"So where are you taking me?"
Tseng glanced at her, pausing in the act of dialing someone on his PHS. He seemed to be a busy man, this Turk. Cristobel made herself meet his glance without flinching or frowning, striving to be as dispassionate as he was. She wanted answers.
He pushed the dial button and put the PHS to his ear, but he did reply. "The Sector Six slums."
"The wha – uh . . ." She caught herself in time. "Somebody in the slums will be able to pay a debt my father couldn't?"
"Yes," Tseng said, but he was talking into his PHS. "Five minutes."
"So, how much is a human life worth, anyway?" she grumbled.
With a graceful flick of his wrist, he closed the PHS and replaced it in his pocket. "It depends on who owns the life," he said, which made her blush. He had sharp ears, too.
But she wasn't finished yet. "Who is Don Corneo?"
A shadow crossed over his face, and she stared at him, appalled. Had that been a smile?
"He is a famous dilettante," he told her.
"Isn't that a lover of the arts? Or a superficial one?" She frowned.
It definitely was a smile. "Correct."
"I don't get it. I'm not an artist, I'm a cheerleader."
"We're here," he said, sitting forward.
Cristobel looked up at the gray, graffitied train station. The trains ran through all eight sectors topside, but they also spiraled down the central corridor of Midgar to the slum stations far below the raised plates of the city. There was real dirt down there, instead of the topsoil layered above the metal plate, but grass and trees didn't grow anywhere in Midgar, not anymore. She had never taken one of the lower trains, not even on a dare from her friends; she'd heard about the kind of people that rode them. Stinking bums that slept in the cars, and leather-and-chain gangs who tagged everything in sight, and terrorists. She supposed with a Turk, she'd be safe enough.
After the militiamen let them out of the car, Cristobel slung her backpack over her shoulder and headed for the station entrance.
Tseng grasped her arm. "Not that way."
He dragged her at a quick trot across the car-filled parking lot, and then through a fence at the far end. There, gleaming black in the weak sunlight like a giant winged beetle, a helicopter pointed its snub nose at them. The rotors sliced the air with a steady, deafening thwump-thwump-thwump.
Cristobel's school uniform flapped in the generated wind, her necktie slapping her in the face, her pleated skirt threatening to expose her panties to the world. Busy holding the skirt down, she stumbled along, the Turk's bruising grip on her arm giving her no choice. Her backpack banged painfully against her butt. Tseng swung her around and shoved her toward the open cargo doors – the helicopter was huge – yelling over the noise, "Get in!"
Well, he was going to get an eyeful of her underwear, then. Too bad. As quickly as she could, Cristobel scrambled inside and then jumped forward. She could tell when the door closed because the sudden decrease in sound (loud, but no longer deafening) made her ears pop. Tseng pushed her roughly into a seat and took his own, slipping a pair of headphones over his head, snapping orders at the pretty blonde woman in the pilot's seat through the microphone. She, too, wore an immaculate blue suit.
Then the helicopter lifted, deserting Cristobel's already-iffy stomach on the tarmac. She screamed. She'd never been too fond of carnival rides or elevators, or anything that left the ground. Clutching her backpack, she cringed in her seat and watched the train station drop away.
Matt would love to be here right now. He was such a maniac for things that went fast and took him with them. He would flip to hear she was in a helicopter.
Matt. Oh, God. Big, tough Matt, with his short blond hair and brown eyes, his perfect, playful grin. They'd been dating since last summer. What was going to happen to them now?
Well, one thing was for sure. Cristobel couldn't let Matt hear about what had happened from her parents.
She sneaked a peek at the Turks. Neither one of them was paying attention to her. She yanked open the flap of her backpack and began rooting through it. No schoolbooks; that wasn't a surprise. Extra clothes, her sneakers and sweats, a cosmetics bag, shampoo and soap, her wallet – any money in there? Of course not. Nice one, Mom.
Her fingers dipped into the side pockets, her search becoming frantic. A few pens and pencils, a calculator, her lunch card, a pack of gum, a crumpled physics test . . . All the detritus of high school wedged in forgotten corners, which she sorted through in disgust and increasing alarm. Her knotted earbud wires caused her heart to leap in hope, but her phone – her phone wasn't there.
Cristobel flung the earbuds to the helicopter's flooring and burst into angry tears.
By the time the helicopter lightly touched down again, she had regained control of herself. She stared out the front window, taking in what looked like a junkyard and a trash heap all in one. When Tseng handed her down to the lady Turk, she tapped her foot disbelievingly on the ground.
There was dirt, all right. For God sakes, nothing was paved down here. And the smell – the air was foul. Polluted. No wonder Shin-Ra Inc. had constructed the plates and raised the city out of this mess. She tipped her head back. The sky had become one big, sooty smear: the underside of the Sector Six plate.
Tseng hopped down and dispassionately scrutinized Cristobel. Her hair. Her face. Her body. She glared at him, refusing to be cowed.
"Ananda," he said to the other Turk, "get her cleaned up. Corneo won't want to see her looking like that. And make it quick. We need to be back at headquarters by five."
"Yes, sir."
