Wall Market after dark: nothing but glaring neon, incessant music, raucous laughter, and gil changing hands. Crowds of pleasure seekers milled below in various stages of intoxication. Excessively vibrant stalls promised the best deals on black market items costumed in shades of legality. Anyone seeking distraction in this disreputable corner of Sector 6 knew what they were getting into. It was the kind of fun one had while keeping a close eye on their wallet. And their back.
The atmosphere had dimmed somewhat of late. The plate incident in Sector 7 had catastrophically effected more than just one district of Midgar…and Sector 6 had been no exception. Debris had become just as much a part of the scenery as the lights and brothels. But the rats who inhabited this proverbial ship knew that as long as there were patrons, profit wasn't far behind. So, despite the chaos and the sudden absence of the wantonly infamous Don Corneo, Wall Market carried on.
It never ceased to amaze Reno what people did when they thought no one was paying attention. From his balcony vantage point, he was privy to all sorts of inane nonsense below. A barkeep snuck a swig from a particularly pricey bottle before pouring a fifth into an unwitting patron's glass. Passersby blindly stepped over what was left of a dead cat without so much as a glance. A young couple in a side alley adjacent to his perch thought they were being discrete by taking their amorous exchange behind a well-lit stack of garbage cans.
Classy, he thought to himself, flicking ash lazily into the street below. A light breeze cooled the perspiration dappling his bare skin, teased his hair. Leaning forward on the railing, he took a long drag from a loosely rolled cigarette and sent it slowly back into the night. Idly, he watched as the smoke curled, thinned and disappeared. Stark shadows and blinding light alternated in automated patterns across his face as various signs blinked their reflections across his wan features. He'd only just returned to Midgar, but it was getting late. Or early. And the night was wearing off. He'd have to head back soon.
Shifting his weight, Reno stretched a knot out of his shoulder with a pained sigh. He'd nearly snapped his collarbone on his last assignment. Deep black and purple bruises mottled the point of impact, spreading out in lighter shades of green and blue along his neck. His bare back and chest sported an exotic variety of similar abrasions. They came with the territory. They meant he'd survived. And he was a quick healer. The headache blossoming behind his eyes, however, was the result of several generous nightcaps and too much of a good time.
He finished the last of his cigarette, smoke billowing from his nostrils as he tossed the butt into the street below. He ventured a parting glance at Wall Market's vibrant night life from his view above. The side street couple had picked up the pace, making the most of a wall at the back of the alley. The cat, a calico, was still dead. And the barkeep was no longer in sight.
Time to go.
Pushing aside the curtain doubling as a door, Reno slipped inside, padding barefoot into the room. It was dark—dimly lit by a single candled lantern on an ornate side table. The smell of sweat and cheap incense permeated the air. By memory, he edged around the bed…hoping to avoid any further interaction with its occupant. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but not before he'd snagged his foot on the leg of an armchair.
"Agh—shhhhit," he hissed in a whisper, stumbling backwards over his own discarded shoes. A form stirred in the bedsheets. Reno froze.
"Everything alright?" came a groggy voice from the mattress.
Shit.
"Yeah, fine," was the hasty reply.
"Leaving so soon?"
"I have work," Reno replied bluntly. There was a pause between them. Reno managed to find his wayward shoes in the semi-dark and took a seat in the offending armchair to put them on.
"Shame," decided the evening's conquest. "I was hoping for an encore performance."
"Yeah, well…" Eyes finally adjusting, Reno crossed to a dingy mirror propped against the wall and began gathering up his hair. "I gotta go."
Petty grumbling gradually became muffled as the bed's occupant rolled over and buried their words beneath the blankets. Reno ignored the semi-conscious protests behind him and took stock of his things. His shirt lay on the floor, his jacket tossed beside it. The finger gloves rested on the side table next to his phone. He felt his pockets: one Shinra ID card, a handful of gil. Where was…
Right.
Crossing over to the bed, Reno lifted the blankets and searched for the missing accessory. The symmetry of the sheets had been upset by the night's events; bunched and askew. Wading through them without waking the sleeper was going to be impossible. Sure enough…
"What is it?"
Reno sighed. "The eyewear."
"The…oh, yeah."
Fumbling hands groped around in the mess of blankets, finally producing the requested goggles. Just as Reno reached for them, his one-night stand pulled them back.
"You're sure you have to rush off?"
"You're drunk."
"So?"
"So, I'm not anymore. Give 'em back."
Again, the goggles appeared. Reno snatched them before they could escape again. He turned, gathered his shirt from the floor. Tugged it on. Slung his jacket over his shoulder.
"Do I at least get a name?" Reno collected his phone, pulled on his gloves. Then came the jacket. The eyewear returned to their signature spot atop his brow line. He was back in uniform. "Well?"
For the last time, he made his way to the bed. His tied-off hair slipped over his shoulder as he leaned in close. A moment passed between them, one a question, the other a tacit dismissal. Gloved fingers smoothed a tender line along the shadow-cast face. Without a smile, he kissed the lips he'd forget by the end of the week.
"No."
The door made no sound as he closed it behind him.
Back in the street, the Turk slipped down a little-known back path and hopped a broken fence at the end of the line. With nothing but the darkness and the now distant murmur of Wall Market behind him, reality slowly crept back in. He was sore—the kind of sore that made him question the merits of being upright. His head throbbed dully; his mouth tasted burnt. His tongue felt thick and numb, but all he wanted was another cigarette. He hadn't taken stock since rolling back into Midgar several hours prior.
Tired. That was the common denominator.
Dog tired, beat to hell, used and a user.
That was Reno.
With Tseng out chasing a lead on Sephiroth, Reno had known going into Wall Market that his window of opportunity to blow off some steam was limited. The plan had been to spend a few hours not working, not thinking. He hadn't even filled in his partner-in-crime, Rude, of his whereabouts. He wanted distance, wanted to shed the routine. Wanted a drink. A stranger.
Now, all he wanted was sleep.
The farther he got from the bustling remains of Sector 6, the clearer his head became. He had a laundry list of things on his docket, one that grew with each new lead that came in. Sephiroth, the First-Class turned psychopath, was out there somewhere looking to start something. Clones had begun popping up in the most inconvenient droves. Avalanche was out there doing…whatever it was they were doing. Pretending to be holier than thou about blowing up reactors.
Something flipped in his stomach and he missed a step, skidding down an incline with a string of expletives. He grabbed hold of what was left of a shattered concrete barrier post before gravity drove him to the ground. Adrenaline surging, he winced, putting a hand to his stomach. Maybe it was his blood alcohol level, maybe it was the empty stomach he'd started with. Whatever the case, it took Reno several agonizing minutes to prevent the night's festivities from coloring the pavement.
"…The hell," he complained to no one, trying to keep his breathing steady. The liquor might have been cheap, but he'd paid gil for it. He was not about to lose it for no damn good reason. Scowling against the nausea, Reno gathered his resolve and started walking, perplexed by the rebellion in his gut. Known for his practiced tolerance to strong drink, he couldn't fathom why his body had decided that tonight was the night to be contrary. Seeking distraction from the roiling inside him, he set his sights on his surroundings. It never hurt to be aware, especially in the dark.
The suit, for all intents and purposes, meant business. Turks could be spotted in a crowd by their attire…and Reno's bright red hair and tattoos made him starkly more memorable. He liked it that way—he'd cultivated a reputation for a fuck-all attitude and ruthless energy that had the average rival scattering without a fight. Getting his hands dirty was practically his job description; he'd made Second in the Turks' rank for good reason. Torture, investigation, surveillance, assassination, detonation: anything the Company needed, he handled without question…and often with a fair amount of flash. It was no surprise to him that those he passed gave him a wide berth.
Tapping into years of suspicion and training, Reno casually assessed each individual as they wandered along his path. Most of them were harmless civilians going about their business. Workers. Guards. A few infantrymen. The latter snapped to attention with a resounding "Sir!" as he passed—which the Turk brushed off with a half-assed "Yeah, yeah."
Infantrymen. Good for one thing and one thing only: taking bullets.
As the Sectors began shifting from 6 to 7, the sense of devastation became palpable. Riddled remains of broken buildings loomed in the distance. Sparking wires and leaking pipes made venturing into the wreckage a biohazard. A candle-lit collection of small stones lined with flowers and trinkets caught his eye. Civies milled about the structure even in the dark. Kneeling. Whispering. Holding one another. He stopped short, frowned.
A memorial.
A fresh wave of nausea swept over him, overwhelming his senses just as suddenly as the first. What the hell…? It had to be the headache. They did a number on his stomach from time to time. Tasting bile, heart racing, a bolt of foreboding rose in him and he turned away, the back of his hand firmly planted to his mouth.
Nope, he told himself. Not gonna happen.
He had to keep moving; that was all there was to it. Had to get back to Shinra to get checked out. Booze, headache, poison—there had to be a reason why his insides wanted outside. But whatever it was, it wasn't good. He'd scrubbed brains off his hands on more than one occasion. Having an unruly stomach didn't suit him.
It was all Reno could do to stumble back to Shinra HQ without doubling over. His heart pounded in his chest and ears as he made his way through various security checks on the ground floor. Boarding the nearest elevator—empty, thankfully—he fell back into the corner for support and ran a hand down his haggard face.
"The fuck is wrong with you?" he mumbled testily to himself. He slammed his fist into the wall beside him, pent up adrenaline surging. The shuddering, lilting pull of the lift did nothing to calm the relentlessly ill feeling he'd been fighting. His jaw clenched as he shut his eyes to the unpleasant sensation.
Come on—I don't have time for this.
He wasn't going to make it, not if the elevator didn't get a move on. B3…he had to get to B3 and he'd be good. He'd shake it off, down some water. Go to bed. Call it a night. If he still felt like shit in the morning, he'd get looked at. Having a game plan eased some of the tension from his shoulders. He'd be alright. There wasn't anything really wrong with him. He just didn't get sick very often and he didn't want to make a habit of it. That was it.
The elevator finally glided to a stop and the doors slid open. It took Reno a second to peel himself out of the corner, but he managed. Crossing his arms to hold himself erect, eyes stubbornly forward, he slipped past the small gathering of employees hoping to catch a ride to the surface. He just had to get to the restroom; someplace quiet. With water. And no one.
A hand on his shoulder cut his exit short.
Rude.
Reno hadn't seen his partner emerge from the group at the elevator. The guy had been right there…hadn't he? Thinking back, Reno remembered a pair of shades out of the corner of his eye but hadn't shown the presence of mind to put two and two together. Tasting bile once more, he cleared his throat.
"Later," he stammered hastily, brushing the hand aside and heading off down the corridor. He could hear Rude following but didn't have time to berate him.
"You look like you're about to—."
"I am. Beat it."
The footsteps behind Reno stopped abruptly. The women's restroom was just ahead. It would have to do. Careening inside, he had a half-second to be grateful that the stall doors were open and he didn't have an audience before slamming the first one open and losing the uphill battle with his stomach. It didn't take long to empty the evening's contents into the porcelain throne. As the upheaval began to subside, Reno slumped back against the stall wall, drained. He didn't feel much better. The world still didn't seem to be sitting right on its axis, but with a clearer head he began putting the 'why' together…and he wasn't happy with what he found. He wasn't poisoned. He wasn't sick.
He'd gotten himself drunk and let himself think.
"Why the fuck did I go and do that?" Reno asked the toilet paper roll across from him, his voice thin and hoarse. He spit the sour from his mouth and let his head loll back against the metal stall. Shut his eyes. Took in a sincerely needed deep breath and let it out slow.
You're just tired, he told himself. That vacation wasn't long enough.
The bathroom door opened with a hiss.
"Occupied," Reno grunted from his seat on the floor. A shadow stood in the entry to the open stall. Reno didn't need a second glance to know whose shoes he was looking at. With a sigh, he pushed himself shakily to his feet, spitting the taste from his mouth once more.
"Here." Rude passed a mug full of water into Reno's hands. Clearly, it had been the first cup Rude spotted and Reno was almost 100% sure it was Elena's. He took it without argument, downing a few mouthfuls…pausing to see how it sat in his gut. He grimaced when his stomach lurched in protest, but he managed to keep a lid on his queasiness.
"So, you heard," Rude said evenly. Something about his tone sent up a red flag in Reno's trained mind. What was left of his stomach sank.
"Heard what?" Reno asked gruffly, attempting a second go at the water.
Rude said nothing. Behind his shades, Reno could tell the guy was looking decidedly away.
"Heard what?" Reno repeated. "What am I supposed to know?"
Rude's jaw tensed.
"It's Tseng."
What now? Reno's pulse pounded in his ears once more. "What about him?"
Rude's hidden gaze fell.
"He's dead."