"Looking back on whatever is done,
Scattering ashes into the sun.
Let the past go into a free-fall." -- November Project, "It Is Time"
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The Turk Turf War
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Act One: The First Shot
This is the beginning of the Turk Turf War, a long, hard battle on Midgar ground involving the Turks and their newest rivals. Many might say there would never be enough people to work the war, but when you have so many ties with ShinRa and ShinRa's past bouncing around, it's bound to happen that you'll have allies ready to shoot from the woodworks. The times when guns and knives are the only things you want have come upon us all.
You know you're at the bottom of the pile when you think slamming a glass down and hollering "Gimme another one!" can solve all of your problems. And once you're at the bottom of the fabled corporate dogpile, it takes a lot of work to dig yourself out of that hole and drop a bomb on the rest, trapping them there while you walk tall and mighty.
Then you have the people who like the bottom of the pile, because at the bottom, no one can give half a thought to what you're doing, and not many dare to blame you for the happenings outside of the mess of names, bodies, and account numbers. People like then Turks. The Turks have all the power it takes to move up the ladder, but they stay at the bottom, lurking in the shadows of innocence, but leaping into the light of guilt whenever the opportunity arises. But no one cares, because they're still down there.
The Turks like it this way. They're not your average members of the general population, and a few have shed that suit and completely shy from the claim of being a member of the public. The Turks are numbers in ShinRa Incorporated files, on the desks of every higher-up and in the minds of all their targets.
But when the ShinRa Building falls in a dazzling array of explosions and glass, the files get destroyed and the Turks are led astray by their imaginations. They are reduced in the public's shadowed eyes to below just a series of numbers that now sit scattered somewhere between Main Street and Strasse-Burg Avenue. They are reduced to the level of the cowering dogs in the streets, just before a bum attacks them, eats the meat, and wears the skin for a blanket.
So the Turks are a very valuable group to the general population of the Planet. Why? Before admitted into the elite force, all members are stripped of their past appearances, names, pasts alone, and even fingerprints, by technology made by the one and only Hojo Novehar. This meant not only are the Turks unknown, they are untraceable, even by the most highly-respected detective.
So, naturally, the Turks would have very few enemies to organize a strike against them, right? Not so. When the Turks stuck their finger into the mini-war between ShinRa and AVALANCHE, they came back with a bloodied knuckle and an army after them. Then they put a lighter over the line, lit it, and got a spark that blew them away. When ShinRa, Sephiroth, and the crimson moon Meteor were destroyed, AVALANCHE came looking for more fun.
The Turks were vulnerable, now just a small organization operating out of a building near Mideel. AVALANCHE, led by the apparently unstoppable Cloud Strife, was just as powerful as ever, and their bloodlust was to rid themselves of the blue-suited men and woman that worked in that little, run-down ex-motel with bits of Lifestream attached to it from when the explosion, earthquake, or whatever it was happened.
This was the only reason the shells ripped apart enemy lines somewhere between Rocket Town and Nibelheim, while the red-haired Fire Demon of the Slums stood atop one of the hills leading to the Nibel Mountains, Rude the Cueball Combatant to his right, and Gold-Touch Elena, his lover, hanging on his left arm, like a spider, clinging to the wall of a shack in a tornado. General Reno was what he was going by these days, a man as rough and callous as they come.
And on the other line, hovering in the Highwind, General Cloud Strife looked on with bitter distaste, also flanked: to one side by Vincent "The Myth" Valentine, and to the other by his fiancée, Tifa Lockheart the Raven Beauty. It was times like these you had to keep your friends close. Usually the woman or man in your life, and then your best friend. Both Generals knew tactics well enough to know this. This was where the Turk Turf War began to separate the weak from the strong. The two would go at it for as long as needed, neither backing down until their army was obliterated. Minor people helped. Landlords from the towns, coal-miners from Corel, people looking for a mention in the paper, anyone.
The Midgar Times and Junon Press had given them the nicknames.
The war spanned the whole distance between the two towns, and try as they might, not an official could stop them. The middle was a hard fight, where all the weapons and vehicles were used, while fist-fights and whatnot danced along the outsides.
It was a cold, windy and gloomy day when Elena sighed and laid her goldenrod head of hair against the Turk General's arm. Her tone was pleading when she spoke the words. She didn't want this; war meant killing, and useless killing at that. They always used to have a reason for what they did, but this was just out of control. "Reno...when's it all gonna stop?" she whispered, words almost wisped away by the wind.
Rude shook his head on the other side. He was silently agreeing with her. He didn't want to see this anymore than anyone else; it had started with rumbles in the parking lots of the restaurants, but then public fights started to break out, and soon there were thousands against thousands, blood staining the grass and the putrid stench of bodies floating for miles. He just tipped his glasses and looked at the big mob a distance away; the real battle. Half of all the soldiers put their lives on the line and their enemies to the test in that one over there. "Really, Man. You're fucking losin' it."
Reno had never wanted the role of a General. The Turks were enough to lead, but...an army? This was getting blown out of proportion. He just churned inside at the feel of Elena's wheat field tendrils against his neck. He wanted out; he was caught in a prison of enchantment, not knowing whether to hold on for the ride or put a cherry pie with skin on their pillow one night with his own gun. Cold steel would've been paradise clacking against his molars. "He's fucking losing it." The Fire Demon burned another forest with the words from his chapped lips. Her eyes sprung with fresh tears and the other man just turned his head in disgust. Reno had become a machine in the last four months. War this, war that. He was determined to win, and he didn't want to be. "We fight until he's taken out, or until we're down. There's nothing else to do." He wanted to settle down, have some kids, and die with something accomplished besides having the blood of thousands on his blistered hands.
The bald man scratched his head, leaving red streaks where the skin nearly broke open. He was irritated, he was tired, and he wanted Reno to grip some sanity and realize just what he was doing. It was all he could do to keep from knocking the man right off the hill, spraying blood as he flew into the fray below and was eaten by the wolves of soldiers. But that would mean upsetting Elena, and for some reason, he just couldn't bring himself to do that.
Had they been married, Elena would've been the wife in the black dress, spilling tears from her eyes as she watched her husband's fascination with the war grow only stronger until she was completely forgotten, but not willing to stop loving; to stop waiting for him to snap out of it one night, come back to bed, and pretend it was alright, while the battle still held to the back of his head and begged him to return. All except for the wedding and the black dress, this really was her. She had shown him her tears hundreds of times, or so it seemed. She had cut herself to show him what he meant to her, but it only concerned him until shortly after she was released from the hospital, then he slowly transitioned back to the guns and fighting and killing. "Yes, there is, Reno. You can give up and let him think he won." All four knew her efforts were in vain.
Reno just pulled his arm around her and held her close to his side, merging their hair in a sketchy orange color. He knew it just as well as she, he would never surrender. "Turks don't give up, 'Lena. We all know that." He socked Rude in the shoulder, receiving a nod. "We've just gotta ride this one through, then it'll be good. We'll run off to Wutai, get married just like we wanted to, and disappear like the wind." He swept his arm across the horizon for emphasis.
She was still crying. She couldn't stop it, just like she never could any other time. She knew there would never be peace in his mind. He would just get worse and worse until he was shooting anyone who met his eyes, the glassy, ice orbs she hadn't fallen in love with. No, she'd fallen in love with the soft, light blue eyes that sparkled when he made one of his inappropriate wisecracks and got hit in the back of the head for it. "Dammit, it'll never be that way, Reno! Don't lie to me!" She was tired, too. And she was losing it as quickly as he. Wet spots blew larger on his jacket when she pulled away to look him in the face. Rude, arms over his chest, still looked at the big fight miles away, though big enough to be seen. "We'll never have the kind of life we wanted unless you stop this all right now!" She punched him lightly in the chest, but fell victim to his arms around her again. She had a while to convince him; a while to change him before she became the black-dress, miserable wife.
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Act Two: Cueball Combatant
Rude looked without turning his head to see the tops of theirs. A blob of orange like the fires of Hell, whipping out into the wind and then leaving nothing until the next wave rolled in. He just shook the invisible dust off of himself, gave a mock salute to the General, and walked back down the path winding up and down the hill which had become known as their lookout tower, just without the tower. Gold-Touch, the Fire Demon General, and Cueball Combatant stood there for days. The first and last left as Rude and Elena, but the demon's fires only grew as soon as he was back in the base. He had a wall around him; one only she could pass. No one looked at him wrong or talked back to him, because Reno had been without sleep for three days and he would snap if pressured the tiniest bit. Rude wanted to shoot him, to kill him however. It mattered naught, the method, only the result. And if it took death to bring his head down from the clouds, so be it, the bald man said.
The guards knew him. He was into the real base, a dark, cold place with no lights or heat, in minutes. It smelled of sweat and booze from the many men passing in and out of the place, some drunk, some just tired and banged up pretty badly. Instead of lights, they had noise. As soon as someone was seen in the shadows passing a room, someone was in the doorway to call out what it was, whether they were headed there or not. Seeing as how Reno had designed it, it was complex to show off the knowledge he thought he had of bases, and even he got lost once in awhile, though not often. This being so, Rude listened as he passed the doorways, calling out everything from "Bathroom," and "Cafeteria" to "General's Bedroom" and "Exit." Finally coming to the strategical planning room -- they used light for this one, by the way -- he walked in to see their mechanical engineer, known only as Propeller, hovering over the plans for one of his new aircraft.
Propeller was thin, balding slightly, and rugged, stubble donning his chin and a flight jacket hanging off of his skeleton. As if he were Cid Highwind himself, he had to cut down on the chain-smoking when near all of the explosives, but he still sneaked one or two from time to time. He barely acknowledged Rude, giving him a dismissing wave, even, before going back to pointing at something on the plans. The man who stood next to him, clad in a black leather trenchcoat with a blonde army-cut, also had a nickname: Shadow. He was known for the ability to sneak like a shadow, breathe darkness like a shadow, and appear as unnoticed and disappear as quickly as a shadow.
"I figure, we shove this thing fucker right here, we can at least add another hundred onto the m-p-h." Propeller was making their upgrades again, trying for the third time this week to get Shadow to approve him. Shadow commanded their Red-Coated Rebellion unit. A fancy name for air force that did, indeed, wear crimson coats. All Propeller did was design the machines, and then the others would put it into action as soon as the Fire Demon Reno approved or disapproved. If he disapproved, the smoking man was put into a dark room and beaten with sticks. As Rude had said, Hell's fires were the worst when they struck at home, and they all knew the saying around there: "Hell hath no fury like a pissed-off Demon."
Rude didn't know if he had an actual job. He just had maximum privileges and stuck close to Reno so he didn't do something stupid like demand they go find Hojo's files and reconstruct some Jenova cells for him, or to make sure Elena kept a grip while her lover slowly slipped into the stage of a full-blown killing machine. He would come back someday, but until then, it was up to the cueballed man to keep an eye on her. He cleared his throat and stared at Shadow. "What're the plans for the next attack?"
Shadow was informed, too. He tapped a finger on his bearded chin and looked up for a moment, then recited, almost from memory, "We drop A and D back behind the hills, keep C on the flanks, and send B into the lines. Then the RCR flies by and rips out a few of their cannons. We should have one of the tanks ready in a week, too." He nodded, as if to reassure himself he had it right, and went back to arguing with Propeller about the design of the fighters. The former wanted them to have more firepower, while the latter wanted faster but a lot less firepower. "The faster, the easier to run," he kept repeating. Shadow won in the end, of course, and a defeated-looking Propeller walked out, unlit cigarette butt being mashed to pieces between his teeth.
Shadow smiled contentedly and sat in one of the chairs at the long table, motioning to another and tossing an envelope at Rude. "Plans for the next strike. For the General. Siddown a second, though. We need to talk about the...Fire Demon of the Slums." He was out of business mode, and was hungry to either do some griping or get information. He could pry and pry all he wanted, but he never did get it out of Rude what his "boss" was thinking. Rude sat down nonetheless and put the envelope into his breast pocket. "You've known him longer than anyone else here, am I correct, Rudolph?"
"Rude." A WEAPON would've dropped dead at the glare that had just flared from behind his silver sunglasses. No one ever called him Rudolph, and anyone who dared to ended up stripped and cold-dead without a face next morning, conveniently stuffed into an old woman's garbage can. "And yes, Sir, I have." He thought of them all as Sirs. He had authority to do whatever he wanted except move the troops, yes, but he positioned himself mentally on the bottom of the warring dogpile.
Suddenly, he felt like leaping into the air and cursing the sun for everything that had happened to his dear, dear friend Reno, and the Hell he was putting Elena through with this madness. But he knew, even if he did do just that, the wind would sweep away the words far before they could reach the flaming ball of detest hanging in the bright blue sky on a summer day, and the wind doesn't stop to listen. It passes on through, takes what it wants, and laughs on its way out. There are no wind therapists to stand around and listen to the complaints of someone. The wind reminded him of Jason Palmer in a donut line. Giddy as a schoolgirl, hungry as a moose, and with the authority of a Supreme Court judge.
Shadow's dead-cow chair creaked as he sat up. They called them dead-cow chairs because a man had once found a tail still attached to his. It was really just to lighten the mood, which it did for about thirty seconds. "Yes, yes you have." He thought on this for a moment, then smirked widely. "So, tell me a bit about...Reno, would you?" He leaned back and prepared for quite the tale.
Rude disappointed him. "Lived on the streets, got in some trouble, and got involved with the wrong crowd. That took him to Tseng, and Tseng took him to the Turks." He was silent. Shadow was far from appeased by his story. He wanted a half-hour speech on everything from how tall he was in first grade to how he took his coffee. Rude had known this; Rude didn't care for Shadow; Shadow didn't get the whole story. "Really, that's about it, Sir," he lied, trying to bite his tongue hard enough to keep from laughing.
The air commander pretended to be satisfied with that. "I see. Well, at the 'm questioning his ability to make logical decisions. We both know how out of it he's been the past week, right?" Rude nodded. The Shadow-Man went on. "At the moment, I'm debating on whether or not an uprising is in order." The bald man's eyes almost pierced the lenses of his sunglasses.
No one would follow with an uprising against Reno. The Fire Demon of the Slums was not one to start a revolt with. Playing with Reno was like sticking your hand in raw meat and then trying to sucker-punch a lion. You just didn't do it. It was common sense to not even bring the idea up. And Rude was certainly not going to touch this with a twenty-foot pole. "I really doubt it, Shadow. You know how touchy he is these days."
"Exactly," he said firmly. Shadow's eyes gleamed; he had been out for Reno's position ever since day one. This was just an excuse to give it another shot. "He's touchy, which would make him easy to overthrow, correct? If we planned this right, we could get him out of the way...permanently." His eyebrows shot up, a sign that he was hinting for the obvious. Kill off the Fire Demon Reno. Rude drew the line here, and he had the correct reason to.
The bald man stood up and slammed a fist on the table. "This is Turk business, Shadow, and it's on Turk turf. You have no right to decide what we do and don't organize around here, and frankly, I don't think anyone even hired you because they wanted to. You're just a big, egotistical asshole with a bad haircut. Get. Over. It," he ground out, punching the back of the chair to accent the last words. Once his best friend was threatened, Rude stood up and made his voice -- and sometimes rifle -- heard loud and clear.
He was aimed to the door, but stopped about halfway there, turned, and flung the manila envelope back at him, brows twisted in frustration and eyes smoldering. "Take your own damn message to the General. I ain't your fucking servant boy." With that said, Rude was back out into the stench-filled hallways, listening to the recruits belt out the names of the rooms as he went to go get something to eat; he didn't get time for this everyday anymore, but now he had one, so he'd take it.
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Act Three: Gold-Touch Elena
Meanwhile, Gold-Touch and the Fire Demon, the two shells of two people the world didn't know, were still standing on the hill, wrapped in each other's arms. Elena had stopped crying some time ago, but whenever she glanced up, she saw him staring at the battlefield, which just made her want to sob some more. But she held them back for both their sake. If she broke down, she might never recover this time. So she kissed his cold, dead, cracked lips and left him standing there, coming from the lookout post barrier. Once there, Gold-Touch separated from her body, howled in rage, and beat against the invisible wall in vain. They called her Gold-Touch Elena because she was the negotiator on the trades and purchases. In simple, any hand she shook would soon be turning over a lot of gil to her.
Inside, she was a menace, just like Reno. No one without business talked to her, and if they did, they were shaken off like a wet jacket: immediately and hard. She brushed arms with a muttering and furious Rude, then with Shadow, who had on the same appearance and sound. He went out of his way to push her off of him and then storm into the cafeteria, his volume level going up and down almost involuntarily. She wiped her eyes and continued on, sliding an ID card through the slot once she reached she and the General's room.
Another place with lights, just to make sure Reno got what he wanted. She laid out her coat and shoes on the bed, then went to the bathroom and discarded the rest, turning the water in the shower to something that deserved a "Scalding Hot" setting on the knob. Many people used the showers to clean; some went to be alone, and still others went to just relax. Elena went to think. The shower made you think because there was nothing else to do. You couldn't read a book or watch television in the shower, and you sure as hell couldn't fight a war.
She came to think about what happened before the windows were blown out of the ShinRa Building, and their numbers were still on record in the office on the seventieth floor, not plastered against the sewer grates from Main Street to Strasse-Burg Avenue and some on East Boulevard. Before they were a stunning fireworks display in the middle of the metropolis, followed by the applause of the Rufus-opposition and the anti-ShinRa enthusiasts. Before the Turks had become a target and had a chance to lose their popularity, it all seemed good. Too good to be true; everyone must've noticed this, because the pursuit by AVALANCHE came fast, hard, and almost wiped them out on the first go. The first go was trying to get rid of them while they slept; Rude was out of Mideel for the weekend, but the other two were still there.
Strife and Valentine had walked into their home, most likely to find the coast clear, and proceeded into the oddly-silent bedroom. It was odd because they once in awhile got complaints from the neighbors. Had Reno not been awake for his midnight snack and close to the kitchen, Elena would've been taken down right then. With two swift slams, the AVALANCHE boys were out cold on the floor, the name of a respected frying pan brand on their heads. And when they woke up, they would find it to their arms and legs tied together on the shore of the Lifestream lake-thing. She found it a shame that someone had discovered them before high-tide. After that, it led to jumpings on the street and scuffles in the parking lots of high-ranked businesses, trying to clear anything previously or currently AVALANCHE out of "their" town. Then more caught on, came to help their favorite side, and that snowballed until there was non-stop Turk-AVALANCHE fighting in the streets and clearings. Then it became organized; became a full-fledged Turk Turf War.
Elena could almost spit in disgust most of the time, but she was usually crying or too busy trading for this and that. They heard it when they called her pathetic; pathetic for holding onto and loving the fiery General of the Turk Army. She never hissed back to the shadows, screamed into the open daylight, or tried to punch the wall to rid herself of the silent taunts. Never broke a nose or blackened an eye to silent the verbal. She would never try and prove them wrong by leaving him, either. She couldn't do that, even if he himself wanted her to. Tseng had just been a diversion so she could try to deny what she had felt for Reno back then, but now it didn't matter.
Now, they would be lucky to live through the night without a few broken limbs. And some didn't. Some just were left for stepping stones, drowned in the rivers, with no word from them until they were literally walked over. Then it was a matter of whether or not to pay them heed and report their death to the Fire Demon. Most of the time, it wasn't, but then you got the important ones that you needed to take to the top. No one wanted to have the job of telling Reno his best man was shot and left in pieces just outside the base, complete with labels for the limbs and vital organs. They usually sent in either Shadow, Propeller, Elena, or Rude in for that type of thing. Four people he couldn't kill.
Elena reached for the soap, using her other hand to try and turn down the stubborn "Hot" knob. It went on quickly, but to get it off was a hassle. Sometimes it required jiggling to the sides, other times just a wrench, and then once they couldn't get it off so they had to stop the water supply until they could go back into the wall and fix it. She finally did get it to move, but that was straight toward her when the glue released and the knob flew off of whatever metal thing it was attached to. Try as she might, because of the soap she was gripping like a handhold, she didn't even slow before she lost her footing and smacked her head on the now-wet tile.
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Act Four: The Fire Demon of the Slums
All of this went unnoticed to General Reno, because he was still looking across the fields, wondering where Strife and Valentine sat perched now. They were over there. He could almost feel that. The spike-headed idiot, smirking the same head off as he apparently came closer to victory with each member taken down, and kicked something each time one of his fell. Reno himself was as stoic as ever when either one of those happened. The battle was won when it was won, or lost when it was lost. For Strife, the second. For Reno, the first.
The Fire Demon defied the barrier nearly an hour later, when Reno finally stepped down the path after Rude and Elena, his second face on the back of his head, screaming at followers and deflecting anyone else. Once inside, although he barely was aware of it, Reno was immune to anything. He knew the layout of the place, and whenever anyone saw him coming, they clammed up. Didn't tell him what room it was. They knew he was on a path to somewhere if he was inside, and they really didn't want to be licked by the tongue of the Demon, so they shut up and waited for the next person.
Elena had whispered to him earlier that she was going to take a shower and then go to the cafeteria. He figured the first would be done with by now, so he just went straight to the cafeteria. This was a unique place, because Propeller had designed it and put in special lights. Every important member of their army was tattooed with his or her name on the arm, which went right through the clothing when it was glowing in these "lights". All you could see were the names of people swinging around the room, and the menus for the day were designed the same. They were high-tech but they were slowly falling to the guns and knives of Cloud Strife's troops.
Shadow was in there, to his right. Someone he didn't like talking to was the blonde man, but as soon as he saw the purple label, it jutted up and started for him, fast and furious. What he figured was going to be a punch in the face for all the Hell he had put them through turned into an envelope to the hand, and then the Red-Coated Rebellion commander stormed out, slamming the door behind him and making a few other names in the room shake. Reno looked them over. Mark, Cero, Zach, Lydiana, and a few other unimportant ones, but no sign of Elena.
Reno knew it never took this long for her to take one of her showers, so something had probably come up and she needed to do something else. He was about to turn and leave when he met an arm, this held right in front of his eyes so he could plainly see it was Rude. "Hey, Man." He figured the other had just come to talk for awhile, but the next words made his blood run cold.
"Reno...it's 'Lena..."
Scattering ashes into the sun.
Let the past go into a free-fall." -- November Project, "It Is Time"
-
The Turk Turf War
-
Act One: The First Shot
This is the beginning of the Turk Turf War, a long, hard battle on Midgar ground involving the Turks and their newest rivals. Many might say there would never be enough people to work the war, but when you have so many ties with ShinRa and ShinRa's past bouncing around, it's bound to happen that you'll have allies ready to shoot from the woodworks. The times when guns and knives are the only things you want have come upon us all.
You know you're at the bottom of the pile when you think slamming a glass down and hollering "Gimme another one!" can solve all of your problems. And once you're at the bottom of the fabled corporate dogpile, it takes a lot of work to dig yourself out of that hole and drop a bomb on the rest, trapping them there while you walk tall and mighty.
Then you have the people who like the bottom of the pile, because at the bottom, no one can give half a thought to what you're doing, and not many dare to blame you for the happenings outside of the mess of names, bodies, and account numbers. People like then Turks. The Turks have all the power it takes to move up the ladder, but they stay at the bottom, lurking in the shadows of innocence, but leaping into the light of guilt whenever the opportunity arises. But no one cares, because they're still down there.
The Turks like it this way. They're not your average members of the general population, and a few have shed that suit and completely shy from the claim of being a member of the public. The Turks are numbers in ShinRa Incorporated files, on the desks of every higher-up and in the minds of all their targets.
But when the ShinRa Building falls in a dazzling array of explosions and glass, the files get destroyed and the Turks are led astray by their imaginations. They are reduced in the public's shadowed eyes to below just a series of numbers that now sit scattered somewhere between Main Street and Strasse-Burg Avenue. They are reduced to the level of the cowering dogs in the streets, just before a bum attacks them, eats the meat, and wears the skin for a blanket.
So the Turks are a very valuable group to the general population of the Planet. Why? Before admitted into the elite force, all members are stripped of their past appearances, names, pasts alone, and even fingerprints, by technology made by the one and only Hojo Novehar. This meant not only are the Turks unknown, they are untraceable, even by the most highly-respected detective.
So, naturally, the Turks would have very few enemies to organize a strike against them, right? Not so. When the Turks stuck their finger into the mini-war between ShinRa and AVALANCHE, they came back with a bloodied knuckle and an army after them. Then they put a lighter over the line, lit it, and got a spark that blew them away. When ShinRa, Sephiroth, and the crimson moon Meteor were destroyed, AVALANCHE came looking for more fun.
The Turks were vulnerable, now just a small organization operating out of a building near Mideel. AVALANCHE, led by the apparently unstoppable Cloud Strife, was just as powerful as ever, and their bloodlust was to rid themselves of the blue-suited men and woman that worked in that little, run-down ex-motel with bits of Lifestream attached to it from when the explosion, earthquake, or whatever it was happened.
This was the only reason the shells ripped apart enemy lines somewhere between Rocket Town and Nibelheim, while the red-haired Fire Demon of the Slums stood atop one of the hills leading to the Nibel Mountains, Rude the Cueball Combatant to his right, and Gold-Touch Elena, his lover, hanging on his left arm, like a spider, clinging to the wall of a shack in a tornado. General Reno was what he was going by these days, a man as rough and callous as they come.
And on the other line, hovering in the Highwind, General Cloud Strife looked on with bitter distaste, also flanked: to one side by Vincent "The Myth" Valentine, and to the other by his fiancée, Tifa Lockheart the Raven Beauty. It was times like these you had to keep your friends close. Usually the woman or man in your life, and then your best friend. Both Generals knew tactics well enough to know this. This was where the Turk Turf War began to separate the weak from the strong. The two would go at it for as long as needed, neither backing down until their army was obliterated. Minor people helped. Landlords from the towns, coal-miners from Corel, people looking for a mention in the paper, anyone.
The Midgar Times and Junon Press had given them the nicknames.
The war spanned the whole distance between the two towns, and try as they might, not an official could stop them. The middle was a hard fight, where all the weapons and vehicles were used, while fist-fights and whatnot danced along the outsides.
It was a cold, windy and gloomy day when Elena sighed and laid her goldenrod head of hair against the Turk General's arm. Her tone was pleading when she spoke the words. She didn't want this; war meant killing, and useless killing at that. They always used to have a reason for what they did, but this was just out of control. "Reno...when's it all gonna stop?" she whispered, words almost wisped away by the wind.
Rude shook his head on the other side. He was silently agreeing with her. He didn't want to see this anymore than anyone else; it had started with rumbles in the parking lots of the restaurants, but then public fights started to break out, and soon there were thousands against thousands, blood staining the grass and the putrid stench of bodies floating for miles. He just tipped his glasses and looked at the big mob a distance away; the real battle. Half of all the soldiers put their lives on the line and their enemies to the test in that one over there. "Really, Man. You're fucking losin' it."
Reno had never wanted the role of a General. The Turks were enough to lead, but...an army? This was getting blown out of proportion. He just churned inside at the feel of Elena's wheat field tendrils against his neck. He wanted out; he was caught in a prison of enchantment, not knowing whether to hold on for the ride or put a cherry pie with skin on their pillow one night with his own gun. Cold steel would've been paradise clacking against his molars. "He's fucking losing it." The Fire Demon burned another forest with the words from his chapped lips. Her eyes sprung with fresh tears and the other man just turned his head in disgust. Reno had become a machine in the last four months. War this, war that. He was determined to win, and he didn't want to be. "We fight until he's taken out, or until we're down. There's nothing else to do." He wanted to settle down, have some kids, and die with something accomplished besides having the blood of thousands on his blistered hands.
The bald man scratched his head, leaving red streaks where the skin nearly broke open. He was irritated, he was tired, and he wanted Reno to grip some sanity and realize just what he was doing. It was all he could do to keep from knocking the man right off the hill, spraying blood as he flew into the fray below and was eaten by the wolves of soldiers. But that would mean upsetting Elena, and for some reason, he just couldn't bring himself to do that.
Had they been married, Elena would've been the wife in the black dress, spilling tears from her eyes as she watched her husband's fascination with the war grow only stronger until she was completely forgotten, but not willing to stop loving; to stop waiting for him to snap out of it one night, come back to bed, and pretend it was alright, while the battle still held to the back of his head and begged him to return. All except for the wedding and the black dress, this really was her. She had shown him her tears hundreds of times, or so it seemed. She had cut herself to show him what he meant to her, but it only concerned him until shortly after she was released from the hospital, then he slowly transitioned back to the guns and fighting and killing. "Yes, there is, Reno. You can give up and let him think he won." All four knew her efforts were in vain.
Reno just pulled his arm around her and held her close to his side, merging their hair in a sketchy orange color. He knew it just as well as she, he would never surrender. "Turks don't give up, 'Lena. We all know that." He socked Rude in the shoulder, receiving a nod. "We've just gotta ride this one through, then it'll be good. We'll run off to Wutai, get married just like we wanted to, and disappear like the wind." He swept his arm across the horizon for emphasis.
She was still crying. She couldn't stop it, just like she never could any other time. She knew there would never be peace in his mind. He would just get worse and worse until he was shooting anyone who met his eyes, the glassy, ice orbs she hadn't fallen in love with. No, she'd fallen in love with the soft, light blue eyes that sparkled when he made one of his inappropriate wisecracks and got hit in the back of the head for it. "Dammit, it'll never be that way, Reno! Don't lie to me!" She was tired, too. And she was losing it as quickly as he. Wet spots blew larger on his jacket when she pulled away to look him in the face. Rude, arms over his chest, still looked at the big fight miles away, though big enough to be seen. "We'll never have the kind of life we wanted unless you stop this all right now!" She punched him lightly in the chest, but fell victim to his arms around her again. She had a while to convince him; a while to change him before she became the black-dress, miserable wife.
-
Act Two: Cueball Combatant
Rude looked without turning his head to see the tops of theirs. A blob of orange like the fires of Hell, whipping out into the wind and then leaving nothing until the next wave rolled in. He just shook the invisible dust off of himself, gave a mock salute to the General, and walked back down the path winding up and down the hill which had become known as their lookout tower, just without the tower. Gold-Touch, the Fire Demon General, and Cueball Combatant stood there for days. The first and last left as Rude and Elena, but the demon's fires only grew as soon as he was back in the base. He had a wall around him; one only she could pass. No one looked at him wrong or talked back to him, because Reno had been without sleep for three days and he would snap if pressured the tiniest bit. Rude wanted to shoot him, to kill him however. It mattered naught, the method, only the result. And if it took death to bring his head down from the clouds, so be it, the bald man said.
The guards knew him. He was into the real base, a dark, cold place with no lights or heat, in minutes. It smelled of sweat and booze from the many men passing in and out of the place, some drunk, some just tired and banged up pretty badly. Instead of lights, they had noise. As soon as someone was seen in the shadows passing a room, someone was in the doorway to call out what it was, whether they were headed there or not. Seeing as how Reno had designed it, it was complex to show off the knowledge he thought he had of bases, and even he got lost once in awhile, though not often. This being so, Rude listened as he passed the doorways, calling out everything from "Bathroom," and "Cafeteria" to "General's Bedroom" and "Exit." Finally coming to the strategical planning room -- they used light for this one, by the way -- he walked in to see their mechanical engineer, known only as Propeller, hovering over the plans for one of his new aircraft.
Propeller was thin, balding slightly, and rugged, stubble donning his chin and a flight jacket hanging off of his skeleton. As if he were Cid Highwind himself, he had to cut down on the chain-smoking when near all of the explosives, but he still sneaked one or two from time to time. He barely acknowledged Rude, giving him a dismissing wave, even, before going back to pointing at something on the plans. The man who stood next to him, clad in a black leather trenchcoat with a blonde army-cut, also had a nickname: Shadow. He was known for the ability to sneak like a shadow, breathe darkness like a shadow, and appear as unnoticed and disappear as quickly as a shadow.
"I figure, we shove this thing fucker right here, we can at least add another hundred onto the m-p-h." Propeller was making their upgrades again, trying for the third time this week to get Shadow to approve him. Shadow commanded their Red-Coated Rebellion unit. A fancy name for air force that did, indeed, wear crimson coats. All Propeller did was design the machines, and then the others would put it into action as soon as the Fire Demon Reno approved or disapproved. If he disapproved, the smoking man was put into a dark room and beaten with sticks. As Rude had said, Hell's fires were the worst when they struck at home, and they all knew the saying around there: "Hell hath no fury like a pissed-off Demon."
Rude didn't know if he had an actual job. He just had maximum privileges and stuck close to Reno so he didn't do something stupid like demand they go find Hojo's files and reconstruct some Jenova cells for him, or to make sure Elena kept a grip while her lover slowly slipped into the stage of a full-blown killing machine. He would come back someday, but until then, it was up to the cueballed man to keep an eye on her. He cleared his throat and stared at Shadow. "What're the plans for the next attack?"
Shadow was informed, too. He tapped a finger on his bearded chin and looked up for a moment, then recited, almost from memory, "We drop A and D back behind the hills, keep C on the flanks, and send B into the lines. Then the RCR flies by and rips out a few of their cannons. We should have one of the tanks ready in a week, too." He nodded, as if to reassure himself he had it right, and went back to arguing with Propeller about the design of the fighters. The former wanted them to have more firepower, while the latter wanted faster but a lot less firepower. "The faster, the easier to run," he kept repeating. Shadow won in the end, of course, and a defeated-looking Propeller walked out, unlit cigarette butt being mashed to pieces between his teeth.
Shadow smiled contentedly and sat in one of the chairs at the long table, motioning to another and tossing an envelope at Rude. "Plans for the next strike. For the General. Siddown a second, though. We need to talk about the...Fire Demon of the Slums." He was out of business mode, and was hungry to either do some griping or get information. He could pry and pry all he wanted, but he never did get it out of Rude what his "boss" was thinking. Rude sat down nonetheless and put the envelope into his breast pocket. "You've known him longer than anyone else here, am I correct, Rudolph?"
"Rude." A WEAPON would've dropped dead at the glare that had just flared from behind his silver sunglasses. No one ever called him Rudolph, and anyone who dared to ended up stripped and cold-dead without a face next morning, conveniently stuffed into an old woman's garbage can. "And yes, Sir, I have." He thought of them all as Sirs. He had authority to do whatever he wanted except move the troops, yes, but he positioned himself mentally on the bottom of the warring dogpile.
Suddenly, he felt like leaping into the air and cursing the sun for everything that had happened to his dear, dear friend Reno, and the Hell he was putting Elena through with this madness. But he knew, even if he did do just that, the wind would sweep away the words far before they could reach the flaming ball of detest hanging in the bright blue sky on a summer day, and the wind doesn't stop to listen. It passes on through, takes what it wants, and laughs on its way out. There are no wind therapists to stand around and listen to the complaints of someone. The wind reminded him of Jason Palmer in a donut line. Giddy as a schoolgirl, hungry as a moose, and with the authority of a Supreme Court judge.
Shadow's dead-cow chair creaked as he sat up. They called them dead-cow chairs because a man had once found a tail still attached to his. It was really just to lighten the mood, which it did for about thirty seconds. "Yes, yes you have." He thought on this for a moment, then smirked widely. "So, tell me a bit about...Reno, would you?" He leaned back and prepared for quite the tale.
Rude disappointed him. "Lived on the streets, got in some trouble, and got involved with the wrong crowd. That took him to Tseng, and Tseng took him to the Turks." He was silent. Shadow was far from appeased by his story. He wanted a half-hour speech on everything from how tall he was in first grade to how he took his coffee. Rude had known this; Rude didn't care for Shadow; Shadow didn't get the whole story. "Really, that's about it, Sir," he lied, trying to bite his tongue hard enough to keep from laughing.
The air commander pretended to be satisfied with that. "I see. Well, at the 'm questioning his ability to make logical decisions. We both know how out of it he's been the past week, right?" Rude nodded. The Shadow-Man went on. "At the moment, I'm debating on whether or not an uprising is in order." The bald man's eyes almost pierced the lenses of his sunglasses.
No one would follow with an uprising against Reno. The Fire Demon of the Slums was not one to start a revolt with. Playing with Reno was like sticking your hand in raw meat and then trying to sucker-punch a lion. You just didn't do it. It was common sense to not even bring the idea up. And Rude was certainly not going to touch this with a twenty-foot pole. "I really doubt it, Shadow. You know how touchy he is these days."
"Exactly," he said firmly. Shadow's eyes gleamed; he had been out for Reno's position ever since day one. This was just an excuse to give it another shot. "He's touchy, which would make him easy to overthrow, correct? If we planned this right, we could get him out of the way...permanently." His eyebrows shot up, a sign that he was hinting for the obvious. Kill off the Fire Demon Reno. Rude drew the line here, and he had the correct reason to.
The bald man stood up and slammed a fist on the table. "This is Turk business, Shadow, and it's on Turk turf. You have no right to decide what we do and don't organize around here, and frankly, I don't think anyone even hired you because they wanted to. You're just a big, egotistical asshole with a bad haircut. Get. Over. It," he ground out, punching the back of the chair to accent the last words. Once his best friend was threatened, Rude stood up and made his voice -- and sometimes rifle -- heard loud and clear.
He was aimed to the door, but stopped about halfway there, turned, and flung the manila envelope back at him, brows twisted in frustration and eyes smoldering. "Take your own damn message to the General. I ain't your fucking servant boy." With that said, Rude was back out into the stench-filled hallways, listening to the recruits belt out the names of the rooms as he went to go get something to eat; he didn't get time for this everyday anymore, but now he had one, so he'd take it.
-
Act Three: Gold-Touch Elena
Meanwhile, Gold-Touch and the Fire Demon, the two shells of two people the world didn't know, were still standing on the hill, wrapped in each other's arms. Elena had stopped crying some time ago, but whenever she glanced up, she saw him staring at the battlefield, which just made her want to sob some more. But she held them back for both their sake. If she broke down, she might never recover this time. So she kissed his cold, dead, cracked lips and left him standing there, coming from the lookout post barrier. Once there, Gold-Touch separated from her body, howled in rage, and beat against the invisible wall in vain. They called her Gold-Touch Elena because she was the negotiator on the trades and purchases. In simple, any hand she shook would soon be turning over a lot of gil to her.
Inside, she was a menace, just like Reno. No one without business talked to her, and if they did, they were shaken off like a wet jacket: immediately and hard. She brushed arms with a muttering and furious Rude, then with Shadow, who had on the same appearance and sound. He went out of his way to push her off of him and then storm into the cafeteria, his volume level going up and down almost involuntarily. She wiped her eyes and continued on, sliding an ID card through the slot once she reached she and the General's room.
Another place with lights, just to make sure Reno got what he wanted. She laid out her coat and shoes on the bed, then went to the bathroom and discarded the rest, turning the water in the shower to something that deserved a "Scalding Hot" setting on the knob. Many people used the showers to clean; some went to be alone, and still others went to just relax. Elena went to think. The shower made you think because there was nothing else to do. You couldn't read a book or watch television in the shower, and you sure as hell couldn't fight a war.
She came to think about what happened before the windows were blown out of the ShinRa Building, and their numbers were still on record in the office on the seventieth floor, not plastered against the sewer grates from Main Street to Strasse-Burg Avenue and some on East Boulevard. Before they were a stunning fireworks display in the middle of the metropolis, followed by the applause of the Rufus-opposition and the anti-ShinRa enthusiasts. Before the Turks had become a target and had a chance to lose their popularity, it all seemed good. Too good to be true; everyone must've noticed this, because the pursuit by AVALANCHE came fast, hard, and almost wiped them out on the first go. The first go was trying to get rid of them while they slept; Rude was out of Mideel for the weekend, but the other two were still there.
Strife and Valentine had walked into their home, most likely to find the coast clear, and proceeded into the oddly-silent bedroom. It was odd because they once in awhile got complaints from the neighbors. Had Reno not been awake for his midnight snack and close to the kitchen, Elena would've been taken down right then. With two swift slams, the AVALANCHE boys were out cold on the floor, the name of a respected frying pan brand on their heads. And when they woke up, they would find it to their arms and legs tied together on the shore of the Lifestream lake-thing. She found it a shame that someone had discovered them before high-tide. After that, it led to jumpings on the street and scuffles in the parking lots of high-ranked businesses, trying to clear anything previously or currently AVALANCHE out of "their" town. Then more caught on, came to help their favorite side, and that snowballed until there was non-stop Turk-AVALANCHE fighting in the streets and clearings. Then it became organized; became a full-fledged Turk Turf War.
Elena could almost spit in disgust most of the time, but she was usually crying or too busy trading for this and that. They heard it when they called her pathetic; pathetic for holding onto and loving the fiery General of the Turk Army. She never hissed back to the shadows, screamed into the open daylight, or tried to punch the wall to rid herself of the silent taunts. Never broke a nose or blackened an eye to silent the verbal. She would never try and prove them wrong by leaving him, either. She couldn't do that, even if he himself wanted her to. Tseng had just been a diversion so she could try to deny what she had felt for Reno back then, but now it didn't matter.
Now, they would be lucky to live through the night without a few broken limbs. And some didn't. Some just were left for stepping stones, drowned in the rivers, with no word from them until they were literally walked over. Then it was a matter of whether or not to pay them heed and report their death to the Fire Demon. Most of the time, it wasn't, but then you got the important ones that you needed to take to the top. No one wanted to have the job of telling Reno his best man was shot and left in pieces just outside the base, complete with labels for the limbs and vital organs. They usually sent in either Shadow, Propeller, Elena, or Rude in for that type of thing. Four people he couldn't kill.
Elena reached for the soap, using her other hand to try and turn down the stubborn "Hot" knob. It went on quickly, but to get it off was a hassle. Sometimes it required jiggling to the sides, other times just a wrench, and then once they couldn't get it off so they had to stop the water supply until they could go back into the wall and fix it. She finally did get it to move, but that was straight toward her when the glue released and the knob flew off of whatever metal thing it was attached to. Try as she might, because of the soap she was gripping like a handhold, she didn't even slow before she lost her footing and smacked her head on the now-wet tile.
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Act Four: The Fire Demon of the Slums
All of this went unnoticed to General Reno, because he was still looking across the fields, wondering where Strife and Valentine sat perched now. They were over there. He could almost feel that. The spike-headed idiot, smirking the same head off as he apparently came closer to victory with each member taken down, and kicked something each time one of his fell. Reno himself was as stoic as ever when either one of those happened. The battle was won when it was won, or lost when it was lost. For Strife, the second. For Reno, the first.
The Fire Demon defied the barrier nearly an hour later, when Reno finally stepped down the path after Rude and Elena, his second face on the back of his head, screaming at followers and deflecting anyone else. Once inside, although he barely was aware of it, Reno was immune to anything. He knew the layout of the place, and whenever anyone saw him coming, they clammed up. Didn't tell him what room it was. They knew he was on a path to somewhere if he was inside, and they really didn't want to be licked by the tongue of the Demon, so they shut up and waited for the next person.
Elena had whispered to him earlier that she was going to take a shower and then go to the cafeteria. He figured the first would be done with by now, so he just went straight to the cafeteria. This was a unique place, because Propeller had designed it and put in special lights. Every important member of their army was tattooed with his or her name on the arm, which went right through the clothing when it was glowing in these "lights". All you could see were the names of people swinging around the room, and the menus for the day were designed the same. They were high-tech but they were slowly falling to the guns and knives of Cloud Strife's troops.
Shadow was in there, to his right. Someone he didn't like talking to was the blonde man, but as soon as he saw the purple label, it jutted up and started for him, fast and furious. What he figured was going to be a punch in the face for all the Hell he had put them through turned into an envelope to the hand, and then the Red-Coated Rebellion commander stormed out, slamming the door behind him and making a few other names in the room shake. Reno looked them over. Mark, Cero, Zach, Lydiana, and a few other unimportant ones, but no sign of Elena.
Reno knew it never took this long for her to take one of her showers, so something had probably come up and she needed to do something else. He was about to turn and leave when he met an arm, this held right in front of his eyes so he could plainly see it was Rude. "Hey, Man." He figured the other had just come to talk for awhile, but the next words made his blood run cold.
"Reno...it's 'Lena..."