they do, causing them to seek more pain relievers than they truly require. Others believe their burden to be so heavy, they try to pass it on to people already carrying heavy heaps of their own.
This, however, is not one of those burdens.
No, often the ones with the heaviest loads are the ones who choose to go it alone. The ones who feel they deserve no sympathies, no help. They are the silent embittered, searching the world with dull, vacant eyes, merely scouring for a way to survive another day, regardless of the open wounds of the heart that they can never quite heal. Survival to them is habit, not necessity, a way to distract themselves for the briefest of moments. Nothing more, nothing less.
Perhaps their hopelessness is a consequence of their location. Regardless of if it is by necessity or by force, residing beneath the plate is never a simple matter. Those in their right mind do not choose to live here without having a need for it.
Unless, of course, it is a rare form of self-punishment.
Sunlight is almost never seen under the plate unless one scurries too close to the carnage that was once Sector Seven. She never does. The sight alone would only serve as a reminder of who she once was.
And all the blood that stains her hands.
No amount of soap and water can clean the messes she has created. Nor can it cleanse away any amount of self-loathing she harbors for her crimes.
A trembling hand comes out of her sleeve to pull the cowl of her cloak further down, obscuring her from the icy wind that nips at her cheeks and threatens to reveal her identity. Down here, hiding from the right people is everything.
A voice nearby catches her attention, "Looks like we got one." His voice is not much louder than an inaudible whisper, but years of training in a life long forgotten, causes her to overhear.
"Think they've got anything?" his partner whispers. Dirt-smeared fingers rub together in eager anticipation of all the goods he hopes to pilfer.
His friend shrugs his thin shoulders. Each of them is as emaciated as most of the other ruffians in the area, tattered, oversized clothing belying their slender frames. "Only one way to find out."
They begin to make their way to her. the few others on the street recognize their intentions and scamper to safety. Footsteps shuffle behind her, loud enough that even the most oblivious man could hear them. No amount of battle knowhow would be required to predict their actions.
Careful to keep walking at the same steady pace, showing no sign of noticing their approach, she continues to her destination.
They know nothing.
A hand comes to rest on her shoulder. The owner barely has time to open his mouth to speak before an elbow is driven into his stomach, leaving him gasping for breath.
The second man finds a blade at his throat before he can comprehend what has happened. On closer inspection, he notes the blade is attached to a circle still half-obscured by billowing sleeves. Some sort of shuriken if he remembers right.
"Don't try it." The voice is surprisingly feminine and he finally draws up the courage to look down into her amber eyes, glinting with an anger he now knows she is capable of murdering him with. She is no longer stooped over, choosing to stand at her full height in a fighting stance that muscle-memory drops her into without hesitation.
Ice-cold fear begins to creep through him. For once, the one he chose to target could murder him before he can even blink, spilling his blood across the pathway where countless other skirmishes have already occurred. He has grown accustomed to victims cowering in his presence, handing over anything and everything he asks to be given. This is something he never would have anticipated.
In the world below the plate, only fools believe in justice. His death would just be another stain sullying the cluttered streets. No one would care if a tormenter like him dropped dead.
A bit of gil and some food was not worth all of this.
"S-sorry, ma'am," he chokes out, an etiquette he is not aware he possessed making its way to the surface. "T-thought you were s-someone else."
"Don't let it happen again. And don't try it on anyone else. I know where to find you," she replies.
Somehow, the man knows that she would be capable of it. He leans back from the cool metal against his neck and nods his head vigorously, sunken eyes widening with something more than terror.
Once she knows his answer, the weapon is relinquished as quickly as it had appeared.
But not before it is seen by another.
A grin crosses his face as he notes the dull green of the mako lights glistening across the familiar blade. Her weapon is still in as immaculate condition as ever. He should have expected no less.
The would-be thieves both scuttle away with enough speed that they barely manage to remain on their feet as they cross the uneven terrain. Without looking back, she continues down the road, remaining oblivious to his presence. Once he is certain there is enough distance between them, the man emerges from his place pressed into the deepest shadows cast from above, trying to keep up a casual pace as he follows her. Tracking has always been one of his specialties.
Unfortunately for him, it was once hers too. It is a fact he fails to recall.
He turns the corner and notes what building she enters in the small alleyway. Knowing it would look too suspicious if he enters immediately, he hangs back, biding his time.
No one gives him a second glance as he stands beneath an overhang that protects against rain that will never come. The cloak he wears obscures him from lingering cold gazes – looks that would be expected were his uniform visible to passersby. He would be rightfully hated if they saw it and, in the end, it would only cause more blood to be spilled by his hand.
He reaches into an interior pocket and removes his PHS. His thumb brushes over the familiar crack in its casing, an old scar from an accidental shot from one of his old sparring partners during a practice match. At first he did not care enough to get it replaced, but after she left some irrational part of him wanted — no — needed to keep it there. Never once has he claimed to be a sentimental man, but this is not the same. To him, this is the difference between holding onto his memories or shuffling them back into the recesses of his mind, where all the other painful, half-forgotten memories are kept. These memories are special. They do not belong beside the memories of those he has killed, the ones who haunt his dreams. These recollections deserve better than that. She deserves better than that.
They are recollections of laughter between comrades, inside jokes echoing down immaculate hallways and pranks pulled to lighten the weight of the trouble they all bared.
They are hours of sparring matches, not only to continue honing skills already near-perfected, but for friendly competition, something to gloat in jest about after the winner was clearly proclaimed.
They are an elbow to the stomach for every time his lewd remarks took him one step too far.
They are recollections of late nights drinking hot chocolate and whiskey when the demons that pursued them brought about insomnia.
They are of visits to the infirmary to ensure each other's safety when a mission caused harm.
They are a tear-stained shirt after a mission went terribly wrong or a loyal associate fell to the inevitable.
They are memories of burying an ally who died before his time.
No. None of these deserve to be forgotten. They are not meant to wake him up each night in a cold sweat, to leave him wondering in the quiet moments before dawn what had happened to his comrade – no his friend – since he had last seen her.
That is one of the reasons he has spent so long searching for her. Faded memories are as painful as the ones that seek him out each night.
With a struggle, he forces back the reminiscences, pressing the keys on his phone with shaking hands. When the ringing on the other end ceases, he speaks before the person can answer, "Boss, I've found her."
There is a brief silence before the carefully emotionless response, "Good. Take care of her."
"I'm on it." There is a click on the other end as his boss hangs up. With one last look at the old battle scar, he tucks the phone away, before gathering his courage and entering the building.
The lights in the bar are dim, but he can see her sitting in the far corner, back facing the wall. His drink of choice rests in her right hand, as she swirls the amber-colored liquid around inside it.
He has never seen her drink before. She raises the glass to her lips, feigning a delicate sip, but when it is placed back on the table, he notes that there is no change in the height of the liquid.
With vigilant steps, he saunters across the room, sidestepping the other tables and men already drunk at such an early hour. They seem to be of the opinion that any time and all times are a good time to drown their sorrows.
It is not until he is within a few meters of her that he notices the pistol trained precisely at his head. She keeps it under the table, just out of the bartender's line of sight. As if she has done so many times before.
"You shouldn't have followed me." Her voice is colder than he remembers, with an edge to it that speaks volumes of her situation. "Why are you here?"
Instincts tell him that she has yet to realize who he is. As far as she is concerned, he is nothing more than another thug hiding beneath a cloak. He avoids the question, choosing instead to reveal himself in another way. "Thought ya didn't use one of those," he says, casually, nodding his chin towards the gun. It was true. Not once in her career did she ever use one outside of basic training. In truth, he never did either. He still has not. They both had agreed there were better alternatives.
She recognizes his voice. The pistol wavers a fraction of an inch and he hears her whisper to herself, "Reno." But then, her grip tightens on the pistol as she reaffirms her aim. "Down here it's a necessity."
He raises an eyebrow though he knows she cannot see it. "Yet ya still reach for Rekka first."
Her knuckles go white on both hands, fingers clenching so tightly that the hand holding the glass trembles. Apparently, he had hit a mark. When she chooses not to respond, he pulls out the chair across from her and plops down on it, crossing one ankle over the other as he rests his feet on the corner of the table and tips the chair onto two legs.
"I didn't say you could sit here."
He snorted. "Didn't have much of a choice, did ya?" If looks could kill, Reno knows he would be a dead man. He does not need to see her face to know which glare she is giving him.
Ignoring her entirely, he lowers his hood, revealing a shock of vibrant red hair trailing into the back of his cloak. With a grin, he motions to the waitress. Out of the corner of his eye he sees his former comrade slip the gun further beneath the table as the waitress comes to him.
"What can I get for you?" she asks, her voice flitting through the air.
"Whiskey. And keep 'em comin', Babe."
She forces a giggle before saying, "Got it. I'll be right back." The pair remains silent as she walks back to the bar, Reno trying to keep from grimacing and his former associate doubtlessly still glaring.
A few moments later, his glass is placed in front of him with a clink. He gives her a quick "Thanks," before swishing the liquid in his glass and taking a swig. Reno sighs. "What made ya order whiskey? Never seen ya bother before."
"A lot has changed." Ambiguity appears to be her new charade. "What do you want, Reno?"
He fixes her with a steady gaze. "To see you, Cissnei."
"Tseng finally find time to get you to end my contract then?" There isn't the smallest inkling of fear in her voice, if nothing else there is a certain degree of bitter relief.
She is no longer quite the same girl as the Cissnei from his memories.
She's tired of running, tired of hiding. That much he can tell, but he suspects that the thing she is most tired of is the nightmares. Zack Fair's death was too much for her. He knows from experience that the inner demons can be the most painful. The feeling that there was something more she could have done must eat away at her very core.
Reno is careful not to break from his level stare. There is no use in making her think he is lying again. "You know Tseng wouldn't do that."
"That's not what my contract said when I signed it."
"What Shinra doesn't know can't hurt 'em." He takes another drink from his glass, trying to savor it, even in the midst of the argument he has both been praying for and dreading.
"But Shinra does know. If the Department of Administrative Research knows than they do too."
"Ya know being a Turk was never about Shinra. They signed the paycheck and chose some targets. Nothin' more."
She snorts derisively. "You're fooling no one, Reno."
"A Turk's loyalty was to his comrades first and the President and that bastard son of his dead last. You know that." The whiskey in his glass no longer seems to taste as good as he had hoped.
The movement of the hood suggests that she is cocking her head to one side. "But I'm not a Turk."
An open palm strikes the tabletop in irritation. "Ya damn well are, Cissnei. Once a Turk always a Turk. The contract confirms it."
"The same binding contract that says the only way to escape duty is to die?" Her voice is bitter, with years of false securities and promises having been stripped away by one long mission. She stopped trying to tell herself long ago that she belonged with the Turks and even the tiny voice inside of painful rationale had stopped trying to tell her otherwise. If she was skilled enough to be a Turk, Zack would not be dead.
If she belonged with the Turks, it would not have taken them this long to find her.
Reno takes the time to rub his forehead, hoping to console the growing pain beneath it. A thought strikes him then, a way to prove that he means her no harm, that Tseng has not placed her on his hit list. "Look. I don't got any weapons." He shows her the inside of his cloak, turning out each pocket and dumping their contents onto the table before showing her his midnight blue blazer and replicating the gesture.
When he finishes, they both scan the contents on the table. A flyer advertising for a new bar in Sector Three. A receipt from a Wutainese restaurant Reno and Rude had treated Tseng to for his last birthday. A stiff handkerchief stained with brandy and whiskey from an accident at a bar years before. His PHS, the mark from her shuriken clearly visible on its casing. Bits of lint that had accumulated in each pocket are scattered across the table, the sign that he truly cleans as often as she always suspected.
The last item catches her by surprise. With an unsteady hand, she reaches across the table to get a better look at it, seizing it in her worn leather half-glove. He averts his gaze as she looks at it.
It is a photo. Various crease marks keep it from lying flat and white lines crisscross it, a sign that it has been accidently bent on several occasions. A tear that looks like it was caused by a bullet hole disfigures one corner. The hole is ringed with crimson, but the subject matter is unmistakable.
It is of her and her comrades.
Reno and Rude are lounging on vibrant grass in a park by Sector Six. She sits in between them. The photo was taken at the last company picnic she ever attended, an attempt by the late President to present some degree of normalcy to the people of Midgar. A new recruit to the press department had asked to take a picture of them all and Reno had said yes before the others could protest. He was perched on his elbows with his legs outstretched before him in a classic laidback Reno posture, with his tongue sticking out at the camera, while Rude stared at it through his dark sunglasses with an eyebrow raised, as though questioning the sanity of the photographer for asking for their picture. Uncertain how to react, Cissnei had only given the camera a hesitant smile. Learning to be skilled at Public Relations had never been in their training modules.
Her voice catches in the back of her throat. The hitch in her voice revealing how touched she is as she asks, "Y-you kept this?"
"Yeah. Tracked the photographer down after you left. Made him give me a copy." Throughout the exchange, he fails to meet her eyes, seeming to find the way the weak lighting reflects off the surface of his drink fascinating. His cheeks are a faint shade of pink. "Rude's got one too," he adds, as though trying to defend himself.
She gently places the photo back in front of him. "No EMR?"
Reno sighs, beginning to wonder if he can ever convince her that he means no harm. "No EMR. Where else could I keep it, yo?" He stares at the shadowed face beneath the cloak
There is a long pause before she responds, "I believe you." She opens her cloak and stows the pistol in an interior pocket.
"So?"
"We'll talk, but I'm not making any promises."
Reno nods. "Good. But could ya lose the hood? This isn't some cloak and dagger negotiation. No one's gonna kill ya with me around."
Cissnei hesitates for a long moment before finally nodding and lowering her hood. Sadness flickers through his cerulean eyes as he sees her face.
Life has not been kind to her, seeming to have picked her up and spat her back across the uneven pavement. Dark circles grace her haunted eyes, weary from ages of running. A few streaks of silver pepper her unkempt auburn hair, making her seem far older than the date of birth on her ID card. Her skin is pale from having not seen the sunlight in Holy knows how long. A scar paler than her flesh is etched across one cheek.
He says nothing about it because there is nothing to say. Time has never been kind to them. If Time was kind, there would have been fewer injuries and less death. There would have been more vacations to Costa del Sol and fewer nights fighting insomnia.
If Time was kind, Zack Fair would not have died and Cissnei would have never forsaken her uniform.
Her gaze flickers across his face and he notices the slightest bit of impatience in the way her upper lip twitches in a grimace. Reno opens his mouth, but she cuts him off, "Save it Reno. I haven't seen my reflection in months and I don't think I want to see it any time soon. Cleanliness is a luxury around here."
"Come on now, yo. I wasn't gonna say anything about that." Her eyes narrow. "What? I just was gonna ask what you've been up to."
She raises an eyebrow. "What do you think?"
"Well…uh…you know…" He then notices the barely suppressed smile at his confusion. "Hey!"
"It can't be that difficult to figure out, Reno. There isn't that much to do around here."
"Not like I come down here every day, ya know?"
"Fine. Early each day I walk the streets – or what qualifies for them around here. I don't know why, but I do. I'm probably still stuck in the habit from back when I patrolled Sector Eight." A wry smile twists her lips, but he says nothing. "I might scavenge some items to trade for a little gil. Then I buy something to eat. After that, I go back on patrol, causing trouble for any thugs who mess with the good people down here. Then I come here, grab a drink, gather some information, and find a place to sleep. Then it repeats. Enough information for you?"
"Hey, I'm just tryin' to make conversation, yo."
"All right then. What have you been up to?" She gives him a patronizing smile.
Reno rubs a hand through his hair and smirks at her. "The usual."
"I expected no less." She nods briskly at him. "Now, if you aren't here to kill me, would you care to tell me why you're here?"
"I've missed you."
"Somehow I doubt that."
Lips pressing together in a thin line, Reno tries to keep his temper. He had almost forgotten how frustrating she could be when she wanted to be. "It's true, yo."
"Prove it."
"Why?" A hand absently fingers the worn photograph as he gauges her reaction – her mouth falling open in a small murmur of surprise. "You aren't stupid, 'Nei. We both know it and even Reeve coulda figured out we missed you while he was mulling over transportation modules. And ya know how he is when he's got that protractor of his out."
At this she actually laughs. It is a somewhat stilted sounding flicker of one, as though she has not in ages, but a laugh nonetheless. Reno feels compelled to join in, his anger evaporating at the sound of it. After a few moments, she looks back at him catching the subtle nuances of his statement, serious eyes locking with his. "Wait, we?"
The red haired Turk rubs the back of his neck. "Well, yeah, Tseng and Rude and the others. Ya know, Rude barely said a word for a month after you left, yo."
Cissnei smiles in a way that makes her almost seem like her old self again, a spark gleaming in her eyes. "Tell me, since when has Rude ever been more talkative than that?"
"Ah, you know how he is. He's a bit of a softy. He hated seeing you go, 'Nei." Reno fixes his gaze on hers. "We all did," he adds, his voice a haunted murmur.
Her fingers trace the outline of an old stain on the table, lowering her gaze to follow each movement. Both sit in silence listening to the high-pitched sound of glasses striking hard surfaces and the familiar din of bar jargon reverberating throughout the room. Neither wants to be the one to break the silence, but they do not want the uneasy sentiment to continue either.
Turks are only used to being honest with a select few. They are honest with each other first, though even they have their secrets. They are honest with their quarry second, when it comes time to inform them of their impending demise or the price on their head.
They are never honest with themselves, however. It would only bring about more pain.
Brow furrowing with confusion as his hand seems to take on a life of its own, Reno captures her hand, causing it to fall still. His thumb brushes against the worn creases in her glove, engraved with months of wear and thousands of shuriken throws. A faint pink scar peeks out from beneath her sleeve. He raises it up to see the long gash etched into her forearm.
"Mission to Modeoheim?" His eyes gleam with mischief as he fights to put the awkward moment behind them.
"Yes." Cissnei sighs, eyes rolling as she prepares for the ensuing conversation. That mission was never one she was able to live down during her time as a Turk.
"I told ya you shouldn't have messed with those chocobos," he smirks.
"Rookie mistake." She yanks her hand out of his grasp and tugs her sleeve over the mark.
"No kidding. Even I knew not to try to get a closer look at the chicklets with the mother 'round."
With a mock grimace of annoyance, she replies, "Shut it, Reno."
"I enjoyed tellin' Tseng that the newest recruit was so fond of keeping strange pets that she would wind up gettin' herself hurt. He was definitely worried about adding you to the force that day."
"I wasn't trying to keep it! I was investigating!"
"Sure, try tellin' that to the boss."
"Thanks to you, Tseng still thinks I was building a menagerie in my quarters."
"Would you have liked to?" Reno casually takes a sip of his drink, staring over the rim of the glass with mild amusement.
Her lips twist in irritation. "That doesn't make any difference—"
"So you did!" he chortles, the glass being moved so abruptly from his lips that liquor sloshes over the side and puddles on the table.
Cissnei rolls her eyes as she reaches for a napkin to clean up her comrade's mess.
"Wait until Tseng and Rude hear about this!"
"Do they have to?" she asks, already knowing the answer.
"Yup, unless ya think it would be suitable blackmail material."
The glower he receives is an answer in itself.
"Good. I'll get right on that. Would ya mind doin' my laundry for me? The boss'll be pretty damn pissed if I wear yesterday's suit again tomorrow. Somethin' about it smelling like—"
A sudden shout startles them out of their conversation. All heads turn to see what is amiss.
Two figures stand across the room. One looms over the other, his considerable girth held up by his fists on the tabletop. His shouts are incomprehensible. The man is far too drunk to be able to say anything even remotely coherent. It leaves him rambling like a buffoon. The other man merely stares up into the yellow teeth, flinching slightly at the smell of his breath.
The first man lifts the table up, tossing it against the second man, who tries to scramble out of the way, what had remained of their drinks spilling down his tattered clothing. The first man takes a haphazard swing at him, but an even burlier man grabs his arm. The bartender takes the time to throw both men outside, before turning his eyes on all of them, "Quit starin' and get back to yer drinks."
All eyes turn away, conversations slowly being restarted as the sounds of a man getting pummeled are ignored outside. It is not an unusual occurrence in the slums.
It serves as a firm reminder that their location is not the lounge concealed within Shinra's walls and that neither Turk is quite the same as they once were.
The awkward silence they had once endured resumes, as the din elsewhere in the bar begins to escalate to the volume it had once held. Neither seeks out the other's gaze. Reno finishes his drink. He is pleased to note that he is finding some enjoyment in the taste once more.
Cissnei watches a rodent that scurries across the floor, seeking the shelter of a hole in the wall, before she finally speaks her mind. "AVALANCHE had nothing to do with Sector Seven, did they?" It is a question that has been bothering her since the Sector's destruction sent tremors throughout the slums. The shockwaves did not just leave the other seven sectors unscathed and the people oblivious.
Reno raises a finger to motion towards the waitress for a refill, avoiding her entirely.
His silence confirms everything she had ever feared. It was just another sin blotting Shinra's record. Their people meant nothing to them.
"It was us then."
Neither seems to notice her habitual use of the word 'us' when referring to her former comrades.
Cerulean eyes appear locked on the figure walking towards them as he murmurs, "No. It was me."
"Reno?"
He does not respond. The waitress is taking her own sweet time in bringing him his drink. He wishes she would walk faster. Any excuse to change to a different topic of conversation.
"It was on Shinra's orders though, wasn't it?" Her pulse quickens. Shinra had to have had a hand in it. Reno would not have killed so many were he not ordered to, right?
The glass spins in his hand, the last dribbles clinging to the bottom. His foot scrapes against the worn tile. There is the slight squeak of rubber against linoleum before he finally fixes his eyes on her. It is his turn to be haunted. "Does it matter, yo?"
"Of course it matters!"
His glass clinks loudly as he slams it against the wooden surface. "No. It doesn't matter, yo, not down here and not to those on that plate. I did my job. I set the charge. I take the blame. They died because of me."
"It's just another one of Shinra's lies, Reno."
She catches a glimpse of his pain as it flickers through his eyes. He has suffered at the hands of that company even more than she has. "Is that what you tell yourself when Zack Fair comes to mind?" he asks, bitterly.
Cissnei looks away.
"That's what I thought." Reno fidgets with the corner of a napkin. "In the end, it doesn't matter to the victims who placed the order, but whose hand it was that set the charge."
His comrade ignores him entirely and it is then that he realizes he went one-step too far. One hand rubs at the back of his neck, struggling to come up with a way to smooth it over. "Sorry, 'Nei. I-I didn't mean it."
"It's true," she murmurs.
His mind spins in a whirlwind of thought, trying to come up with some way to make up for it. "He's with them, ya know?"
Her head snaps up and he sees a small gleam of moisture in her eyes through her tangled auburn bangs. "Who?" She sounds almost hopeful.
Reno winces, silently cursing himself as he realizes he should have specified whom he was referring to in the first place. She had seen the body though. Surely, she wouldn't still be holding out hope, would she?
Of course, she would. It would not be entirely improbable for SOLDIER First Class, Zackary Fair to return. He would not have been the first SOLDIER to come back from the dead, after all. Sephiroth was living proof of that.
"Strife. He's with AVALANCHE now."
Her head tilts in a way that further obscures her eyes behind her hair, hiding the slight flicker of disappointment. "And you're still hunting him."
"He's the only one who can take out Sephiroth."
"At least someone survived that blood bath. How did he escape anyway? He was in no condition to run when I saw him on the plains."
"Dunno, yo. I only met him once or twice while he was with the infantry, but he seems different now. More like a SOLDIER."
"Zack must have rubbed off on him."
"Maybe." He sounds skeptical. From what he had seen, it did not seem quite so simplistic.
With a trembling hand, he brushes her hair out of her eyes. Faded trails of tears etch dirt-smudged cheeks. "Hey, you know it wasn't your fault, right?"
"Like Sector Seven, wasn't yours?" she shoots back.
He looks slightly affronted by her comment. "That's different, yo. You didn't pull the trigger."
"I may as well have. How would things have played out had I just brought them in as ordered?"
"You can't live life dwelling on the 'what ifs,' 'Nei. You know that."
"Don't say that. I know you've wondered what would have happened had you not destroyed Sector Seven."
"Maybe…"
"Then how come you can and I can't?"
It is his turn to look away. "Different people. Different scenarios."
At that moment, the long forgotten waitress chooses to make her appearance. She glances over at the former Turk with unbridled curiosity, seeing the face of the regular patron for the first time. Night after night she had come in, always selecting the same table, but never drinking a substantial amount. The boss had only allowed her to stay because she tipped well for the service – far more than the other regulars, at any rate.
With a deft hand, she fills Reno's glass. "Anything else that I can get for you?"
Reno glances at the untouched drink in front his comrade. "Eh, get me a hot chocolate for my friend here."
Eyebrow raised, the waitress chooses to say nothing about it. Not once had the regular ordered such a mundane drink. It was not for her to know, but how much did this man really know about the female across from him? With a note of skepticism, she says, "I'll be right back with that."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know."
Cissnei slides the glass of whiskey across the table to him.
A roguish grin crosses his face as he draws one of the drinks to his lips. "See? This works out for the both of us, yo."
A roll of the eyes and a sigh are his response.
They sit in companionable silence until the waitress comes back and places the steaming mug in front of the auburn-haired Turk. "Thanks."
After the waitress leaves, Reno raises his glass. "To us."
A hesitant smile. "And to those who have fallen."
Glasses meet with a dull clink! and they drink. Hot chocolate and whiskey. Just like old times.
For a moment, Time chooses to be kind, reversing itself for the two old friends to a place where all that mattered was the camaraderie of the moment. The next mission and past sins are pushed far to the edges of distant thought, irrelevant to the present. Time allows the conversation to deviate from demons and mistakes, giving way to old jokes and tales of corporate mishaps.
But Time can only fall still for so long and unwanted notions remain on the horizon. Too soon, all glasses are empty and reality begins to creep in.
Silence permeates the late hour for the fourth time that evening. Almost forgotten burdens press against their shoulders.
With whiskey bolstering his valor, Reno is the one to break it. "You could come back, you know?" Reno whispers, his fingers tracing the edge of his cloak.
Her eyes narrow, scrutinizing him with enough insistence that he shifts in his seat. "I've been gone too long, Reno. Shinra would consider my departure treason. The only welcome I would receive is from the executioner."
"And us," he adds with unusual sternness. "But that wouldn't happen, yo. We could get ya back in the ranks, no problem."
Cissnei looks at him skeptically.
"Look Tseng, wrote out your status as MIA a long time ago. He claims you were sent on a difficult mission to the Northern Crater. I've seen the paperwork. Hell, he even sent Rude and me over there to 'investigate,' yo. We landed our helicopter, hitched a ride on a ship to Gongaga, and started lookin' for ya before headin' back to the crater to get the chopper. Whenever he was asked if you would desert, he denied it with enough force that they were all terrified to even think otherwise. Plus with as crazy as the monsters are over there, they didn't need much persuadin'. You know Tseng would take ya back, 'Nei."
She troubles her bottom lip before sitting up straighter. "What makes you think I want to?"
"Maybe the fact that ya haven't broken out of the routine you kept when you were with us. Or that ya haven't bothered to change gloves since ya left. Or that you're tryin' to be some sort of rogue vigilante in the slums. Hell, maybe that you even agreed to talk to me. Your choice 'Nei or is there another one I forgot to mention?" He raises an eyebrow as though daring her to deny it. "Face it. You miss it."
All were facts that she could not contradict, even if some of the choices were subconscious. "I don't know, Reno…"
"Think about it, 'Nei. We could use your help." A small, sincere smile crosses his lips. It was always the look he reserved for a select few and she had always been one of them. "We all want the best for you."
Can she do that? Can she just go back? So much time has passed since her days of wearing a midnight blue suit. Can she really go back to a life of fighting?It had been a life peppered with death and blood, riddled with pain. But isn't that no different than the life she is currently living? Maybe it is just her destiny to never cease to fight. She has been battling one person or another for longer than she can remember.
And working for Tseng had been better than working for Veld. He had always been far more forgiving.
In the end, there is a single difference between her life as a Turk and the one she now led: Camaraderie.
To go back to the Turks means she no longer has to fight alone.
Her hands are already stained crimson and there is no way to atone for past transgressions, despite all of her attempts to prove otherwise in the slums. Turks have no regrets. They only look forward to the coming days.
That is what they always tell themselves anyway.
No matter what she chose, it always led to fighting.
Is it better to fight alone through monotony or return to a place where she has a sort of kinship, but few freedoms? What is better for Midgar: working for the corrupt or wallowing away her days trying to make a difference and failing?
Neither choice is ideal. All that is left is to follow her instincts.
Memories swirling about in her mind's eye tear her from the present, taking her back to a time when all that mattered was following orders and surviving the day. When each day began with sparring matches and Reno's pranks. In their own way, they were simpler than any day since she chose to leave them. Spending her life only making a dent in the workings of the underworld, drinking in her own grief had taken a toll on her.
And what about Reno, Rude, Tseng? They were all continuing to fight, long past the time when Shinra's inner workings were revealed, capable of stripping down the organization from the inside when they discover the right moment. Is that a better destiny?
They are the last ones in the bar, all other patrons having stumbled out minutes before. "Come on. It's time for me to close," the bartender calls from his place behind the bar, one hand wiping the counter while the other motions toward the door.
Cissnei looks up and nods, stripped from her reminisce. She places some gil on the tabletop as Reno rises to his feet, stumbling slightly under the weight of his own mild intoxication. Out of habit, Cissnei reaches out and grabs his arm, steadying him. He swings his arm around her, as they make their way outside.
A cold breeze stings her cheeks as they step beneath the familiar mako green light. Reno stops her just beneath the overhang, his face obscured in shadows. His breath is warm on her skin as he whispers, "Think about it, yo."
She hesitates for only a moment, having already come to a decision. "Yes."
He nods as he takes a step forward, his red hair remaining colorless as he moves beneath a light. It is then that he registers what she said – and that it isn't quite the usual response. "Yes?" he asks, eyebrows furrowing.
"I've already thought about it," she replies, one hand brushing a strand of auburn hair from her vision, as a smile tugs at the corner of her lips.
"And ya want to?" His eyes narrow as he tries to decipher her intentions.
She nods.
"Ya sure?" The smallest of smirks beginning to creep upward.
She smiles at his confusion. "Of course. It's for the best."
Reno hollers, one fist striking the air. A light she hasn't seen in ages brightens his eyes as a grin spreads across his face. "I didn't think ya would, yo."
"You were right. I miss it."
"And we missed you." He pauses, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I missed you," he adds, his voice lowering to a whisper. There is a moment of silence as she stares up at him, uncertain what to say. Reno has never been one to say what is really on his mind.
He comes back towards her, light still dancing in his eyes. Reno reaches for her hand and he pulls her closer, their bodies almost touching. Cerulean flames meet amber sparks as time falls still. For just a moment, there is no one else in the world but them.
Reno's thumb brushes across her cheek, trailing a faded scar line she received from a fight with Corneo's boys during her early days beneath the plate. "I wouldn't want to lose you again."
He leans towards her, his lips catching hers as his eyes fall shut.
Caught by surprise, she tenses for a moment.
But only for a moment.
Her lips soften to return it, as his hands wrap around her waist. Her own come to rest on his chest, fingers gripping the edges of his blazer beneath his cloak, the zipper's teeth pressing against calloused fingertips. His tongue brushes along her lips, begging for entrance. She pauses, her heart flutters and her palms start to sweat before her lips part to let him in, her own tongue brushing against his.
Each are locked in a moment years in the making.
Neither breaks away until both are out of breath, their lips hovering inches away from each other. Their eyes search each other's, looking for a mirror of their own feelings. They find them echoing back at them.
Cissnei moves to step away from him, pink coloring her cheeks, but Reno's hands hold onto her waist, refusing to let her go. "Stay," he breathes.
She only nods, head swimming in a place beyond words. His hands wrap around her tighter and she rests her head on his chest, acting on instinct alone. Reno rests his cheek against the top of her head, running his fingers through her hair.
They stay like that for a long while, each breathing in the other's scents as they catch their breath. Thoughts crash like waves, ebbing and flowing with overwhelming feelings. Thoughts that neither of them ever thought would come to fruition.
Seconds swell into moments. Moments fade into minutes. Neither is aware of the passing of time.
Reno's lips press against the top of her head before his grip loosens on her waist, one hand reaching up and threading his fingers through hers. "Let's go home, yo."
Cissnei gives him a small smile, before leaning up and kissing his cheek. "Perfect."
Two of the broken make their way through the never-ending darkness beneath the plate, hand in hand, as they head to the city above. For a brief moment, all their burdens are stripped away, leaving only the present in their wake. Nothing else matters but the warmth radiating from the person beside them and the prospect of the future.
For just a moment, they are relieved.
When I first started this, I wasn't planning on it being anything more than Cissnei x Reno friendship, but my muse kinda decided to take it in a different direction.