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"You are the bearer of unconditional things,
… you held your breath, and the door for me…
… thanks for your patience…"
- Alanis Morissette, 'head over feet'
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Part One: Letting Go…
I wish I could say it all started dramatically; a stolen kiss under a sky lit by fireworks, a harrowing rescue, a powerful attraction… But when you're trying to stop a ragtag band of rebels from saving the world, you hardly have time to set up these things, much less appreciate them, anyways. Besides, we were Turks; we were not allowed nor expected to possess emotions of romantic ilk or otherwise… that isn't to say, mind you, that it never happened. Rather the opposite.
In all fairness, perhaps that 'regulation' set by the Shinra brass held some validity. For even though Turks were generally invulnerable to most things, while proving infinitely valuable to that bastard of an old man and his son, we seemed to be especially susceptible to the ravenous harpy that the great poets have the nerve to call Love.
And almost as if fate takes some sort of sick enjoyment out of our risking our livelihood – who am I kidding; risking our lives – to chase down this 'Love,' it remains unrequited at best, and quite often tragic. One need look no farther than the 'leaders' of the Turks to observe this.
Take Vincent Valentine, for example. You know, the one that ran around with AVALANCHE until a few years ago? Apparently, he was a Turk once, at least according to the files I looked up after fighting him the first time. He moved like one of Us, I had thought… and darn well shot like one too. I mean, I always considered myself a good shot, but he, now he was something else.
My hunch was proven right when I found his old file… for all that Shinra was a bunch of power-hungry mongrels, they certainly could keep good records… but I think my jaw dropped about five inches when I realized just how long ago he'd been a Turk.
Thirty years ago.
The file, I remember, clattered to the floor as I realized that, tumbling down in a beautifully disorganized flurry of pages, and memos, and letters. It looked a bit like my office, actually…
'Creative chaos,' I liked to call it; Reno always used to tease me about it; he always figured that he was the only one allowed to have a messy office. Then I'd ruffle his already unkempt crimson hair, and Rude would raise an eyebrow at our juvenility, and occasionally chuckle at our antics… But I'm getting ahead of myself.
One letter, written on a definitely feminine piece of peach-colored paper caught my eye from where it lay on the filing room ground, and I bent down to pick it up, definitely intrigued. It was written in a woman's hand, and addressed to the Turk in question.
Pausing for a second or two, I struggled with the decision on whether to read it or not. Then, figuring it was in the files, and it was thirty years old, so it could be counted as a historical document if push came to shove… I didn't exactly want the rather dangerous Mr. Valentine to know I'd read his private correspondence… but curiosity was a powerful thing, and it won in the end.
As it turned out, I was very glad that I had moved to sit down as I read the letter; a missive that I grew increasingly sure that its addressee had never read…
"…I had foolishly tried to send you away, deluding myself that I sensed trouble that you did not. But you were a Turk; you were trained to sense the tensions that one could almost taste in the later days of that Planet-forsaken project. You knew the risks; you stayed, although it cost you very dearly… And some selfish part of me loved you all the more for it…"
So it was true… he'd been involved in the JENOVA project, after all… all the files on that were disgustingly vague, with so many code-names and indirect references; I had tried to figure it out after traveling to Junon with the Turks for my first time, but there were so many things left unsaid in the largely scientific files… This, I found, was one of them. As I read on, almost entranced by the woman's words as she recollected on her last, tragic days with the man she loved, the puzzle pieces clicked together in my mind.
'So this was the mother of Sephiroth,' I remembered thinking, 'and, that could make Vincent his father? No way…' Vincent, after all, didn't look much older than Tseng did, and Sephiroth was no toddler, either. Unfortunately for us.
"Hojo…" I cursed, and the woman's – Lucretia's – words confirmed my assumptions. I held no regard for that self-servient, crazy old man; my own Mako infusions – a 'requirement' for promotion to the rank of Turk – had hurt like nothing else, but I felt a definite pang of sympathy for the ex-Turk captain. My injections had been kept to a minimum … but if Hojo was anything, he was an experimenter at heart (provided he had one in the first place, which was dubious); given no regulations, and possessed by a jealous fury… I couldn't… didn't want to imagine the pain that Valentine must have gone through, much less what was probably rushing through his veins even today, compliments of Hojo.
And then… and then there was Tseng… exotic, charming, smooth, and ultimately deadly Tseng. I won't deny that he enthralled me in my early days with Shinra; it was a bit of a company joke around the upper echelons, I'm afraid to say. I was younger then; much younger in spirit, if not much younger in body… and he was incredible. Charming, talented, and ultimately sure of his place in the Company, in life; in everything, my contrast as I fought my way into my position at his side as a fellow Turk, albeit always with a cautious distance. He even managed to keep Reno in line… and I think I could have loved him for that alone.
Even then, it was clear to see that his heart belonged to another; their tale almost as star-crossed as this Lucretia and Valentine's was. He chanced his life, loving her, and aided her as best he could from afar, the three of us watching his heart break, ever so slowly, as his flower girl's love was captured by a spiky-coiffed ex-SOLDIER…
I often wondered, after the silver-haired one's sword destroyed both their bodies in that Shiva-forsaken temple… did they find each other? Could she move on from blue-eyed Strife who had failed her at the last, and see him… my Tseng… no, never mine, I admit… but see him nonetheless as one who loved her, despite everything that they had faced?
I hoped so… even as painful tears slid down my cheeks; I hoped that they had found peace, even in death…
Stepping immediately into Tseng's shoes was Reno. Although I know he tried his best to be a leader for us, it was clear that Reno thought the very idea of it was preposterous… It didn't take a genius to realize that the Turk with a temper as fiery as his hair was a rebel at heart, needing something to rail against, even in jest; someone to call 'Boss-Man' and tease relentlessly, but respect valiantly underneath that.
And so, after Tseng's death, we became as much a democracy as a triumvirate of cold-blooded assassins could be…
Unlike his predecessors, Reno didn't appear to adopt the mantle of tragic romantic hero; his womanizing ways were company legend, and I knew them to be true, having to turn away from the building more than a handful of alternatively heartbroken and bitter young women whom my associate had 'associated' with, and left without a word by morning.
It's easy - too easy - to dismiss him as heartless for doing such a thing; and I must admit I did that at first, myself. I had stormed towards his office one day, completely convinced that he was going to get a talking-to for breaking what had to be at least the fourth heart this week… but my low heels clicked to an absolute stop as I caught sight of him. Slumped in his 'spinny' office chair – the one he had trapped me in, just two days before, and pushed me, shrieking, through the winding hallways of 'our' floor - his eyes held none of their usual mirth; in fact, they seemed peculiarly red...
If he had noticed me yet, he didn't show any sign of it, clutching an open bottle of vodka in one hand, the other running distractedly through his hair. I had two options. Either Reno was an exceptionally talented actor, and had constructed this piteous scene for my benefit… or there really was a human being underneath that ego and temper; one that probably hurt just as much as those anonymous girls did, if not more…
Realistically, the former was probably closer to the truth… but the latter option was a little more empathetic.
That was the most vulnerable I'd ever see Reno… although, nearly two years later, about a year and a half after the world had decided to turn on its ear and rebuild itself after Meteor, and the three of us were keeping Reeve honest… or, well, the other way around, if you must know… Reno came pretty close. He's much like a bird of prey, my redheaded colleague. Makes a lot of noise when he wants to, but is a swift and merciless killer matched by few… and despite the fact that his general attitude towards authority is somewhat juvenile, if you earn his respect, as Tseng and Rude did, you have an ally for life. Me? Well… I'm still working on it.
But while Reno doesn't mind answering to others… he cannot be caged. And that's just what life, post-Meteor, was doing to him. I enjoyed it, to be honest, and I still am – went into PR work for the growing city of NeoMidgar, although I still worked with the 'boys' from time to time when Reeve needed us.
Rude, on the other hand, proved to have some hidden architectural talents, often disappearing with Reeve for hours, and coming back, a faint, contented smile on his face, and a floor plan for a new building in his other hand. It served him well, this time of peace, and it thrilled me to see his stoic façade soften, if only a little. We'd become closer over the past year, and I was amazed to find that behind his rather hulking form lay an interesting, surprisingly intellectual mind, and a heart that, now that it felt safe to show feeling once again, quietly tried to make up for all that lost time.
The tension was there between us, especially in those later days, but there was a definite line that neither of us seemed completely willing to cross. At least, not until the day that Reno left…
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tbc…
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DISCLAIMER: The Turks, the concept of NeoMidgar, and pretty much everything you recognize belongs to Square. "Head Over Feet" belongs to Alanis Morissette and all other appropriate affiliates.
Sabriel's Scribbles: Although technically this began as a Valentine's Day fic… it completely didn't turn out that way. Almost scrapped it, twice, but something wouldn't let me. As a note, Elena's personality has been influenced by Strangely Colored Dog's "The Strangest Ones of All", and Kaeda's "My Own" … both of which I recommend highly.
Technically, this is a companion piece to two of my other FF7 fics, but I thought it was best to stand alone… In case you're confused as for general timeline, this fic ends just before "Not What I'll Have You Believe" begins… Expect the next and final part either later today or tomorrow.
That said, I hope you enjoyed what you read; if you need clarification, or would like to comment, the review button is down and just to the left… I also reply to e-mails, so feel free to do that too.