If the Suit Fits
Alvis was straddling a chair someone had dragged in, staring across the desk at Veld and that stiff Woot Tseng. The Turks were almost silhouettes against the glare seeping in through the office's tall windows. The Commander was bent forward with his hands linked up and resting on the desk. Tseng stood at his elbow, feet planted, shoulders square. Both of them were zipped up all snug in those suits they always wore.
Alvis was still jammed in his Greaser gear, the same stuff he'd had on when they'd dragged him up here three days ago. His big black boots, caked in mud and blood and just about everything else that oozed through the slums. Tight, torn up jeans. A grey t-shirt. His leather vest, but that wasn't the same now they'd made him cut the patch away. That hadn't felt good, cutting off thread after thread with the craft knife until he'd just ripped the thing off, to get it done.
Veld leaned back into the leather of his chair, touched a hand to his mouth. Alvis wondered how the old guy could relax in an office like this. The towering ceiling, the concrete walls, the hard marble floor – they seemed designed to make a guy feel uncomfortable. Make him feel small, soft. Alvis didn't like it.
"Well, son," Veld was saying. "You passed every test we threw at you. You're in. You're one of us now." He spread his arms wide, like he wanted a hug or something.
"I ain't your son," Alvis told him. He hated people calling him stuff like that. Like he wasn't every bit as much a man as them. "And are those what you call tests around here?"
Sure, some of the exercises had challenged him. He'd never set an explosive charge before, or flown a chopper. But compared to stealing your first bike? A cakewalk. With these Turk tests, you were allowed to try again if you failed the first time. But if you got caught messing with the ignition wires on a motorcycle, that was it. Game over.
Veld looked over his shoulder and shared a smirk with the Woot. Were they laughing at him? Alvis clenched his jaw, felt the heat of anger soaking into his cheeks. He wasn't the kind of guy people just made fun of.
Veld turned back to face him, the corners of his eyes creased up in a smile, and said, "Well, son, if you're going to join us, you'll need a suit. Several, in fact. We're sending you to get measured up. Rude will escort you."
Again with the "son" shit. "Rude? That's the bald guy, yeah?" On the second day, Rude had been sent to make sure Alvis knew how to throw a punch. Which he did, of course. If these suits had ever seen a turf rumble, they'd know he could do much more than that. Baldie had been lucky to finish with all his teeth intact.
Veld nodded.
Tseng said, "You shouldn't say 'bald' so loud. He's right outside the door." The Woot had this look in his eyes like he'd just seen Alvis step in dog shit.
Alvis wasn't about to let this jumped-up Woot tell him who to be scared of. "I would have wiped the floor with him, if you hadn't cut our fight short."
"Like you did with Reno?"
Alvis bolted up from his chair, knocking it to the ground. He thrust a finger at Tseng. "I'd just crashed the bike! You try brawling after a crash, see how you get on!" His body was running tense and hot, ready for a scrap.
"Calm down," Veld said. "Both of you." He set the words down like a row of boulders, immovable. Alvis hesitated. Veld's presence was formidable. The grim set of his jaw, the hardness of his eyes, set him apart as someone you just did not fuck with. Mas had been like that too, before he got sick. But Alvis had respected Mas because he'd seen the man fly round a corner, open up a guy's throat with his big knife, drink three bottles of moonshine bourbon and still walk a straight line. So far, all he'd seen Veld do was sit behind his desk.
What made Alvis back down, though, was when he spotted the subtle fold where Tseng's gun pressed against his jacket. He should have noticed it earlier. He'd always had an eye for the details others missed: the white band on Veld's finger which must once have been covered by a ring, the tiny crater on Tseng's temple, where he'd picked off a speck of Choco-pox as a kid. You could draw all kinds of useful conclusions from those little things, or they could just be more noise in your head.
But once he saw the pistol, he spat, "Fine," and bent down to pick his chair up. He slumped back onto it, splayed his legs out.
Tseng settled back on his heels and Veld called Rude in. The bald man entered through a side door and crossed the room, his footsteps echoing off the high ceiling. Alvis felt like he was supposed to get up and salute or something, but he stayed sprawled on his arse in the chair. He wasn't going to get up for anyone.
Rude stopped behind Alvis' chair and said, "Sir?"
"I need you to take the boy here to see Ravelstein," Veld told him. "Boy"? Alvis bit his lip.
"He's getting measured up?"
"That's correct. You'll escort him, make sure he doesn't get lost." The corner of Veld's mouth got twisted on the word "lost", and his eyebrows twitched a little. Alvis realised that these Turks didn't trust him. Rude was coming along to grab him if he tried to gap it. He let himself imagine it, giving the bald guy the slip and dropping back down into the Sector Three slums again. Seeing their faces again, his brothers, spinning out the tale of his escape from the Shinra. It had only been three days, but it felt like a lot longer.
But would they be pleased to see him? Alvis doubted it. Three days was too long to be gone. They'd have a new chief now, and he'd be seen as a threat. He went flashing his face around there, he'd probably get stomped. That was how it was with the Greasers. Once you stopped being a brother, you were an enemy. No middle ground.
He got to his feet.
Rude said, "Follow me, rookie," and jerked his head at the door. Alvis stuck his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and slouched out of the room after him, stopping at the door to flick Tseng a floppy, mocking salute.
He followed Rude's brown scalp into the bowels of the Shinra building, through the crowds in the fountain square, and onto the train to the Sector Five slums. He was kind of surprised to be sinking back into the slums; he'd expected them to head to some fancy tailor above plate.
The other passengers in their train carriage got nervous when they saw the suit. Their eyes were always darting in Rude's direction, and the seats to either side of him were empty the whole trip, even if people had to stand. Alvis recognised the sideways glances, the way everyone kept their distance. It was how crowds had acted when he and his brothers had been on the prowl, the colours blaring from their backs. He'd liked it, the respect. Good to see this new job would have some perks.
If Rude noticed the impact his suit had on the carriage, he didn't show it. He just sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor or out the window. Truth was, he wasn't anything the passengers should be scared of. Alvis had fought him. A practice, sure, but, he'd seen what the Turk could do. He knew he could take him.
Alvis planted himself opposite Rude and tried to tease conversation out of him. "So these suits," he asked. "Anything special about them?" The Turks' uniforms were wrapped up in all kinds of myths down in the slums. Guy said they stopped bullets, made the wearer invisible, gave them super strength. Alvis doubted the rumours were true. The suits he'd laid eyes on just looked like ordinary fabric, and he'd seem plenty of them by now. Still, it was something to talk about.
Rude said, "No. They're just suits."
"All right. So how long you been with the Turks?"
"A while."
"You like it?"
"Yeah."
What was this guy's problem? Had he caught that bald line through the door? Just to piss him off, Alvis asked, "So why the shades?" The Turk stayed silent, stared past Alvis, out the window.
It was hard to tell through the glasses, but Alvis could have sworn Rude looked nervous. Sweat was beading on his forehead. He kept clenching and unclenching his hands, the leather of the gloves he wore creaking softly each time.
Maybe he was just scared because he knew he couldn't stop Alvis escaping. Yeah, that was it. He'd seen what the rookie could do in a rumble. Guy was probably shitting his pants right now.
Alvis couldn't resist winding him up. "You're here to stop me gapping it, yeah?" he asked.
Rude's eyes stayed fixed on the window, but a muscle flickered in his cheek.
"Thought so. Think you could do it?"
"Yeah." Their eyes met.
"All right. Next stop's coming up. Say I get up and walk towards the door." Alvis got to his feet and stepped under the exit sign. Rude didn't move. "Train stops. Doors open. I dash out and along the side of the train. You're stuck in the press with these guys. That's it, yeah? I'm gone."
"You're dead. I'd shoot you."
Alvis froze for a second. Rude had a gun? Why hadn't he noticed? He scanned the black planes of the Turk's suit. There wasn't a bulge to give it away. Then he realised: the bald guy was lying. Trying to scare him. He let out his breath, pushed a chuckle up from his gut. "You're not wearing a gun," he said.
"I always wear a gun."
"Bullshit. Doesn't matter, anyway. I'd be behind the train before you could fire it."
"Your life." Rude shrugged, leaned back and folded his arms. He was a hard guy to get a reaction from.
Alvis flopped into his seat, said, "You're all talk. Lucky for you, I'm not going anywhere. I'm going through with this."
Rude just tossed his shoulders again.
Truth was, Alvis didn't really have any other options. He could lose Rude now, in the slums, but from what he'd seen of these Turk guys, they weren't about to let him run free. He'd evade them, sure, but what kind of life would that be? Never relaxed. Always alone. He wasn't sure he like the idea of being zipped up in a suit, taking orders, watching each day dwindle away, but it had to beat living on the run.
He left Rude to his fist clenching for the rest of the train ride. When the doors slid open at Sector Five, he shot to his feet and watched the bald guy tense up. Then he slapped a grin onto his face, said, "Easy, big guy."
Rude didn't respond, just pushed past him and out onto the platform. Alvis followed him again, through the press of dirty faces in the station, the shifting crowd that filled the market square. Rude's suit drew more stares, let him move through the masses like a shark through a school of fish.
They went through a set of big iron doors and out into the Sector Five wastes. Huge, rusting girders lay twisted in the dirt like dead Zoloms. Scattered between them were the burnt-out shells of old cars, broken tools, piles of bricks and shattered concrete. The area must have been a part of old Midgar; Alvis spotted the foundations of several old buildings, and off in the distance he could see the spires of an old church.
They'd been picking their way through the scrap for maybe ten minutes when Alvis heard the far-off roar of bike engines. His heart beat faster, his gut clenched up. Was it his brothers? He scrambled up onto the girder to get a look. The bikes were a couple hundred metres off, winding through the debris, but he spotted the grey of their bandannas. They were Greasers, all right. Way off their turf. Someone on the train must have recognised him, tipped them off. But were they here to save him, or stomp him? Probably came down to who was chief now.
Rude looked up at him and asked, "Friends of yours?"
Alvis nodded, swallowed some spit. He must have looked nervous, or something, because the bald guy grinned and said, "You don't seem happy to see them. Still want to run?"
"Fuck you," Alvis told him.
The engines got louder. Alvis felt a cold trickle of sweat run from his armpit down the side of his ribs. Rude lowered his arse onto the girder and folded his arms, like he was settling down to watch a play or something. Finally they came screaming around the side of a pile of rubble, a pack of six, the roar of their bikes crashing on his ears. At their head was Barger, straddling his huge Hardy. More than ever, the guy's face reminded Alvis of a slab of meat. His body went all cold when he saw it. Barger meant a stomping.
"Rude," Alvis said, "I could really use your help here." He was one of them now, yeah? Veld had said so. Wasn't like the bald guy would make much difference, but six on two sounded better than six on one.
Rude just shrugged, stayed perched on the girder.
"Look, I'm sorry for fucking with you before, yeah?" Alvis said, struggling to hold his voice down flat. "These guys are going to kill me." Did Rude want him to beg, or something?
They were almost on him now. He could make out the faces of the other riders: Pig, Moses, Ink, the Bastard, Charlie. Hardly the whole gang, but enough to stomp him. They all wore bandannas over their faces but Alvis could see their little angry eyes, burning like embers.
Shit, he needed a weapon. His eyes scrambled over a length of pipe on the ground. He jumped off the girder and snatched it up, felt its weight in his hand. It would have to do.
Barger threw his bike into a sidelong skid, a cloud of dust billowing out behind him as he hurtled nearer. Alvis planted his feet, tried not to shake. Barger stopped at the tips of his boots, thrust that meat-face into his own, and shoved him backwards.
"Got a lot of balls flashing your face around here, huh, punk?" the gangster said, swinging his leg off the bike. "After all you've done. Think you pretty tough, huh? Think you the man?" He'd pulled a bowie knife out of his boot, and it flashed in his hand as he advanced on Alvis, his arms spread out wide.
"The hell did I do?" Alvis asked. He really didn't know what Barger was talking about.
Barger stopped abruptly and spun around to face the other Greasers. They'd dismounted and were pulling knives, unwinding bits of chain from their waists.
"Can you believe this punk? He won't even admit it." Barger turned back to Alvis. "You killed Mas, you piece of shit. You killed the best chief we ever had."
The accusation was so ridiculous that Alvis mustered a laugh from somewhere in the jelly of his stomach. It came out too high-pitched. "I didn't touch Mas. I loved -"
"-Shut up!" Barger yelled, advancing again. The veins in his neck were pumped up and his face was the colour of a raw steak. "Guy like Mas doesn't just get sick. You poisoned him! You was always saying how you was going to be chief. Guess you got sick of waiting, huh? Well, you going to wish you had."
Alvis felt the bar of a girder push at his calves. He hadn't even realised he was backing up. He glanced down at his feet. So, this was the patch of dirt he was going to die on. He tightened his grip on the pipe, lifted it up in front of him.
Then Rude pushed himself to his feet, dusting off the arms of his jacket. Barger's head whipped around, and he pointed his knife at the Turk. "Sit the fuck down, Baldie. This ain't got nothing to do with you."
Almost casually, Rude strolled over to Barger and rammed a fist into his face. Several of the gangsters teeth arced through the air, trailed by strings of blood, and then he was sprawled on the ground. There was a strange moment where everything was still and quiet as everyone processed what had happened. Alvis noticed a spider crawling over his boot.
When he looked up, the gangsters were rushing in on Rude. After maybe a minute, they were all dead, scattered in the dirt at the Turk's feet. Rude pulled a PHS out of his jacket and checked the time on its front screen. He was barely puffed, and there wasn't even a crease in his suit.
"Shit," he said. "We're late. C'mon."
Alvis stood there with his mouth open and the pipe dangling from his hand, and watched as Rude set off at a jog through the debris. He couldn't quite believe what he'd seen. That he was still sucking air.
He shook himself and ran to catch up with the bald guy.
"Shit, man," he said, matching Rude's stride. "That was – that was – ." He couldn't find the words. "Shit. You saved my life. I don't know how to thank you."
Without slowing down, Rude turned his head to look at him, his brow folded in a puzzled kind of frown. "You're one of us now, rookie. We'll look after you." He said it like it was obvious. Then he stopped running, scratched at his chin. "You want to thank me, though? Stop talking shit. Got one guy who does that already, and he's all I can take. Now, let's move. Commander'll whip my ass if we keep Ravelstein waiting."
What could Veld have done to make a guy like Rude respect him so much? Surely the Commander wasn't the tougher of the two. Nobody could be tougher than Rude. But then, why wasn't the bald guy chief of the Turks? Alvis couldn't understand.
Ten minutes later they were in front of an old shop that stood alone in the middle of nothing. Alvis was bent double, panting, the dust they'd kicked up running stuck to the sweat on his arms and face. He was used to riding everywhere, sure, but why the hell did he have to puff so much? It was embarrassing.
The shop was probably the oldest, most run-down building he'd ever seen. Had to be from the days before Shinra. It stooped over them, a tottering two-storey box made of scorched red bricks, with front windows so thick with grime you couldn't really see inside. The building's verandah slumped over a row of skinny iron columns. Peeling letters along its front edge read, "Ravelstein & Co. Tailors".
"This is it?" Alvis asked.
Rude just nodded and opened the door, ushered him inside.
The interior was gloomy and everything was covered in dust. Once Alvis' eyes adjusted, he could make out a row of blazers hanging off the wall, the melting white faces of mannequins, a rack of drooping ties. Was this really where the Turks got their suits made? Seemed kind of odd that such a rich, modern company got tailored at this shabby old joint. Certainly didn't look like the place did much business. Alvis started thinking that maybe something weird was going on. Something he hadn't caught on to.
"Anyone there?" he called out. His voice was muffled by the dust and the soft fabrics. Behind him he heard Rude step inside and shut the door.
In the back of the shop, a warm light flared up. A door creaked open, feet shuffled on the floorboards. The light soaked along the walls towards Alvis, and he had to close his eyes for a second against the burn of it. When he opened them again, an old man was standing a few metres off, holding some kind of ancient lamp.
The old guy must have been tall once, but now he was all stooped and the skin hung off his skull. His nose was hooked like a beak and there was stubble scattered around his mouth. He wore a suit that was grey as a road, and one of those funny flat caps you sometimes saw on guys his age.
"Rude," he said. His voice was deep but it sounded kind of dried out. "It's been a long time. You're looking sharp, fella. This the rookie?"
"Yeah."
"Well, step forward, kid. Into the light, where I can lay eyes on you."
The hell was this guy, to call him a kid, order him around? Three days ago, anyone who talked to him like that would have got their teeth kicked out. But he couldn't just go beating on everyone who pissed him off any more, so he slunk forward into the lantern's glow and stood there.
"Scrawy one, ain't you?" the old guy said. "What's your name, kid?"
Alvis sunk a tooth into his lip and spat his name around the side of it.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Ravelstein. You can call me Mister Ravelstein."
Like hell he would.
They shook hands. Alvis fixed his mouth in a polite smile while squeezing the old guy's talons as hard as he could. Show him who was the scrawny one around here. Ravelstein didn't seem to notice, and as they shook he fixed Alvis with a gaze so sharp it almost cut him open.
After their handshake, Ravelstein set the lamp down on the counter and straightened his tie. "Alright, kid, let's get you fitted up," he said. He pulled a box of matches out of his pocket and went around the shop, lighting more of the old lamps. Soon their buttery kind of light had washed all the gloom off the store.
There were suits everywhere. Seemed like that was all the guy sold. Not just Turk suits, either: jackets, shirts, trousers, ties in hundreds of styles and colours and fabrics. They were draped on hangers, folded on shelves, wrapped around mannequins.
Rude sat on a chair by the door, resting his hands on his thighs. Alvis noticed he was doing the fist-clenching thing again. He wondered what could make a guy like Rude nervous. Not the chance of a rookie like him escaping, that was for sure.
Ravelstein turned to the back of the shop. "Hey, Cilla, get out here!" he called. "And bring a thirty-two."
Alvis had expected Cilla to be some bent old crone, but after a couple seconds a little girl, maybe eight or nine, crept out from behind the door. She was all bones, and pale as a skeleton too, with dark hair so thin her ears peeked through it. She wore only a dirty white dress, and was carrying a folded stack of black cloth. The suit.
Ravelstein held out a white shirt. "Put these on, kid," he said, pointing to a changing cubicle on one of the side walls. Alvis took the shirt from the old guy and the suit from the girl, who was offering it up to him like it was holy or something. She was a funny one. Then he went into the changing room, pulled the curtain across, peeled off his stale biker gear and slipped into the new clothes.
When he'd finished, he looked in the mirror and didn't like what he saw. The suit hung too loose off his body, and the ends of the pants bunched on the floor, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was that as he stared at his reflection, it struck him that he kind of looked like his father. The thought made his lip curl in disgust.
Truth was, he hated suits. They were what his parents wore. Whenever they'd arrived hours late to pick him up from school, left him alone in the big house to go to some dinner party, got home from work too tired to even speak to him, they'd worn suits. Dark fabric squaring off their bodies, ties gripping their throats. If he got stuck in a suit too, did that mean they'd won? That he'd wound up just like them? He suddenly felt too hot, and the shirt's collar was choking him. He wanted to rip the clothes off and throw them on the ground.
But he'd have to wear it, for now at least. He didn't have any other choices.
He pulled back the curtain and stepped out onto the shop floor. No one even noticed. That Cilla girl was staring at her toes, and Rude and Ravelstein were talking.
"And how's that pal of yours, Reno?" the tailor was saying. "He still dressing like shit?"
"Yeah," Rude replied.
"You guys got to put a stop to that. It just ain't right, wearing the suit like he does."
"We're trying."
"Well, try harder." The tailor turned around and spotted Alvis. "Ah, looking good, kid. Come stand up here." He pointed to a wooden crate by the front window.
"Sure," Alvis drawled, voice flat. The suit, the orders, the dumb nicknames – they were just stuff he'd have to put up with. Wasn't really all that different from when he'd first fallen in with the Greasers. He'd fetched the beers, watched the street while Mas and the others busted into a store or hauled someone into an alley for a stomping. Difference was, he'd wanted to join the Greasers, more than he'd wanted just about anything. He wasn't so sure about being a Turk.
He crossed the room, stepped up onto the box, and turned to face the old guy.
"Okay. Okay." Ravelstein rubbed his hands together, sucked air through his teeth. He seemed excited. "Got your pins, Cilla?"
The little girl nodded and produced a cushion bristling with them from behind her back.
"Okay." The tailor's eyes narrowed. "Okay. Take the trousers up and inch and a half, then narrow each leg...an inch. Maybe more. We'll see. Cuffs need to come up half an inch, sleeves in an inch, and we'll take the scye up half an inch. The hem on the jacket can come up...two inches. Okay? Then we'll see how he's looking."
Cilla set to it, scurrying around the crate, checking the size with a measuring tape, folding the cloth with her skinny fingers, and pushing in the pins to hold the fold in place. Ravelstein watched closely as she worked, his arms folded, a smile planted on his lips.
"So, Alvis," he said. "Where you from?"
Alvis felt a little surge of irritation, like someone had splashed hot water on his back. The hell did this guy want to know that for? He glanced over at Rude, cocked an eyebrow. The Turk nodded. Alvis let a sigh out and said, "Sector Three. The slums."
"Bullshit," Ravelstein said. He laughed a scratchy kind of laugh. "You're from up on the plate."
Alvis gasped. Almost nobody knew that. "How – how did you know?" he managed to say.
"The way you talk, kid. It ain't right." A chuckle scratched up the tailor's throat again. "You know too many words."
"The hell did you ask for, if you already knew where I was from?"
"Shit, kid. Don't get so worked up. I was just making conversation."
"Well, don't. Fuck." One of Cilla's pins jabbed at Alvis' ankle. "Careful!" he snapped.
"Shit, I'm sorry, kid." Ravelstein shrugged, showed the inside of his bottom lip. "I don't get out much. How'd you end up down here, anyway?"
"None of your damn business."
"Okay, okay. Sorry, kid. How about I guess?"
That smug smile on the old guy's face was really starting to piss Alvis off. He wanted to take a swing at it, knock it off the tailor's lips. "No!" he said. "Just fuck off." Another prick at his ankle. He glared down at Cilla. "Can't you be more careful? Shit." The girl bared her teeth at him.
"What's your theory, Cilla?" Ravelstein said. "How do you think Alvis here wound up in the slums? What's that? You think maybe he's down here because his folks up top didn't love him enough? Think maybe they kicked him out when he started acting up?" He looked at Alvis. "Sounds pretty crazy to me, Cilla. How could anyone not love a kid like this one?"
The hell was going on? Had they been watching him since he was a kid, or something? If the earlier questions had put Alvis off-balance, this one knocked him on his arse, back into his memories.
He remembered waking up on the front steps in the cold, grey pre-dawn, still reeling drunk, surrounded in all the childhood shit they'd chucked out after him. The violin, the baseball bat, the cuddly moogle with only one glass eye. All his clothes. Staggering down the path to the street, stopping only to hurl in their letterbox. Not even looking back.
Ravelstein chuckled. "Thought so," he said. "And that was, what, four years ago? What happened after that? How'd you get by? What exactly did you say you did before the Turks found you?"
Alvis didn't want to play more guessing games, but he also didn't want to spill more truth, so he said, "I rode motorbikes."
"You what?"
"I rode motorbikes, yeah?"
"So you were what, a delivery boy?"
"Yeah."
"Bullshit. You think we're stupid? What kind of delivery boy dresses like you did? And where would he pick up an ego like yours? You were in one of those dumb bike gangs, weren't you, kid?"
That was it. Alvis didn't care what happened to him, he wasn't going to stand there and listen to this old creep rip him out for another minute. "Fuck you. And fuck this," he said. He was stepping off the box when he felt a pin push into the meat of his wrist. He yelped and whirled on Cilla, hands clenched into fists. "One more time, and I swear..." But the girl was just standing there, all round-eyed, her hands behind her back. The hell had she moved the pin?
Ravelstein laughed. Sure seemed like he was having a good time with all this. "I wouldn't mess with Cilla, kid. Girl's more trouble than she looks. And a fella could say the same about our Rude, here, so I wouldn't step out that door either."
Alvis looked over at Rude. Bald guy just nodded. He looked kind of pale, and his head was shiny with sweat.
"This is bullshit," Alvis spat, but he climbed onto the box again. Cilla pulled up a stool and set to work on his sleeves.
Ravelstein rubbed his hands together. "Okay. Okay. Where were we? Parents have kicked you out, you're down in the slums, you join a bike gang. What would you want to do that for, anyway?"
Alvis pressed his lips together, shook his head. He was determined to get this done without speaking another word.
"Come on, kid. Cilla here really wants to know."
He kept his eyes on the floorboards. They were a rich caramel colour, worn smooth.
"Well, seeing as how she's so curious, you mind if I tell her? You don't? Well, Cilla, people in the slums, they ain't got much. The gangsters ain't got much either, but they're good at pretending they do. To kids like Alvis, here, it looks like the gangsters are the ones with money, with girls. With power. They're like big families. You're all alone on the streets, of course you want to join up. Must have been nice for you, huh, kid? Feeling like people gave a damn about you, for once. You were what, the baby brother? Fetch the beers, take out the trash? Wow, Cilla. Four years of putting up with that, I'd have a temper like Alvis' too."
Finally, something Ravelstein didn't know. Alvis pushed his mouth into a smirk, straightened his shoulders and said, "After four years, I was their leader." Of course, he left out that he'd only been chief for two days.
The tailor tossed up his hands, pretending to be amazed. "Leader? Would you look at that, Cilla. Our Alvis is full of surprises. The meanest, dumbest thug of the bunch."
Alvis clenched his fists, his teeth. His body was wound so tight it felt like it would snap. He let his brain imagine unleashing all that tension on the tailor, knocking him to the ground, kicking at his head until he stopped moving. But the old guy fixed him with those sharp eyes, and Alvis felt like they cut right through his skull, saw what he was thinking. Even though he wore the suit, he felt kind of naked, ashamed.
"But if you were the chief," Ravelstein was saying, "why'd you have to come steal that Shinra bike yourself?"
Alvis shook his head.
"Any ideas, Cilla? No? I'm thinking young Alvis here hadn't been leader for long,and he had some proving to do. Stealing that bike must have seemed like a good way to impress people. Shame it didn't work out , huh, kid? You impressed the wrong sort of people. That's why you're here."
Cilla must have finished, because she stepped down from her stool and skipped over to stand beside Ravelstein. The two of them folded their arms and stared at Alvis.
He looked down at his body. The suit was slimmer now, hugged his limbs and chest closer. The white cuffs of his shirt poked out from the arms, and silver pin heads glinted like stars in the weave of the fabric.
"What do you think, kid?" Ravelstein asked. Finally, that smile had melted off his face.
"Looks good, I guess," Alvis said, stepping down from the box. Truth was, he didn't care what he looked like. He just wanted to get out of the shop, as far away as he could from these two creeps.
"How about you, Cilla? Think we got ourselves a Turk?"
The little girl shook her head. Alvis felt a stab of anger.
"No, I don't think so either," Ravelstein said. "I think what we're looking at here is a thug in a nice suit. It ain't the same thing."
"Fuck both of you," Alvis said, flicking a finger from one to the other. "I'm going to be the best damn Turk there ever was."
Ravelstein started laughing, an abrasive chuckle that grew more and more wild until he was bent double, slapping at his knee. Cilla was grinning.
Alvis could feel his face getting hot. He just wanted to punch something.
Ravelstein pulled himself upright again, brushing the tears from his eyes. He said, "Sorry, kid. I shouldn't laugh, it ain't nice. It's just...you? The best Turk ever? I already told you, you're no Turk. Just a thug in a suit."
Alvis spun around, looking for Rude. He was one of them, right? Veld had said so. Rude was standing in front of the door, arms folded, chin up. Was Alvis imagining it, or did he look kind of sick? Their eyes met and the bald guy shook his head.
Ravelstein said, "Up until Reno caught you, you'd never lost a fight, huh, kid?"
Alvis turned to face him. "Never," he said. He was proud of it, too. His undefeated reputation was what had convinced the Greasers to make him chief. For some reason he really wanted this old guy to know it.
Ravelstein said, "Figures. See, it's easy for a fella to think he's tough if he's never lost. And you think you're pretty tough, huh, kid?" He started advancing on Alvis.
"I am tough," Alvis said. The old guy came any closer, he'd show him just how tough.
That scratchy chuckle. "You ain't tough. Rude, there, is tough. Little Cilla is tough. You're just good at pretending. You've even fooled yourself."
Was the old guy right? Alvis thought about his brothers, the Greasers. Mas, Barger. He'd thought they were as strong as anyone, but they were both dead. Rude had killed six of the gang's toughest members without even breaking a sweat. Did that mean they weren't really tough? When you stripped away the leather, the patches, the loud bikes, the swagger, were they just pretending? It was all so damn confusing! His head spun, he was too hot, the shirt was choking him, he felt sick, the old man was right in his fucking face –
Before Alvis realised what he'd done, the knuckles on his right hand were warm with pain and Ravelstein was laid out on the floor. Then he felt really sick, and cold all over.
Rude crossed the room and helped the tailor to his feet, the big gloved hands that Alvis had watched kill six men handling the old guy like his bones were made of chalk. When he was up again, Ravelstein sneered, "Look at yourself. You're pathetic! Shoving old men around. What's next, you going to beat up Cilla here?"
Thing was, he'd actually thought about it, wanted to do it, only minutes ago. What was wrong with him? When had he stopped being able to tell right from wrong? He wanted to melt down right there into a puddle of grease on the floorboards. He grabbed at his hair, turned away so that he didn't have to look at them.
When he was a kid, maybe nine or ten, his parents had dragged him along on a vacation to Costa del Sol. One afternoon he was playing with the local kids, seeing who could swim out the farthest from the beach. He'd wanted to beat them all. He pointed to a lobster buoy bobbing way out in the blue, said he'd swim to it. They'd looked at him with awe dripping from their faces, and he drank it in great thirsty gulps. Then he started swimming. At first, he'd cut through the water like a fish. He imagined telling his parents, bringing them down to the beach and pointing to the buoy, how impressed they'd be. How his father might, just might, clap him on the back and say something like, Well done, son. But about halfway out he started getting tired. That buoy was still an awful long way off. He swam and swam and swam, but it didn't seem to get any closer. He started panicking. He thought about sharks, and sea monsters, and that part at the bottom of the ocean where there was no light. He kept swimming until his limbs were all floppy and he almost couldn't keep afloat, but the buoy was still just a pink dot on the horizon. Then a little wave had slapped him in the face, filled his mouth with salty water, and he'd realised: he was never going to get to the buoy. He couldn't get there. He just wasn't strong enough.
The hell was he thinking of that now? It took a second for it to dawn on him: he'd forgotten how failure felt. What it was like to lose.
"Turn around, kid," Ravelstein said.
Shit, couldn't they at least give him a minute to pull himself together? He made himself turn, face the stares of Rude, Ravelstein, Cilla. "I'm sorry," he told them, letting his hands flop at his sides. "I'm so, so sorry."
Ravelstein smiled, a different kind of smile this time, one that bared his jumbled up teeth and lacked that mocking flick at the corners. Alvis let his breath out. "It's nothing, kid. I've had plenty worse. But I hope you've learned from it."
What was he supposed to have learned? He'd figured out that beating up old men was wrong, but he doubted that was what Ravelstein meant. His confusion must have seeped through to his face, because the tailor said, "Being tough ain't everything, kid. You remember that."
"Thanks," Alvis said. "I will."
Ravelstein laughed, rubbed his hands together again. "Okay. Okay. What are you thinking, Cilla? 'Cause I'm thinking we might just have ourselves a Turk after all."
The little girl nodded her head. Alvis shot her a grin, and she bounced a smile right back at him. She didn't look so sick when she was smiling.
"Go climb out of that suit, kid. Try not to pull the pins out. We'll fix up your suits tonight, and you can come pick them up tomorrow."
"Suits? I get more than one?" Alvis asked.
"You trying to be funny? Course you do. You get five. Different fabrics."
He went back into the changing cubicle, eased himself out of the suit and pulled his old bikers clothes back on. They smelled awful, like motor oil and stale sweat. Why hadn't he noticed that before?
When he came out, Rude was back in the chair, but he wasn't sitting so stiff any more. There was colour in his face again.
Alvis dumped the suit into Ravelstein's arms. "Kid," the old guy said, "You got to learn to fold a pair of pants properly."
Alvis laughed and said, "Yeah." He sure had a lot to work on.
He must have looked sad, or something, because the tailor clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Look, kid. Here's how it is. I don't just make the suit fit the Turk. I try to make the Turk fit the suit. Not everyone who comes here fits. You walked on in like you were too big for it, and I thought to myself, I thought, 'Ravelstein, you got to make this guy drop a couple of sizes.' So I put up a mirror and taught you how to see yourself. 'Cause one you saw yourself, I knew, I knew you'd see that really, you ain't too big for it. That in fact, there's actually a lot of growing room in that suit for a fella like you. You get it?"
"I think so," Alvis said. Truth was, he didn't have a clue what the old guy was talking about. But it was something to think on.
"Okay," Ravelstein said. "Okay, kid. We better get to work. See you tomorrow."
Rude got to his feet and they said their goodbyes. Alvis was almost out the door before he remembered to spin around and say, "Thank you."
"Any time, kid," Ravelstein said. Then he shuffled off into the murky back of the store.
Alvis set off through the wastes with Rude again, this time at a more relaxed pace. Small clouds of dust puffed up under their feet, and their boots stamped imprints in the dirt. As they walked, Alvis said, "Hey, Rude. I've got a question for you."
The bald man shrugged and said, "Shoot."
"You guys been spying on me, or something?"
Rude chuckled, a noise like an engine springing to life. "You think we've got time for that?"
"Well, the hell did Ravelstein know all that about me? About my parents and shit."
"Guess he's just good at measuring people up. Guy grills all the rookies like that, though. He's kind of like the last test. Makes sure they're the right material, y'know?"
"What happens if he doesn't like them?"
Rude's mouth stayed shut. He craned his neck to gaze up at the underside of the plate.
Alvis wasn't about to give up. "What happens, man?"
"I-." He paused. The next sentence fell out of his mouth: "I would have taken you out back and shot you."
Alvis let his breath whistle out through his teeth. "Shit. You guys ain't kidding around." No wonder Rude had looked so nervous. Couldn't be fun, popping a bullet in the back of someone's skull. Killing them in a fight was different.
"This isn't a sports team. You already know too much."
They took a few steps in silence. Then Alvis laughed. "So you were wearing a gun," he said.
"I already told you."
"But where? Where are you hiding it?"
Rude just tapped the side of his nose with a finger, said, "You got a lot to learn, rookie."
"Alvis" is the name given to Rod (Male) in the production sketches for Last Order by Studio Madhouse (according to Final Fantasy Wiki). I really liked the name so I borrowed it to use here.
This is the first fic I've written featuring one of the Before Crisis Turks, so I'd be really grateful for feedback if anyone has time. Thanks for reading!