Kimono in the Garbage
Prologue
Written by: Izanai
"Why the hell am I still wearing a kimono?"
The two Turks snickered amongst themselves quietly before one of them rolled her eyes at the captive.
"Because, Buri, if you escape, we should be able to find you again in the Wall Market, baka." she stated.
"Paraberu," said another Turk, sitting with her long brown hair hanging in front of her face, "That's true, but actually, I think Sukiruru and I burned his other clothes… or made them into voodoo dolls… something like that, anyway."
The door to the inquisition room opened and a third Turk ran in, clutching a sheaf of papers. She handed them to the first Turk, and proceeded to neaten the dark blue suit she wore.
"I… met with… the Vice President…" she gasped, and took a few deep breaths before continuing.
"He said he was busy and that we were to start questioning the prisoner without him."
The other Turks looked at one another.
"Well, Reno was looking for Rufus a while ago and Penunbura told him where to find his koibito."
Sukiruru tried to hide a snicker, but nevertheless kicked Paraberu in the shin. "Para, shut up and keep innuendoes to yourself. No one is supposed to know that we help certain bishounen have certain secret love affairs… especially not the cockroach." She was kicked back.
"You just said more than I did." Paraberu muttered.
Penunbura nearly snarled. "Can we please just get started? We spent over a week with this annoying bastard, and I'd like to get out of here as soon as possible."
The sound of chairs scraping back filled the small room, and the two sat down. Paraberu shuffled the papers and then looked reluctantly at the twenty-year-old at the other end of the table.
"Right," she said, "If you don't tell us everything about how you came to be involved with Cid's refusal of ShinRa's space program, we'll be forced to return you to the cells until the torturer has time in his schedule."
"Wait, who's Rufus?" asked Gokiburi, the prisoner seated across from the three Turks. "Is he as good looking as moi?"
Sukiruru slid her chair over to the computer console and opened a file. "Buri, it's pronounced 'mwah' not 'moy'. Gods, you're an idiot." She looked at Penunbura and Paraberu. "Just so you know, any grammatical errors in this report are his, not mine."
Penunbura ignored her. "Start talking, 'Buri."
A six-year-old Gokiburi Hikouka—with the same ugly, curly hair as always—sat in the sand of the Fifth District playground, by the swings, avoiding the older kids who tried to kick him as they swung past.
"Hey," said another little boy, "That's a really cool Turk!Vincent action figure!"
"It's not an action figure! It's a doll, pissant!"
"Not that far back…" said Paraberu, "…pissant!"
"Fine then, three years, okay?" asked Gokiburi. "And don't call me that!"
Penunbura looked ill. "One year, maybe one-and-half. No more than that."
"Yeah, we don't want to experience your childhood trauma." Paraberu added.
"Besides, Sukiruru can't type fast enough." Penunbura muttered.
Sukiruru whined, "Like you can do any better."
"I can; get out of the way!" Penunbura shoved Sukiruru out of the way and sat in front of the console. "Right then, 'Buri, start from a year ago, or else."
Sukiruru was still whining. "Now I have to look at his ugly face. Damn you all!"