Chapter Fourteen - The Don's Turf
It's the whispers trickling down from the upper plates that first alert me that something huge is happening with Shinra. At first, as I walk down the scrap metal littered excuse for a street en route to the closest train station in hopes of catching any sign of where Cloud might have gone, I ignore it. Slum chatter rarely offers up anything of interest and down here, half of it is drunk ramblings anyway.
But the group of slum children gathered around a piece of soiled newspaper that must have fallen through the drainage bars from the upper plate catches my eye and warrants a closer look.
Call it Turk intuition.
The children don't seem to care much about the paper though, instead, harassing tin cans with metal pipes in a sort of twisted game. Their dirty little feet circle the mud puddles, each one taking their turn swatting at the can until they eventually grow bored and hurry off to start a new game with some other piece of rusted trash while the adults no doubt scavenge the scrap yard for anything of use to make their living.
When the children are a safe distance away and well into their next game, I stalk closer to the paper. It floats in the murky water, useless to anyone who may have already tried to read it because the print runs together and the letters are just barely legible. I've deciphered worst while doing paperwork throughout the years though so it's worth a try. Retrieving it with one practiced movement, I scan the headlines—and feel the rage in my blood building.
Scarlet and Heidegger have overstepped their boundaries, big time.
I toss the paper back into the puddle with a withering glance and step into the shadows as several more citizens of this particular area appear, chatting about life and work in their slum jargon. Looks like I better get comfortable with this way of life. Returning to Shinra is not going to be an option after all.
I can only imagine what Tseng is thinking this morning about how Weapons Research and the Military twisted this to make themselves look like glorified heroes in all of this. One of his Turks, the suspected murderer of SOLDIER First Class Zackary Fair, a person of interest in the disappearance of infantryman, Cloud Strife, and also accused of attempted murder of two of my fellow Turks. And to add bitter salt to the raw wounds? Not only am I a dangerous murderer and kidnapper, but if that paper is to be believed, I was killed in action trying to flee from the scene of the crime like a coward.
Funny, I don't remember killing or even trying to kill any of them, and I remember everyone I've killed over the years. It's what makes me so damn good at my job. I also don't remember dying last night. I came damn close. Far too damn close but thanks to that same missing infantryman I supposedly kidnapped and killed, I'm still here.
And that is a big problem.
Never mind the fact that they're using me as a scapegoat to cover up the fact that they dealt away with everyone who could possibly expose their little three ring circus of scientific politics. But now they need to deal away with me and make certain I'm actually dead, because, quite frankly, having someone with my security clearance, computer hacking skills, and knowledge of Shinra could pose one hell of a nightmare for them should I ever feel 'compelled' to be pissed off about this whole ordeal.
I snarl at the piece of paper. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but slaughtering a dear friend with a battalion of butchers and then shooting me out of the sky with a missile in an attempt to kill me are not recommended ways to get on my good side. The only good thing about this is they didn't include a photo along with the article.
Even though I fly pretty low under the radar on a normal day with what I do for a living, I need to find a way to buy some time and get the hell out of here before anyone I know actually does recognize me. And Cloud. I need to find Cloud before Shinra does.
I set off into the shadows, headed for Sector Six.
Wall Market is the only place in the slums where you can enter as one person and leave as another, making it an ideal haven for criminals. I don't expect it to offer up a perfect solution, but it will have to do until I can figure something else out.
Bright lights and neon signs cast the crowded area in a sleazy glow. Men drunk on lust scour the area for anything overlooked and in a sense, easy to catch for their darkest desires. This is Don Corneo's turf and when he plays the field, anything so long as it is female, or looks remotely female is fair game for the conquest.
A chill wind creeps through the area from somewhere to my left. The last time I was here on a mission that involved retrieving a computer component to aid in an investigation, Tseng and Rude accompanied me. Never before had I seen a mild mannered, usually subtle man like Tseng carry a gun in plain view the entire time we were here. He even fired it a few times at one of the more lecherous men who dared to step within ten feet of our little group. The saying was, that you do whatever you have to do to survive in a place like this, regardless of who gets killed.
And the people here live by that unwritten law.
I trade my ruined blazer for a muddy woolen cloak and discard my tie for a decent scrap of cloth to keep my unkempt hair out of my eyes. With all of the dust and shadows of the slums as well as the soot from the crash, whatever shade of auburn my hair was when I was with Shinra, is probably not even close now. With a little bit of luck, I'll be able to pass for a regular down here for the time being.
Now, if only I can secure some sort of weapon. Seeing as mine was either left behind at the crash site or pawned by Walter, much to my brewing anger, I guess I'll see what weapons might be available in this region. The worst I could do would be to end up using a random scrap pipe in battle.
Fortunately, I remember being warned about that damn overactive and oversensitive machine gun in the area of the one item store and head for the rough excuse for a flea market stall, where some guy named Butch is selling whatever he found lying around or more so cheated out of his customers.
I stop to browse, uncertain of what junk weapon I can find suitable enough for me to use.
Metal sword. No. Pistol. There's potential, but it's highly unlikely I would be able to find proper ammo for it, if it's even functional. Nun chucks. Oh hell no. Spear. What kind of person carries a spear through town? An umbrella shanghaied from Costa del Sol…I might have laughed at the prospect of it being a suitable weapon but Zack blew that whole theory when he managed to beat off a bunch of frogmen that day.
The frustration imminent that I'm not going to find much and will have to settle for the pistol, I keep looking, my instincts telling me to do so. After several seconds of fruitless browsing, I see something of interest. A mud-caked, 4-point steel and titanium shuriken. That mark in the metal looks familiar near the edge too.
I inspect it a little closer, swiping my thumb over the mud to reveal the crimson and silver underneath. Yeah, it met the Buster Sword all right. And it doesn't take long for mud to accumulate when it is drenched in water and just left like that. The fact that it was custom forged and my initials, the real ones, are engraved in elaborate Wutainese script under its own name confirms it. This is definitely my Rekka. Looks like Walter pawned it after all. It's kind of creepy in a way, but damn it, I want my weapon back.
"How much for the shuriken?"
The man raises an eyebrow at my inquiry and picks the weapon up. "You know what in the hell this thing is?"
I've only used one, that one, for most of my career with the Turks. If I don't know what my weapon is called by now, I'm the one who should be behind that table fleecing people with my ignorance.
"It's supposed to be a cursed throwing weapon for ranged attacks, but this rust here brings down the accuracy and value." Of course, I probably could have told him it was a can opener for Holy's sake and he would have believed it since that's not rust, it's mud from the wastelands.
At the mention of it being cursed, he seems to sweat a bit. "Er, cursed you say? Just how cursed?"
Finally, an opportunity to be creative and test out my new persona.
I lean my elbow against the table with a serious look. "Between you and me, I heard that this particular weapon houses the spirit of a person who betrayed Shinra. A former employee for that fact, and well, the rumor running through the ranks is that this weapon was a part of the deaths of three powerful SOLDIERs and their spirits are out to slay whoever owns it. It couldn't even be melted down it's that cursed."
"You're kidding."
"Tell that to the last owner of this weapon. See this red on the edges?" I point out the crimson inlaid into the steel to prove my point. "This is supposedly the blood of everyone who owned this weapon since the person who slew the SOLDIERs."
"Holy, this weapon is cursed!"
I turn to walk away, but he stops me. "How much you willing to offer for it?"
Just what I wanted to hear. "How about 25 gil and I'll take it off your hands?"
"Good enough. Just get it the hell out of here before those SOLDIERs shows up. Bad for business if word gets around about curses."
"Pleasure doing business with you," I take my weapon back and move on, not about to spend too much time in this area. The only thing I intend to keep from my old life as Cissnei of the Turks is my shuriken and even though my right hand hurts like hell and throwing it will be difficult for a while, I can still use it as a shield if need be. It's something familiar. Something I need to survive out here.
And as I set foot at an intersection and hear the footsteps behind me, I'm glad I took the time to secure a weapon.
"Well, well, well. Look what the chimera dragged in." A squat man with dusty brown hair and mud staining his loose clothing steps into my path from behind one of the piles of rubble.
The slight disturbance in the air to my left alerts me of a second man—a tall, muscular brawler. The ever-so-slight click from behind tells me more than I care to know about the third.
The thugs circle with sinister intent in their eyes. Two sets of grimy hands draw switchblades, the third clicks the safety off of a pistol. I casually grasp the shuriken and bite back a hiss of discomfort, watching my foes' movements out of the corner of my eyes. Practiced criminals no doubt. Bet they've never tangled with a pedigree watchdog before though.
"Heh, a helpless little girl, all alone in this section of town. The Don would pay a nice amount for this little filly." The squat one steps closer, but I take a half step away. He stops and smirks, showing his tobacco stained teeth. "Feisty and young too. Just how he likes them."
"You're right," the tall brawler flips the switchblade around in his hand. "This is your lucky day, girl. You're about to gain some status in this place and with some luck, we'll get our turn first for bringing you in."
"So why don't you be nice and quiet and come with us," the one with the pistol edges closer.
"I'm really not interested," my words are cold, hardly intimidated by the subtle threat of a weapon.
"Grab her," the man with the dusty brown hair says.
Without thinking twice, the taller man to my left lunges forward, switchblade slipping through the air. I'm quicker, ducking and jabbing my elbow into his sternum and bringing my knee against his stomach. He goes down without much of a fight, leaving the remaining two thoroughly pissed off and advancing closer.
I hardly consider myself a helpless little girl. Do not ever call me one again. My hand throbs as I whip the shuriken at the man with the pistol and lunge for the squat man with the switchblade. Before the gun can go off, Rekka tears the weapon from my assailant's hand, and sends it skittering out of range.
"Damn little bitch!" The switchblade swishes over my shoulder, a little too close for comfort.
I swing my left leg against his and wrench the arm with the knife back enough to dislocate his shoulder, listening to him yelp in surprise as he falls to the ground. This is not a good day to piss me off, boys. Not a good day at all. He doesn't get back up as I look to the last man.
Go ahead, make my day, my amber eyes bore into his, making him blink.
The man once wielding the pistol stares at me with uncertainty, clutching his bleeding hand, and somewhat in shock at his companions' demises. As I take one limping step closer to retrieve my shuriken, he turns and flees. Soon, the others follow.
There is a glimpse of someone standing in the shadows, putting me on edge.
For a moment, the rounder, shorter man in the red suspenders, beige shirt, and bandanna studies me, as though I am some sort of livestock still up for auction. But something seems different about this one. He doesn't seem to be a part of the Don's entourage.
As the sound of what could be more of the Don's men headed in this direction rattles the area, no doubt drawn by the demise of three of them already, he steps forward, undeterred by the shuriken and grasps me by the wrist. I instinctively move to make him think twice about that, but he gestures in the direction the men fled and drags me into the shadows of the alleyway in the opposite direction, a confident look about him that doesn't seem all that threatening
"You have got to come with me right now."