Author's note: I don't own Final Fantasy VII. If you like my story, or even you don't, leave a review. All flames will be used to roast marshmallows.
Midgar.
The largest and most technologically advanced city on The Planet. A city of dreams, and a city of nightmares. A city that has swallowed the surrounding settlements whole and absorbed them into its sprawling massive body. A city that boasts high skyscrapers and high rates of poverty. A city where a thousand gil can buy you a cheap hotel room, a switchblade, or a vial of sweet poison to deliver you from the filthy streets, if only for fifteen orgasmic minutes. Midgar: A city where the highest reaches of heaven lay before you and the fires of hell ache to suck in another victim.
Midgar buzzes with light and noise as the wire-thin redheaded man makes his way through the early evening crowds. He is tired, his thin shoulders hunched, and he curses quietly as he walks to the Sector Five train station.
"…I'm gettin' too old for this fuckin' job."
The slum-dwellers look at the man curiously, but not for long. They observe that despite his snarl of "gettin' too old", he is likely under twenty-five years. The sunglasses perched on his forehead are designer, and his expensive cologne permeates the haze of pollution. He looks rich, but his watchful glance and predatory swagger tell a different story.
He stops walking when he reaches the station. He leans nonchalantly against a grimy corner of the wall. He searches his pockets for his daily vice – his beloved cigarettes – and mutters, "Shit! Where the hell did I put 'em?" when his searching comes up empty.
The people of Sector Five might have looked at this stranger as an easy target, but they keep a safe distance from him. The nightstick tapping a slim shoulder, the holster at his hip, and the distinctive blue suit shout a warning to all.
Which was why the man was so surprised to hear a voice slurring at him.
"Hey man, could you give me so money? Look, I'm real hungry, and even a few gil- "
The shabby beggar breaks off his plead when the suited man suddenly swings around. He notices the midnight blue uniform, and stares into hard turquoise eyes accented by angry razor-thin scars slashed across the high cheekbones. He remembers the warnings he's heard about the Shinra Company's sleek blue-suited enforcers, and he backs up stammering, "Uh, um, I'm sorry, um, forget I asked…"
He wants to run. However, the other man steps forward. He traps the homeless man against the wall with his lean arms and nightstick. He leans in close, and says, with a note of menace in his raspy voice, "What did you say?"
The beggar gasps, "Please, sir, I didn't mean to bother you. I was only trying to ask for some money to buy food, I didn't mean to do anything wrong…"
Reno of the Turks gazes into the frightened homeless man's eyes and realizes that this man didn't mean any harm, he was only panhandling. He understands why the man tried to run – after all, the Turks are not known for their generosity.
The beggar stands still, but his hands tremble slightly as the Turk moves in closer and looks him over. Reno's small nose wrinkles as he breathes in the beggar's stink, but he doesn't move back. He notes the ragged clothes, the emaciated face, and the graying hair. This man looks twice Reno's age, but he has seen this sort of desperation before. Reno himself has lived as roughly as this man.
The redheaded Turk puts his hand in his pocket.
"Here, take this."
Reno grasps one of the beggar's hands forcefully, opens it, then empties his pockets. He dumps an assortment of coins, lint, bills, and crumpled wrappers into the beggar's palm.
The beggar is shocked. "Wh-what are you doing!"
"I'm giving some cash. You look like you - "
"I – I can't take all this!"
Reno is exasperated. He closes the beggar's hand and pushes his arm away, saying harshly, "Are you deaf, man? I said it's for you. Just take it." The beggar stutters in protest, but the Turk snaps impatiently, "Just take the fucking money and go! Money's all yours. Take it, get yourself some food - "
The beggar quickly runs, and Reno is left shouting, "And take a bath too, you look like you need it!" Reno watches the man until he is out of sight, and turns back as the train thunders into the station. Reno gets on the train, swiping his Shinra ID card and throwing himself down carelessly into a lone window seat, his mind still on the beggar. He snorts quietly, thinking I gave him all my cash, and didn't even get a thank you in return. Asshole.
The train whistle shrills, and the train pulls out of the station, clattering loudly along the labyrinth of tracks leading to Shinra Headquarters. A ride on the Midgar trains is an assault on the senses. Flashing lights and neon billboards clamour for attention, while the clash of machinery and chatter of passengers adds to the sensory din.
However, the Turk sits silent and alone, not noticing his surroundings. His long limbs are contorted on the seat like a spider's legs, and his head is turned toward the window. Blue eyes watch the dizzying surroundings sweeping past without actually seeing anything.
Reno presses a palm against the window and examines it. His knuckles are scarred and bumpy as pebbles, and the nails are jagged and bitten. Worn and unattractive as these hands are, they are a testament to his journey from the slums. These hands have been broken. These hands have been bruised. These hands have been bathed in his own blood and the blood of strangers. The broken nails show how he clawed his way up from the slums and into the ranks of the Turks at age eighteen.
Reno leans against the window and wonders about his parents. He hasn't seen them in eight years, not since he walked out as a teenager. He wonders if they would be proud of him. Their little boy, the troublemaker, the hellraiser, has made a name for himself. The selfish little bastard was too restless to just settle down and accept that life is not fair, and be content with what his birth dealt him. Well, he's all grown up now, with a gun at his hip, transformed from a scrawny slum rat to the pitbull of the world's dominant megacorporation.
As the train rushes through the dense urban jungle of Midgar, Reno closes his eyes, thinking. His lips move silently as he makes a promise to himself that no one else can hear. He runs a scarred fingertip over the taut veins at his wrist. He thinks how, like these fragile veins can be traced with care, he can trace the treacherous path that led him to the glitzy hell of Midgar.
Author's note: I've noticed that people have been favouriting my story but not leaving a review, and that really annoys me. If you like the story that much, please leave a review. Also, detailed reviews and constructive criticism (if you think my writing skills need improvement) is much more helpful than simply saying you loved it. I love getting feedback on my work, and it helps to improve my writing.