Author's note: Guess who's back? And not before time. Sorry. This would've been up about a week ago if I hadn't lapsed into a sudden OMG I SUCK phase. As a result, this chapter will probably be subject to some serious revision. It didn't end where I wanted it to, it turned into a dreaded linking affair, I'm terrified I'm now dragging things out... you name it. But I told myself I wouldn't improve if I just sat and stared blankly at the computer screen, so I decided to upload and let you all have at it.
So, please, what I'm asking is, don't stroke my ego. If something's not up to par - and I know something isn't, I just haven't quite put my finger on it yet - tell me and I'll do what I can to fix it. Because you all rock, your feedback and encouragement have completely blown me away, and you deserve a good read. I promise things will get better in the next chapter.
Sorry for whining. I'll shut up now.
Chapter 3
Watching people was one of those quiet, private things that Rude did. Whether it was something he'd always done, or whether it was a by-product of his training, he wasn't sure, only that he'd only become aware of it after he'd become a Turk. After all, how many times had he sat in a bar like this one, in a dim corner like this one, watching the comings and goings of those around him in an effort to scope out a particular target or a source of trouble? Even if he was off-duty, it was a sort of pastime for him: watching, and wondering.
Wondering, for example, just what the hell he was going to do next. He could hardly go around interrogating and shooting every shopkeeper in Wall Market. One killing at this stage was acceptable, he reasoned, as it would help to throw the Mako thief off-balance, possibly even lead to smoking him out. But the last thing he wanted was to cause a sensation which would result in the thief slinking back into the shadows before Shinra had even had a crack at him.
So, here he was, sitting in a dim corner of one of Wall Market's most popular bars with a bottle of cheap beer in front of him, watching the patrons and trying to tune out the noise from the jukebox in the opposite corner. While the sign outside billed the establishment as one of Wall Market's finest, it wouldn't even have passed for third-rate above the plate. Still, a bar was a bar, and naturally a hotspot for gossip, so he figured he might be in with a chance. It was simply a case of being unobtrusive, and keeping his eyes and ears open.
Granted, he wasn't expecting a gangly, red-haired teenager to wander in and shout, "Hey, you in the corner! I'm your man!" But he had no doubt that if he asked the right questions, made the right insinuations, then at least one person here should be able to come up with something. He had already subtly questioned th bartender on his stance on the Mako rates in the slums, wondering whether this so-called fine establishment was managing to keep its profits up because it was keeping its electricity money down, but had only received a blank look and a shrug for his efforts. He'd treated that with a healthy dose of cynicism - any Midgar resident he'd ever spoken to, whether above the plate or below it, had an opinion on Shinra one way or the other - but he'd decided to let it go for now and concentrate his attention on the customers themselves. Something would come floating to the surface. There was definitely something to be said for alcohol's ability to loosen tongues.
"Want me to top up your drink, sir?" The tentative voice of a barmaid cut across his thoughts.
He shook his head, not even bothering to look up. He was good at making one drink last him all evening. The barmaid went on her way. He folded his arms on the table and cast another glance around the overcrowded room. That was another advantage of wearing sunglasses: they could guess, but no one could ever really tell what you were looking at.
He felt a vibration against his thigh. Delving into his trouser pocket, he brought out his PHS, flipped it open and looked at the caller ID. Tseng. He put the phone to his ear.
"Rude."
"Rude, good day." Tseng's voice was instantly businesslike. "I don't want to interrupt your progress but your presence is required at the Honeybee Inn. We've just received a message from Don Corneo."
That made him sit up. "Related to the case?"
"Actually, no. Apparently there has been some sort of altercation at the Inn. Veld has ordered myself and some of the others to investigate, and I would like you there, too, to bolster our numbers. Would that be too much of an inconvenience to you at the moment?"
Hardly.
"No. I'm currently positioned in Wall Market myself."
"Good. Rendezvous outside the Honeybee Inn in thirty minutes. Thank you, Rude."
"Sir."
He ended the call and slipped the PHS back in his pocket. So much for sitting and observing. He finished his drink and glanced around again, saw nothing particularly suspicious, stood, then made his way to the door.
"Fuck, man, this has gotta be the worst day of my life ever." Jonsey kicked at a rusty can, hands shoved miserably in his pockets.
"No kiddin'," Reno agreed.
They had left Marty's shop in a hurry, after reviving Gregor and swiping the money from the till. Reno hadn't been able to shake off the feeling of deep unease that gnawed at him, but hadn't said anything to Jonsey or Gregor about it. Not that he'd had the opportunity to, anyway, for as soon as he was able to walk by himself, Gregor had stalked away on his own, saying he'd catch them later. Jonsey, meanwhile, had put Marty's death on the back-burner and had returned to fuming over VENDETTA, listing the gruesome deaths he'd like each and every member to suffer. Truth be told, Reno had almost forgotten about the fight, even though it hadn't happened more than two hours before. His mind was preoccupied on just one question:
What the hell went down in Marty's shop?
The killing didn't seem like the result of a regular spat. It was too... professional. An assassin, then? It wasn't impossible: assassins were as rife as whores in the slums, everyone knew that. The only problem was, Marty hadn't had any enemies that Reno knew of - and he would've known. The guy hadn't been involved with any gangs, or he and Jonsey would've found out. Fuck, they were the nearest things he'd had to gang connections.
Oh, God.
"Reno?" Jonsey's voice. "Hey, Reno, someone just cast a Stop spell on ya?"
He returned to reality with a nasty jerk. He hadn't even realised he'd stopped walking. He felt stunned, and shaken.
What if that was why Marty had been killed? What if someone had found out about his dealings with PHANTOM?
Someone meaning VENDETTA?
He'd heard from Hark once that VENDETTA had originated in Sector Six. Was that it? He'd seen members of the gang talking with Kotch and Skotch, Don Corneo's lackeys, before. Oh, fuck, was that it? Was Corneo worried that his influence over Wall Market might be slipping, and hired out thugs from one of the sector's "native" gangs to fix the problem?
Fuck.
"You sure you're okay, buddy?"
Reno growled. "I think I need a drink, yo."
"I know how y'feel, mate," Jonsey replied. He drew his hand from his pocket and jangled some change. "Shall we?"
Reno made sure there was a grin fixed securely on his face before answering. "Yeah, why the hell not? We got some petty cash burning holes in our pockets. Let's go get wasted. We've earned it, yo."
"I hear that."
They made a beeline for the booze joint opposite. It was one of the most popular in Wall Market, or so Clayton, the owner, said, and was frequented by all kinds of creeps. That was why the lights were always down, Reno thought, so you didn't have to look at them. Regardless, it was the joint he and Jonsey drank at every time they were in Sector Six and Clayton knew them well, being another one of their buyers. Which meant they could count on getting cheap drinks even cheaper there. And after the day he'd had, that was just the sort of thing Reno needed.
He led the way inside, pushing open the door and fighting his way through the strings of tacky plastic beads that had been hung up in a failed attempt to make the place look classy. At once, the stink of booze, cigarettes and other, less legal substances assaulted his nose, and he had to swat his way through the haze of smoke and fumes to reach the bar. On the way, he received a number of greetings and conspiratorial smirks from customers who were also Mako buyers, but he was in no mood to return any of them.
He elbowed his way through the throng propping the bar up and slammed a handful of gil on the counter. "Strongest thing you got, Clay." Then, an afterthought: "And make it a large one, yo."
The barkeep raised an eyebrow as he set a bottle down in front of him. "Rough day?"
"Can't get any worse," he grunted.
A slight laugh. "Yeah, I heard all about your little run-in at the Honeybee. They've been talking 'bout nothing else." He waved his hand towards the punters. "PHANTOM and VENDETTA, eh?"
Jonsey groaned loudly in reply. Reno only scowled and downed a mouthful of whatever Clayton had given him. He'd asked for the strongest drink they had and it looked like he'd gotten it. Seemed to be a mixture of cat piss and nitric acid. Still, the important thing was whether or not it sent him on a nice, long trip to oblivion, and he had the feeling he'd be there before too long.
"Word spreads like the flu round here, yo," he remarked humourlessly.
Clayton nodded mildly, pushing his thinning black hair out his eyes with a practised flick. Everything about the guy seemed mild, Reno thought, mild and casual, though he knew that in actuality, the barman was much tougher, and much more wily, than he looked. That was why Hark had decided to try selling Mako to him: he was customer who could be trusted to keep his trap shut.
Unease curled in Reno's belly. Hark had thought that about Marty, too.
A brief image of the shopkeeper, dead and crumpled behind his own counter, burned its way through his mind. Shaking his head to get rid of it, he took another drink. He looked up at Clayton's slightly-smiling face, and wondered whether or not he should warn him. Forewarned was forearmed and all that. But what if Clayton decided to back out? They'd lose another buyer, and he still didn't really know that Marty's death was because of his dealings with PHANTOM.
There was still a chance it wasn't. A chance.
"Result?"
Reno looked up, blinking. It took a second before the question sank in. "Hm? Oh, y'mean the fight, yo? We... we won... I guess." He saw Clayton open his mouth again and waved his hand quickly. "Look, man, mind if I don't talk about it? My head's buzzin' today, yo..."
The bartender raised a sardonic eyebrow. "You feelin' okay, kid? You usually crow about who you've beaten on." He leaned in to murmur, "After all, who wouldn't crow 'bout makin' Flint Malone bite dust? Gotta hand it to ya, Reno, you're good."
Reno scowled. He'd come in to drink and forget about everything that had happened. Not to have to sit and talk about it.
"Like I said," he said, "my head's buzzin'. Talk about something else, will ya?"
"What?"
"The fuck should I know?" He made an impatient gesture. "How's life? How many pints've you pulled today? What in fuck's name is that shit on the jukebox? Anythin', yo."
Anything to take his mind off VENDETTA. Or PHANTOM, for that matter.
Clayton grinned, looking between Reno and Jonsey. "Wow, you boys really ain't had a good day."
Reno took another long drink to emphasise that point.
"Well, then." The barkeep tilted his head, tapping his chin with one finger, miming pensiveness. Then he snapped his fingers. "Aha! Got it. You'll like this, Reno."
Reno only quirked an eyebrow. "Try me, yo."
"Okay, then. Get this. Before you two came in, just a while ago, there was a Turk in here."
Reno looked up, surprised. "What? A Turk-Turk, yo? A Shinra suit?"
"What other kinda Turk d'you get?" Clayton chuckled. "Told ya you'd like it."
Jonsey gave a short bark of laughter. "What've you done now, Clay?" he teased, prodding the barman's arm.
Clayton put on a voice of mock-innocence. "Me? I ain't done a thing! He just came in for a drink -" his voice dropped - "after asking me my opinion on the rise in Mako rates."
Reno found himself laughing, too, though he didn't even know why. "Friendly guy, yo?"
"Hardly," Clayton snorted. "Real quiet-like, y'know? Weird. Then again," he shrugged, "I've never met a Turk that wasn't."
"What was he like?" Reno asked eagerly. Yeah. This was good. Turks were good to talk about. They wore flashy suits, they looked cool, they kicked serious ass - they'd help take his mind off his godawful day.
Clayton shrugged. "Big guy. Quiet. Serious muscles - a real don't-fuck-about-with-me vibe, y'know, though he was polite enough. Interested in Mako prices."
"He would be," Jonsey said derisively. "They're probably beginning to take 'em out his nice, cushy salary."
Reno laughed. "Well, Clay," he said cheerfully, "least you won't have to worry 'bout Mako rates, not when we're..." - his heart skipped a beat - "when we're... sellin' it to ya... cheap - oh, shit!"
The realisation slammed into him like a two-ton weight. He was on his feet before he knew it, nearly sending his drink flying.
"The fuck's the matter with you today, Reno?" Jonsey demanded. "You're jumpy as a goddamn chocobo on speed! You were like that in the shop, too."
He couldn't believe Jonsey couldn't see it. "Don't you get it, yo? There's a goddamn Turk wandering around out there!" He tried to lower his voice, but for some reason his mouth seemed to have been disconnected from his brain. "A goddamn Turk askin' questions about Mako."
Comprehension dawned on Jonsey's face. Comprehension and panic. He paled. "Us!"
Reno groaned loudly into his hands. "Oh, fuck! I knew it! I fuckin' knew it, yo! Those posters in Sector Three... the Shinra've got the goddamn Turks after us!"
So much for his day not being able to get any worse. If he was right, Corneo had just got VENDETTA to take out their buyers - and now the fucking Turks were on the warpath. This sort of thing didn't happen even in his worst, drunken nightmares.
He looked up at Clayton wildly. "What happened to him? Where'd he go?"
Clayton shrugged, visibly alarmed by his reaction. "Dunno. He just sat in the corner for an hour or so, then he got a call on his PHS and left without a word."
"How long ago?" Reno could feel himself shifting his weight from foot to foot in anxiety.
A Turk, a fucking Turk...
"Not long. Practically just before you two came in." Clayton's tone suggested he was trying to reassure him, but he was barely registered it.
"No word? He didn't speak to anyone?"
"Nope."
Reno cursed under his breath. Jonsey got to his feet.
"We better get the hell outta here, Reno," he said quietly. "Don't want to be in Sector Six if there's Turks about. We should get back to Hark and -"
But Reno was shaking his head. "No. No, we gotta find out what the Turk's about first, yo. If he..." He swallowed. With difficulty. His throat was dry. Why was his throat so fucking dry? "If he really is after us. Who knows? It's not like we're the only punks in the slums. Could be... could be someone else, yo."
He tried to grin, but the muscles in his mouth just wouldn't do it.
"Well... where d'we start?" Jonsey asked.
Reno was just about to answer - "I dunno" - when a large man cut his way to the front of the bar and said loudly, "Yo, Clay, you'll never believe this! You heard about that fight at the Honeybee today, yeah? Well, Corneo's only gone and called the Turks in."
The bar started buzzing with conversation. Reno and Jonsey just stared at each other.
Turks... at the Honeybee? Reno's mind was working in overdrive. Why're the Turks bothering with that fight? Why would they care? Gang fights are ten a gil. Why would they...?
The Honeybee...
"Oh, shit!"
"What now?"
He groaned again. "Cassie... I told her 'bout the theatre up in Sector Three. If the Turks get wind of that while they're there, yo... they'll know... they'll - fuck!"
Without even waiting for Jonsey, he tore out of the bar.
Rude made straight for the Honeybee Inn. Tseng would want him to be there as soon as possible. Don Corneo was one of Shinra's most influential puppets in the slums, so it was in the company's interest to keep him sweet, even if that meant sending the odd Turk down whenever he contacted Veld with some pathetic quibble about money or manpower.
He reached the Honeybee Inn soon enough, managing to mask the look of distaste that always threatened to make its way onto his face whenever he saw the building. The lurid pink lights, the gaudy signs, the crowds of sweaty-palmed, testosterone-poisoned johns milling about outside... the Honeybee Inn was far from the top of his list of favourite spots in Midgar.
Tseng and the other Turks were already there. He saw the car as soon as he rounded the corner. The crowd had already dispersed considerably, as crowds tended to do when the Turks arrived somewhere. The doors to the building were wide open, two Turks - Leighton and Elizabeth - standing guard at either side. Tseng was standing by the car, speaking to the portly doorman, who was wringing his flabby hands in vexation. As he came closer, he saw Tseng nod, his expression neutral, then send the man on his way.
As soon as he was close enough, Tseng greeted him. "Ah, Rude, thank you. Both Veld and myself greatly appreciate this, especially considering how short-notice the request was."
"It was no trouble, sir," he replied dutifully. He was, after all, hardly on the edge of a breakthrough with his own assignment.
A touch of concern crossed Tseng's brow. "I take it progress has been minimal."
He nodded reluctantly.
"I suppose it should be expected," Tseng said evenly. "At this early stage, at least. Rest assured, Rude, both Veld and I have full faith in you."
"Thank you, sir." He turned to the Honeybee Inn. "What's the situation?"
Tseng followed his gaze towards the entrance of the building, where a glimpse of the brightly-coloured foyer was visible. Turning his attention back to Rude, he said, "Veld received a call today from Don Corneo. Apparently, members of two local gangs met each other in the foyer and - well, you can guess what happened next."
"Serious?"
"We didn't believe so at first, but as soon as we got down here we realised it was more significant that we originally thought. Nine gang members dead in total, as well as one of the resident prostitutes and a number of onlookers. An unfortunate incident, to be sure, but hardly one that we would really bother pursuing under normal circumstances."
"Normal circumstances?" What made this cirumstance abnormal?
"Yes. Normally, as you know, it's for us to pour the oil on troubled waters, assure Corneo that he has Shinra's full condolences and support and leave it at that. But when we reached the scene, we recognised one of the corpses immediately: Sander 'Flint' Malone. I trust you'll recognise that name."
Rude nodded, not even trying to stop his eyebrows raising. He could hear the subtle awe in Tseng's voice. Flint Malone. Yes, he had heard that name, and also met the man to whom it belonged, more than once. He had a substantial file in the Turks' database, having been involved in many... unsavoury incidents: drug-dealing, the murder of fairly prominent Shinra beneficiaries, criminal damage to Shinra property, as well as others that Rude couldn't be bothered remembering. But Malone had been pretty quiet for the last couple of years, keeping his head beneath the plate and sticking to the slums where he belonged, but Rude had still heard the name mentioned with a kind of dread-filled awe, and apparently in Sector Six Malone was considered as untouchable as Don Corneo himself.
And he had been killed in a gang fight in a brothel. It was so ironically ordinary.
"Do we know who the killer is?"
Tseng shook his head. "So far, no witnesses have been particularly forthcoming. I suppose we must presume it was a member of the opposing gang."
That posed a problem. "Do we even know which gang Malone was involved with, sir?"
"To be honest, Rude, I've lost track. A crack in the fortress, you might say, but he had almost completely disappeared off our radar. But imagine it." His dark eyes held a strange gleam, the only sure sign when Tseng was particularly interested or enthusiastic. "Killed in a brawl, Rude. When we knew him, the residents of this sector talked about him with more reverence than they did the President, and his prowess in battle was by no means mediocre. Whoever killed him must have been just as talented, if not more so."
Rude considered that. Certainly, getting the better of Flint Malone was no mean feat. Raw talent like that was rare. Even the great Sephiroth was only where he was because of rigorous training and Mako showering. Rude himself had spent months in the Shinra Military Training Academy before being offered a place in the Turks.
"If that talent could be supervised," he said slowly, "honed..."
Tseng nodded, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Let's just say that Veld has become very interested in this incident."
Rude was about to reply, when his senses suddenly alerted him to another presence, somewhere in the clutter of scrap metal opposite the brothel.
They were being watched.
"Reno!" Jonsey's voice, behind him. "Where're you going - wait up - Reno!"
At the sound of his voice, he forced himself to stop and wait, though his heart was hammering in his chest and panic had tightened in his throat. Jonsey's pace slowed as if he was intending to stop, but Reno shook his head.
"C'mon - can't stop, yo..."
A split second later, they were running again, Reno well in front, Jonsey lagging behind, taking every short-cut they knew. Reno barely noticed: he was too preoccupied with the thoughts slamming through his head. Thoughts of the Turks in the Honeybee Inn, sniffing around, asking questions. If one of them questioned Cassie, if she brought up their exchange about the theatre...
Why would she? a voice in the back of his mind reasoned. They're not there about Mako - they're there about the fight. Just stay the hell out the way.
But what if someone described him? The Shinra had his picture. The goons weren't that stupid that they couldn't put two and two together.
ohGodohGodohGodohGod... The same words pounded in his head each time his boots pounded on the tarmac.
He reached the corner that turned towards the Honeybee Inn before skidding to a halt. Probably not the best time to take the front entrance. He couldn't risk the Turks seeing him. Luckily, the area opposite the Honeybee was a dumping ground for old scrap metal. People complained about it time and time again, but they still found it useful when they needed some car parts or metal for patching up roofs or walls. There'd be enough cover in there somewhere to watch the goings-on without being seen.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jonsey demanded behind him.
He shrugged off the question and started clambering through the maze of rust and twisted metal, past corrugated iron, old shop signs, ancient weapons, through the bodies of old cars with relative ease. When he was nine, he'd slept in a similar junk heap for about five months, so he knew which ways to go, which ways to twist to avoid shrapnel, which bits and pieces could be used as shelter and which could be used as weapons. Having a small, bendy body was a plus, too. He could hear Jonsey behind him, following his lead but having more trouble because of his larger build.
He found an old rustbucket lying directly, and conveniently, opposite the entrance to the Honeybee. He was surprised for a moment that none of Wall Market's grease monkeys had picked it up yet, but then he decided he didn't really care. Gesturing to Jonsey, he got down on his haunches and peered through the empty windows.
There they were. The signature black car that he'd seen more than once above the plate, and a handful of figures in the easily-recognisable, dark-blue suits. Some were moving in and out of the building industriously, while two - a man and a woman - stood guard on either side of the open doors.
Jonsey shuffled a bit closer to the car. "Shit, they are here," he muttered.
Was it his imagination, or did Jonsey sound worried?
The two Turks on guard were looking around with raised chins and eyes that felt all-seeing, even at this distance. Reno instinctively got down as low as he could and continued to watch with a kind of morbid fascination. It was generally agreed in the slums that if the Turks turned up, you made yourself busy, and you sure as hell didn't watch them. You didn't want them to think you were taking too much interest in their affairs. That was basically asking to end up in a gutter with a bullet in the back of your neck.
So he'd heard, anyway. But it didn't stop him watching. The Turks fascinated him. Always had. No matter what folks like Hark or the dearly departed Flint Malone thought, those suits were the ones who really ruled the slums. They knew them better than the people who lived there. They were the ones who kicked ass and looked cool while they were doing it. They were the ones who stalked the shadows until they became a part of them. They were hypnotic - hypnotically deadly, and Reno just couldn't tear his damn eyes away.
One of the Turks, a tall Wutaian man with black hair tied back into a severe ponytail, was standing at the car, speaking to the piggy doorman, authority written into his straight back and stern mouth. He carried himself with quiet dignity, still and enigmatic as one of those statues from Wutai that Reno had seen in a picture once. He even had one of those dots in the middle of his forehead.
He watched as Dot-man dismissed the doorman. Just a moment later, another Turk came on the scene, from the main pathway that Reno had only just remembered to forgo. He was glad he had. He wouldn't want to be cornered by this guy. He was bigger than Dot-man: not just taller, but broader, too, and Reno seriously doubted any of it was fat. This suspicion was backed up not only by the leather fighting gloves the Turk wore, but also by the way he walked. Long strides, precise and just heavy enough, combining obvious strength with a kind of fluid elegance. This guy knew his shit. His head was bald, shaven most likely, as he didn't look that much older than Reno himself, his dark skin unmarred by wrinkles or scars. His face was clean-cut, the contours so hard they looked chiselled, and even more unreadable than the Wutaian man's, his expression further hidden by his dark sunglasses.
It was impossible not to be mesmerised.
"Fuck," Jonsey whispered beside him. "I wouldn't wanna get on his bad side."
Reno was only half-listening. He watched as Shades made his way over to Dot-man and they started talking. The bald Turk spoke sparingly, the Wutaian man making most of the running. Reno strained to hear the words but couldn't. There was the odd gesture, a grim look from Dot-man, a slow nod from Shades, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at Dot-man's lips...
What're they talking about? Impatience bit him. He wanted to get closer, to actually hear something - but any closer and he'd be out in the open. The most he could do was lean further into the empty body of the car.
That's when the bald Turk's body language suddenly changed. His spine stiffened, as if he'd just felt a chill. His mouth moved briefly. His dark-haired companion's high forehead furrowed, and -
Did he just imagine that, or did the man's eyes flicker over in their direction?
Jonsey was crawling backwards on his hands and feet. "Reno, man, I don't think we should outstay our welcome..."
But Reno didn't dare take his eyes away from the two Turks. They were talking again, mouths moving quickly, urgently. The Wutaian Turk gestured to the woman who was guarding the door and she went over to him. He spoke briefly to her. Her eyes slid over to their hiding place.
Reno's blood froze. In fact, his whole body froze. Logic and Jonsey were telling him to move, to run, to get the hell away - but he couldn't. His legs refused to move. He was completely frozen to the spot. Helpless, he could only look up.
The bald Turk and the girl were coming towards him.