Summary: (preBefore Crisis; eventual RenoxRude) A criminal organisation threatens to undermine Shinra, and a Turk is sent down into the slums to suppress it. But when pitched into a game of cat and mouse where the roles can change and even a Turk has to fight to survive, there is nothing more dangerous than a treacherous heart, when loyalty and duty become two completely different things.
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII doesn't belong to me; it belongs to the talented folks at Square Enix, character design by Tetsuya Nomura. I just wanted to satisfy my obsessions with the Turks and my OTP, and the boys were more than happy to oblige.
Rated: M
Warnings: Oh... everything. Language, yaoi and sexual content in later chapters, substance abuse, violence, Turks doing Turk stuff, did I mention yaoi?, etc.
Prologue
Night was never dark enough above the plate. Sure, the darkness was almost absolute down in the slums, but in Upper Midgar there were too many lights, what with the streetlights glowing at every corner, the Shinra tower all lit up like some kind of glowering Christmas tree, and the Mako reactors belching their eerie green glow hundreds of feet into the sky. Too many lights, and not enough shadows, except for a couple of choice alleyways.
In one of those alleyways, another light sprang into life and flared orange in the darkness, this one at the end of a cigarette. Its owner took a deep drag, caught the cigarette between two bony fingers, then let it out in a breath of bitter smoke.
He sighed deeply. He'd needed that.
He'd only just made it this time. The net was getting tighter. He'd known it would've, sooner or later, but he'd anticipated later rather than sooner. Either he was losing his touch, or the Shinra goons were getting better. Catching onto his pattern. He'd have to do something about that.
Another drag. He pressed himself against the wall. Keeping still. From somewhere distant, he could hear the wailing of a siren. His body went tense; he leaned back, trying to merge with the shadows. Listening. Waiting.
And waiting.
Too far away. Not him.
Another drag. An accustomed tap. A little snowfall of ash fluttering to the ground.
The sound of a helicopter. Close. Almost above him. He pressed his back harder against the wall.
A searchlight flashed briefly over the alley. He grimaced, bracing himself.
The light passed over, unconcerned, but for a brief moment it illuminated the opposite wall. And a poster.
He could barely read, but he could sure as hell recognise himself. And a hell of a lot of zeroes.
"Fuck," seemed the most appropriate thing to say as he reached out and ripped the poster from the wall.
The helicopter again. Louder. Lower.
The searchlight flashed again. Then it returned.
A split second later, he heard shouts and hurried footsteps at the end of the alleyway. Cursing, he dropped the remains of the cigarette and ground it under his boot. Then he started running.
Footsteps echoed at the other end of the close. He skidded to a halt.
Goons in every direction.
Dammit, when had they gotten so good?
Desperate, he looked up. There was a windowsill about six feet above his head.
When the two parties of Shinra guards met each other, all they found was a piece of paper torn contemptuously from the wall, and the still-glowing stub of a cigarette. They glanced around in confusion, exchanged bewildered remarks then new orders, and ran back the way they'd came.
From a rooftop twenty feet above them, a dark figure watched their departure, then melted into the shadows.