Author's Note: Electro-candy -- I'll get the GIF to you later -- goes to Chocobo Goddess. I'm disappointed that there weren't more. That wasn't hard, was it, CG? Either that or people are just lazy bums who don't read the Author's Notes. By the way, if anyone runs an award system. . ._ I want one. . .! ( There's actually a car called a Cougar? Aw! Like I knew! )
Silver Rose
by Reno Spiegel
Dante@towernetwork.net
October 19, 3076
Morning. Guest Room. Aeris' Home. 7:56 A.M.
". . .Do not give patients sharp items." - Office Sign, Midgar Asylum
It feels good to wake up with a bed under me after a few days of sleeping in a dumpster and on a church pew. The bed is quite welcomed, but Elmyra's snoring reaches me even in here. Seems a lot closer than it should be. My eyes open and I look at the chair in the corner. She sits there with a shotgun across her lap, head tipped back and snorting noises coming with her inhaling. The door's still closed, so I assume she sneaked in late last night.
I creep from the bed, gun out of my pocket and into my hand, and stand directly infront of her, levelling the firearm between her eyes. Wrench! The shotgun falls into my other hand and she bolts awake, eyes flung wide and mouth moving in silent words. Sunlight beams in through the open window, accenting her fear. "Boo." She whimpers at just the one word. "Elmyra, why the hell does this look like you were going to shoot me while I slept?" I keep my voice low, making sure not to wake Aeris if she's still asleep or alert her if she walks by the room.
"I -- I -- I. . ." She gulps loudly, as a frightened bird in a Sunday morning cartoon might. "I was just w -- watching out for Aeris. . ." I'd never expect, after all the show she put on last night, I'd have her under my thumb like this. "Please. . .it was just once. . .to make sure you weren't like Tseng. . . Please, please don't shoot."
Aw, fuck it. "Sorry, Elmyra. Tseng did send me." I tense my arm. Pull the trigger.
. . .
. . .
Click.
Slowly, a sadistic smirk spreads over my lips and I chuckle softly, shaking my head and patting her on the shoulder. "Just fuckin' with ya, Elly. Tseng and I may both be callous bastards, but I'll never voluntarily work for him. Now, run along and make some breakfast, and we'll agree never to speak about this again, eh?" He hand her the shotgun back and shoo her out of the room, which she does while shivering violently. I follow her out; sleep is no longer an option.
We're lucky Aeris still seems to be asleep, because she would probably look at us oddly and get bad ideas. Elmyra hurries right over to the stove and I put the gun away, get the paper from the doorstep, then take a seat at the table as if I were one of the family. The Midgar Times claims that Miklen has no idea who might've shot the man in the alley two days ago. I'm not surprised; Miklen probably already knows it, and is just waiting for them to get impatient and then, 'suddenly' solve the case.
Miklen's an egotistical shit.
The kitchen stays silent for a few more minutes, before the ceiling rumbles lightly and Aeris bounds down the stairs like a child on a Saturday morning. Only she isn't screaming "Cartoonscartoons! Channelfourchannelfourchannelfour!" and spilling a box of cerial all over the floor in the process. She looks us over in turn, still with the groggy, why-the-hell-am-I-up look in her eyes, and blinks a few times at me. I wave it off. "Guess I didn't sleep in."
Elmyra's shoulders sink in relief and she goes back to the pancakes. I could've ratted her out. But I could just picture that.
"By the way, your mother tried to kill me."
"Did not!"
"Almost."
"Liar!"
"Bullshit."
"OUT!"
No, don't rat out bitchy old woman. I'll jot that down in the rulebook for this place later. The younger nods and smiles at me, then tosses open the curtains, squints even in the dim light, yawns, and runs back upstairs. Quite the show. "So, you two're Ancients?"
Crash. There goes that plate, in about fourteen pieces on a small run infront of the stove. She curses under her breath, slams her fist down, and gives me the dirty look from last night. "She is. I'm not. How much else did she tell you?"
I could say everything and get tossed out, but I'll stick with the truth, We've got a shooter out there, and I don't want to meet him. "Not much else. Just said I'd be able to crash here for a while, then when I got a place, I'd be out. So, don't mind me. I'll be gone before you know it." Unless you shoot me, then I think you might have a hunch I'm not around.
She snorts and goes to picking up the expensive-looking china. I help not. I go back to the crossword puzzle, taking Turner's pen out in the progress. Five-letter word for a non-fiction, informative form of writing. I hate these ones; I failed English three times.
Even when she slams a pancake down on the table, just above my paper, I'm still gnawing on my pen and wracking my brain. Biography. . .autobiography. . .interview. . . Aw, fuck it. I'm about three inches away from slamming the pen down.
"Essay."
My chair slides a few inches in each direction and I look up. I wonder how long the flower girl's been standing there? Too long and too silently are the only ones I can come up with. "You might make a good SOLDIER recruit." I jot in essay and look at the next one. 23 Down: Ten-letter, local band's name. Mako Dreams. Next, please. "Any interest in hand-to-hand combat?"
She smiles, pats my shoulder. "Maybe. We'll see what happens. See if this helps. . ." She plucks the pen away, uses my head as a kind of wall to lean over, and pens in about three different answers. She's still got the smile plastered on her face while my eye twitches and the pen lies restless on the newspaper.
"Or an instructor."
She giggles, says something about always doing these, and walks off to grab a plate. 31 Across: Referring to 23D, this band's first music video was for this song. Blacklist of Sins. Ask me anything about Mako Dreams and I'll have it. I'm surprised how family-like she's treating me. I mean, she literally picked me up from the streets, brought me in, and gave me a bed. Sure, Elmyra's being a bitch about it, but that's no the point. I don't think I've ever been treated like this. Father was a mean old bastard that was always too busy with his experiments, and I never knew my mother. It feels. . .oddly good, though a bit mushy. Like oatmeal. "Ever been over to the old asylum, Aeris?"
She's back at the table, sitting across from me and looking over what I have done. I'm still caught on 3 Across. How old is Robert ShinRa? Like I ever asked him that. She shakes her head and looks at me oddly. "I didn't even know there was one."
I nod and try 'forty'. It fits, but there's also fifty and sixty to think about. It'll all fall into place later. "I've got some business with 10638 over there today. If you don't have anything better to do. . ." I let it hang there. I'm really not in the mood to go and see this guy by myself. He sounds. . .well, dangerous. 5 Down: Large serpent that hangs around the outskirts. . . Zolom. Hm. I guess it was forty. He looks old as dirt.
Her eyes light up at the opportunity, like an old man who just got a new hearing aid. "I'd love to! Those poor people over there probably need someone to talk to anyway."
Elmyra jumps in. "I'm not so sure, Aeris. Those people over there are rumored to be quite dangerous." She grabs her daughter's sleeve and purposely lets me hear her mutter, "And I wouldn't trust his friends, if I were you."
"Mo - om!" She slams her foot down; this is turning ugly real quick. Whether Elmyra just thinks she can whip this, or doesn't kno Aeris' current temper, I don't know, but she's not moving an inch and I can't concentrate on 18 Across. "I told you! He's not like Tseng, he isn't a ShinRa anymore, and he's posing absolutely no threat to us!" She's not keeping her voice down, that's for sure. And Elmyra's looking a bit nervous. "Not to mention, HE'S MY FRIEND!"
The house settles into silence, Aeris shaking with rage and Elmyra's eyes are tearing up. I'm just sitting here, stunned, waiting for the fly on the table to take a dive into my coffee and force me to be the first one to get up and walk around. It flies off and lands on my ear; I use all self-control to stay still.
Elmyra wordlessly turns and walks over to the stove. I whack the bastard fly, who gives a frightened death buzz. He flips off my ear Olympic-style, corpse not as heavy as it should be, and lands directly in the cup of homemade syrup. A perfect, flying leap. If I nhad a '10' sign, I'd be holding it above my head while Aeris and Elmyra jumped around with pompoms. But no one else sees my insect friend, so I push him into the liquid with my fork and slide the cup toward the old bat's plate.
Life is good.
Aeris doesn't two-face on me. She keeps the dull burn in her eyes when she says we should head out now. I nod and stand, tucking the paper inside my jacket after I put it on and heading for the door.
"By the way, Elly." She jerks and spins around. She still thinks I'm going to blow her brains out the front of her skull every time she turns her back on me. It's not like the thought doesn't occur to me. "Great syrup."
I hear her break down the moment Aeris shuts the door, then her own shoulders sag and she lets out a huge sigh. "I'm really sorry about this, Sephiroth. We've just had a lot of trouble with the ShinRa, and she doesn't like to let things go so easily. The Turks have been after me for I don't know how long, and anyone from ontop of the Plate isn't trustworthy to her." We're aimed straight for the Cougar, seeing as how it would be quite the walk to the asylum.
"You don't seem to take after your mother," I state bluntly. It's still dark down here. We're bathed in the nothingness of all the shadows of the night. There could be a moose fifty feet away and we wouldn't suspect a thing until the headlights put a glow on it.
She gets into the car, then waits for me to get into the driver's seat and say something to turn it on before she replies to me. "She's not my real mom. Ifalna died at the train station when we left ShinRa. They're still out for me. They could take me in any time, but Tseng never does. Just waits until I decide I want to go with him. And, y'know, someday, maybe I will."
How touching. I tap a few buttons on the CD player, then just slam it with my fist to turn it off. She doesn't seem like someone who would be interested in hearing Kala, lead vocals of Mako Dreams, scream out about how fucked the world is turning. I agree with her veiws. I listen to her music. Bottom line. "If I were you, I wouldn't touch the Turks with a thirty-foot pole." I don't, even though I'm not her, but that's not the point.
The point is, the Turks are dangerous people, and if you cross them incorrectly, you've got some problems. Rude, the bald, built guy, will just follow you to the ends of the world, cut your jugular out, and push you off the edge. Tseng, the leader, will just try to deal nicely with you, but when you refuse many times over, he strikes like a viper. And then there's Reno. Tseng's dyed-red-headed, cocky, tough, asshole of a brother, Reno. He's the official, unwritten heir to the Turks, and has the 'I take NO shit from you!' reputation. Once after getting beaten in billiards, he stabbed the girl's eyes out with the pool stick and threw her in the dumpster outside. He was never charged; ShinRa can do whatever they please. Now he goes to anger management three days a week and has the best eyes in the company on him. These are the people who burn the houses and pin it on terrorists. These are the people who watch the city and only solve the problems threatening them.
These are the people who own you.
"I don't try to," she blurts out, almost too quickly. It's a sign she wants to go with them, her heart tells her to, but common sense tells her that no one will go along with it too well. I'm half-listening to her, the rest of me wracking myself and trying to remember how to get to the asylum while avoiding Hellion turf. I don't want her to die, and frankly, I don't want my ass kicked this morning. "Tseng's known me since I was real little, though. He's protective of me, so he won't pull me in. No one else knows, I don't think. I'm just worried about the --" I don't understand what she mutters here. "-- redhead finding out."
She knows them as well as I do. If Reno found out, Tseng would be bodybag material, and it doesn't matter how blood-related you may be in ShinRa. You cross someone, you die. "Tseng's trustworthy when it comes to secrets, Aeris." I know him personally. I like him just fine. And Reno can crack some good jokes, so he doesn't bother me. But Rude hit me. I don't forgive him. The best route to the asylum for how I want to go about it is through the tunnels. I'm headed there. "A lot of those ShinRa fucks aren't as bad as their rep makes 'em out to be." Then some are shitloads worse. "If the redhead ever comes around, just find me." I put fear into Reno. I don't know why, but he's quite freaked when I'm in the same room with him.
She nods. A few yawns and coughs are all that we exchange the rest of the way to the asylum, and even inside, we seem too scared to speak.
In the movies, they make it out to be a place with beds, nice rooms, and a visiting area fit for President ShinRa himself. A place where they put you in a white jacket to help you get better. Lies. Screams reveberate through the lobby, and bars, with cardkey activation, adorn every doorway and crossing in the halls. The receptionist keeps an automatic weapon in view and sits behind reinforced, bullet-proof glass. Whether this is Midgar, or the standards for all asylums, I don't know. Warning signs hang around the walls.
Sunlight doesn't have a prayer of getting inside. No windows, no cracks. Steel or padded walls. There isn't room for ten people in the lobby. I walk to the armed receptionist. "You're no stranger to the Rolan and Miklen firm up here, are you?"
She looks up from her paper and grins at me. "Turner told me somebody might be stopping in for him in the next few days. You him?"
I nod. Turner always plays it safe, while Miklen -- no one calls him by his first name, by the way -- is a jump-in guy. He'd run onto a Wutain minefield if it meant some publicity. I should've actually expected he'd go and do something like this. "10638. Heard a few stories and hoped he might be able to help me out on a dream I had a few days ago. Scared the shit outta me." And I'm not lying; I don't think it exactly screamed good fortune.
She waves it off. Other things to do, huh? An annoying beep sounds from a few alarms in the hallway when she taps a button behind her cell-like glass. She's safe. She likes it that was. "He said a guy'd be coming in. Not a guy and his girl."
Aeris shifts. Shit. I forgot she was even here for a second. I lay my head on the glass to get a better look at her. She's older than she sounds. Old veterans like this aren't the lenient type. She probably abides by all rules and doesn't let anyone fudge on a rule. She wouldn't take in an armless bum with rats gnawing his feet off if he couldn't pay rent. I turn to the flower girl and give her an apologetic look. "Sorry about this. . .she's not gonna let you in, though. . ." I leave it open for suggestions as a SOLDIER walks down the hallway. My escort.
She smiles. "That's alright. I'll wait out here until you get back."
She's going to sit here, alone, in a looney bin waiting room while I go talk to a psychic psycho. She's got some guts. I nod, pat her on the shoulder, and go with the uniformed security. Another one joins us in the hallway, and when I mention 10638, they've got two more there almost immediately. This guy must be a real crack. I enter his room while they go into another. Peeking inside, I see it's like the secret one off of an interrogation room, with a one-way mirror and headphones. And the real room looks like a police interrogation room, too. The ones they use when their suspects aren't killed when they find them. Who I assume is my quarry is handcuffed to two poles on the metal table, and shackled by the feet to the heavy wooden chair he's in. Silver, old-man hair shoots down his back in small rivers of color and his eyes are taped up so he can't see. He's already in the straight jacket for when they take him back. "10638?"
"Mark." I bite the insides of my cheeks as I take a seat to keep from laughing. Mark. What a name for a psychic serial killer. I would've expected something long and foreign; kind of like mine. "Lemme guess by yer voice. Younger kid, pretty dark mood, into a lotta the new music scene. Watch sparin' television, and when 'e does, it's the news to see what's goin' on up at ShinRa. Works at a fast-food place n' drives his dad's ol' piece of shit car. Had a dilemma a few days ago n' somebody recommended the old psycho 'n the nuthouse to 'im. Unhappily married with two kids. How's my aim?"
How many times can I hear that in forty-eight hours? "About two-thirds correct." He curses under his breath and snaps his fingers, saying something about his first guess being me a virgin. Incorrect, too, but I won't waste time. The SOLDIERS in the back are probably already laughing their asses off. I wish they hadn't taken my gun away. "Why'd they tape your eyes up, by the way?" It's very unattractive.
He smiles at me. I'd picture him as the type who's been in here for years and knows the place like the back of his hand even with the blindfold on. "They don't want me going on a rampage again, and I need to see what I'm looking at to make it do anything. Blow up, twist, float here and there, whatever. You've got questions. Keep askin'." He gives one of those wheezy laughs.
"Miklen." He stops laughing and strains to listen. "His partner recommended you to me. Said you knew a lot about the dream business and such. I was wondering if you could give me a little. . .knowledge."
He nods and tries to sit back, then slaps the poles lightly and just leans as far as he can. "I got out of that business a long time ago, Youngin'. Sorry I can't help ya, but it's the rules 'round here. Used to run a stand in Wall Market. . .somebody mighta picked that back up. Next to the old lady sellin' soup. 'Bout all the info I can give ya without gettin' myself locked in the shock-chair here. Maybe I'll talk to some of my friends. Get 'em to talk to ya. Sorry, Kid."
They were listening to us. The four SOLDIERs hurry back in and grab me from the chair, shoving me out the door while a man with a taser walks in. Mark's screams haunt me to the lobby.
And, while we're combining haunting and lobby in the sentences. Reno's propped up on a chair next to Aeris, listening as she rambles on about something, a pleased smile on his face and his head bobbing up and down. Her eyes are lit up, and he looks as if he just landed a thirty-pound fish on half of a pole. I can already, unfortunately, see the pictures rushing through his head. Those would be why he's smiling. I want to shudder, throw up, and strangle him all at once. The Turk looks up when I approach, shows a row of teeth, and waves unenthusiastically. He's feigning amusement. Fear sparkles in his eyes. I make my hand into a gun in my pocket and try to make it unable to be ignored just to screw with him. The receptionist still has my real one. "The Sephmeister!"
Both you and Turner will pay for that someday, Reno. Aeris mirrors his smirk. She won't need a ride home; she'll most likely get one or two from him. "Hey, Reno." I refuse to give him more than that. If I looked closely on the ground, under the flourescent lights, I would see his shadow quivering. I still don't understand what's wrong with me. Maybe it's the whole dark-emerald eyes thing. "How'd you track me down?"
"Well." He kicks one foot atop the other and leans his head back, arms resting on the backs of the chairs beside him. One of those is Aeris', and probably the only reason for this action, and the other one is home to my coat. I debate on which I should save first. It's not that I hate Reno, but. . .he gets women with every bottle of booze. "Drivin' around. Home from my second job at the weapons shop --" Bastard! "-- and saw the trademark 'MKO DRMS' license plate on the back of a Cougar. Now, who else would be so into a band that they'd make a plate out of it? So, I figured I'd drop in and say hey. This your girl?" He knocks heads with Aeris. He's dropping subtle pickups like atom bombs; laying way for his takeoff with her. I'm leaning toward strangling him. What the hell's wrong with my chest all of a sudden?
I shake my head and swallow. This isn't one of those fake help-me-help-me-I'm-dying chest pains. This is one that comes complete with flushed cheeks, worried onlookers, a wobbly shadow, and sweat dripping off your chin like a waterfall. Those ones that sneak up, crawl up your legs, and wrap their teeth as hard around your neck as they can go without popping your skull clear off. I've never had one of these before.
And the next moment, I hear someone crying out -- or is that me? -- and I'm on the floor, colors dancing around the outside of my vision. But there's this guy. This guy with a green buzzcut and long fingernails. Sharp, but not vampiric-long, teeth, a black bomber jacket, and glowing green eyes. Like mine. Like the Lifestream is rumored to be. And then, the man's gone, and I hear sirens minutes later, but I'm already too far into the void to call out. Tell them what hurts and why it does so. Tell them about the big green man, staring at me from the steel ceiling of the asylum.
Where am I. . .?
Silver Rose
by Reno Spiegel
Dante@towernetwork.net
October 19, 3076
Morning. Guest Room. Aeris' Home. 7:56 A.M.
". . .Do not give patients sharp items." - Office Sign, Midgar Asylum
It feels good to wake up with a bed under me after a few days of sleeping in a dumpster and on a church pew. The bed is quite welcomed, but Elmyra's snoring reaches me even in here. Seems a lot closer than it should be. My eyes open and I look at the chair in the corner. She sits there with a shotgun across her lap, head tipped back and snorting noises coming with her inhaling. The door's still closed, so I assume she sneaked in late last night.
I creep from the bed, gun out of my pocket and into my hand, and stand directly infront of her, levelling the firearm between her eyes. Wrench! The shotgun falls into my other hand and she bolts awake, eyes flung wide and mouth moving in silent words. Sunlight beams in through the open window, accenting her fear. "Boo." She whimpers at just the one word. "Elmyra, why the hell does this look like you were going to shoot me while I slept?" I keep my voice low, making sure not to wake Aeris if she's still asleep or alert her if she walks by the room.
"I -- I -- I. . ." She gulps loudly, as a frightened bird in a Sunday morning cartoon might. "I was just w -- watching out for Aeris. . ." I'd never expect, after all the show she put on last night, I'd have her under my thumb like this. "Please. . .it was just once. . .to make sure you weren't like Tseng. . . Please, please don't shoot."
Aw, fuck it. "Sorry, Elmyra. Tseng did send me." I tense my arm. Pull the trigger.
. . .
. . .
Click.
Slowly, a sadistic smirk spreads over my lips and I chuckle softly, shaking my head and patting her on the shoulder. "Just fuckin' with ya, Elly. Tseng and I may both be callous bastards, but I'll never voluntarily work for him. Now, run along and make some breakfast, and we'll agree never to speak about this again, eh?" He hand her the shotgun back and shoo her out of the room, which she does while shivering violently. I follow her out; sleep is no longer an option.
We're lucky Aeris still seems to be asleep, because she would probably look at us oddly and get bad ideas. Elmyra hurries right over to the stove and I put the gun away, get the paper from the doorstep, then take a seat at the table as if I were one of the family. The Midgar Times claims that Miklen has no idea who might've shot the man in the alley two days ago. I'm not surprised; Miklen probably already knows it, and is just waiting for them to get impatient and then, 'suddenly' solve the case.
Miklen's an egotistical shit.
The kitchen stays silent for a few more minutes, before the ceiling rumbles lightly and Aeris bounds down the stairs like a child on a Saturday morning. Only she isn't screaming "Cartoonscartoons! Channelfourchannelfourchannelfour!" and spilling a box of cerial all over the floor in the process. She looks us over in turn, still with the groggy, why-the-hell-am-I-up look in her eyes, and blinks a few times at me. I wave it off. "Guess I didn't sleep in."
Elmyra's shoulders sink in relief and she goes back to the pancakes. I could've ratted her out. But I could just picture that.
"By the way, your mother tried to kill me."
"Did not!"
"Almost."
"Liar!"
"Bullshit."
"OUT!"
No, don't rat out bitchy old woman. I'll jot that down in the rulebook for this place later. The younger nods and smiles at me, then tosses open the curtains, squints even in the dim light, yawns, and runs back upstairs. Quite the show. "So, you two're Ancients?"
Crash. There goes that plate, in about fourteen pieces on a small run infront of the stove. She curses under her breath, slams her fist down, and gives me the dirty look from last night. "She is. I'm not. How much else did she tell you?"
I could say everything and get tossed out, but I'll stick with the truth, We've got a shooter out there, and I don't want to meet him. "Not much else. Just said I'd be able to crash here for a while, then when I got a place, I'd be out. So, don't mind me. I'll be gone before you know it." Unless you shoot me, then I think you might have a hunch I'm not around.
She snorts and goes to picking up the expensive-looking china. I help not. I go back to the crossword puzzle, taking Turner's pen out in the progress. Five-letter word for a non-fiction, informative form of writing. I hate these ones; I failed English three times.
Even when she slams a pancake down on the table, just above my paper, I'm still gnawing on my pen and wracking my brain. Biography. . .autobiography. . .interview. . . Aw, fuck it. I'm about three inches away from slamming the pen down.
"Essay."
My chair slides a few inches in each direction and I look up. I wonder how long the flower girl's been standing there? Too long and too silently are the only ones I can come up with. "You might make a good SOLDIER recruit." I jot in essay and look at the next one. 23 Down: Ten-letter, local band's name. Mako Dreams. Next, please. "Any interest in hand-to-hand combat?"
She smiles, pats my shoulder. "Maybe. We'll see what happens. See if this helps. . ." She plucks the pen away, uses my head as a kind of wall to lean over, and pens in about three different answers. She's still got the smile plastered on her face while my eye twitches and the pen lies restless on the newspaper.
"Or an instructor."
She giggles, says something about always doing these, and walks off to grab a plate. 31 Across: Referring to 23D, this band's first music video was for this song. Blacklist of Sins. Ask me anything about Mako Dreams and I'll have it. I'm surprised how family-like she's treating me. I mean, she literally picked me up from the streets, brought me in, and gave me a bed. Sure, Elmyra's being a bitch about it, but that's no the point. I don't think I've ever been treated like this. Father was a mean old bastard that was always too busy with his experiments, and I never knew my mother. It feels. . .oddly good, though a bit mushy. Like oatmeal. "Ever been over to the old asylum, Aeris?"
She's back at the table, sitting across from me and looking over what I have done. I'm still caught on 3 Across. How old is Robert ShinRa? Like I ever asked him that. She shakes her head and looks at me oddly. "I didn't even know there was one."
I nod and try 'forty'. It fits, but there's also fifty and sixty to think about. It'll all fall into place later. "I've got some business with 10638 over there today. If you don't have anything better to do. . ." I let it hang there. I'm really not in the mood to go and see this guy by myself. He sounds. . .well, dangerous. 5 Down: Large serpent that hangs around the outskirts. . . Zolom. Hm. I guess it was forty. He looks old as dirt.
Her eyes light up at the opportunity, like an old man who just got a new hearing aid. "I'd love to! Those poor people over there probably need someone to talk to anyway."
Elmyra jumps in. "I'm not so sure, Aeris. Those people over there are rumored to be quite dangerous." She grabs her daughter's sleeve and purposely lets me hear her mutter, "And I wouldn't trust his friends, if I were you."
"Mo - om!" She slams her foot down; this is turning ugly real quick. Whether Elmyra just thinks she can whip this, or doesn't kno Aeris' current temper, I don't know, but she's not moving an inch and I can't concentrate on 18 Across. "I told you! He's not like Tseng, he isn't a ShinRa anymore, and he's posing absolutely no threat to us!" She's not keeping her voice down, that's for sure. And Elmyra's looking a bit nervous. "Not to mention, HE'S MY FRIEND!"
The house settles into silence, Aeris shaking with rage and Elmyra's eyes are tearing up. I'm just sitting here, stunned, waiting for the fly on the table to take a dive into my coffee and force me to be the first one to get up and walk around. It flies off and lands on my ear; I use all self-control to stay still.
Elmyra wordlessly turns and walks over to the stove. I whack the bastard fly, who gives a frightened death buzz. He flips off my ear Olympic-style, corpse not as heavy as it should be, and lands directly in the cup of homemade syrup. A perfect, flying leap. If I nhad a '10' sign, I'd be holding it above my head while Aeris and Elmyra jumped around with pompoms. But no one else sees my insect friend, so I push him into the liquid with my fork and slide the cup toward the old bat's plate.
Life is good.
Aeris doesn't two-face on me. She keeps the dull burn in her eyes when she says we should head out now. I nod and stand, tucking the paper inside my jacket after I put it on and heading for the door.
"By the way, Elly." She jerks and spins around. She still thinks I'm going to blow her brains out the front of her skull every time she turns her back on me. It's not like the thought doesn't occur to me. "Great syrup."
I hear her break down the moment Aeris shuts the door, then her own shoulders sag and she lets out a huge sigh. "I'm really sorry about this, Sephiroth. We've just had a lot of trouble with the ShinRa, and she doesn't like to let things go so easily. The Turks have been after me for I don't know how long, and anyone from ontop of the Plate isn't trustworthy to her." We're aimed straight for the Cougar, seeing as how it would be quite the walk to the asylum.
"You don't seem to take after your mother," I state bluntly. It's still dark down here. We're bathed in the nothingness of all the shadows of the night. There could be a moose fifty feet away and we wouldn't suspect a thing until the headlights put a glow on it.
She gets into the car, then waits for me to get into the driver's seat and say something to turn it on before she replies to me. "She's not my real mom. Ifalna died at the train station when we left ShinRa. They're still out for me. They could take me in any time, but Tseng never does. Just waits until I decide I want to go with him. And, y'know, someday, maybe I will."
How touching. I tap a few buttons on the CD player, then just slam it with my fist to turn it off. She doesn't seem like someone who would be interested in hearing Kala, lead vocals of Mako Dreams, scream out about how fucked the world is turning. I agree with her veiws. I listen to her music. Bottom line. "If I were you, I wouldn't touch the Turks with a thirty-foot pole." I don't, even though I'm not her, but that's not the point.
The point is, the Turks are dangerous people, and if you cross them incorrectly, you've got some problems. Rude, the bald, built guy, will just follow you to the ends of the world, cut your jugular out, and push you off the edge. Tseng, the leader, will just try to deal nicely with you, but when you refuse many times over, he strikes like a viper. And then there's Reno. Tseng's dyed-red-headed, cocky, tough, asshole of a brother, Reno. He's the official, unwritten heir to the Turks, and has the 'I take NO shit from you!' reputation. Once after getting beaten in billiards, he stabbed the girl's eyes out with the pool stick and threw her in the dumpster outside. He was never charged; ShinRa can do whatever they please. Now he goes to anger management three days a week and has the best eyes in the company on him. These are the people who burn the houses and pin it on terrorists. These are the people who watch the city and only solve the problems threatening them.
These are the people who own you.
"I don't try to," she blurts out, almost too quickly. It's a sign she wants to go with them, her heart tells her to, but common sense tells her that no one will go along with it too well. I'm half-listening to her, the rest of me wracking myself and trying to remember how to get to the asylum while avoiding Hellion turf. I don't want her to die, and frankly, I don't want my ass kicked this morning. "Tseng's known me since I was real little, though. He's protective of me, so he won't pull me in. No one else knows, I don't think. I'm just worried about the --" I don't understand what she mutters here. "-- redhead finding out."
She knows them as well as I do. If Reno found out, Tseng would be bodybag material, and it doesn't matter how blood-related you may be in ShinRa. You cross someone, you die. "Tseng's trustworthy when it comes to secrets, Aeris." I know him personally. I like him just fine. And Reno can crack some good jokes, so he doesn't bother me. But Rude hit me. I don't forgive him. The best route to the asylum for how I want to go about it is through the tunnels. I'm headed there. "A lot of those ShinRa fucks aren't as bad as their rep makes 'em out to be." Then some are shitloads worse. "If the redhead ever comes around, just find me." I put fear into Reno. I don't know why, but he's quite freaked when I'm in the same room with him.
She nods. A few yawns and coughs are all that we exchange the rest of the way to the asylum, and even inside, we seem too scared to speak.
In the movies, they make it out to be a place with beds, nice rooms, and a visiting area fit for President ShinRa himself. A place where they put you in a white jacket to help you get better. Lies. Screams reveberate through the lobby, and bars, with cardkey activation, adorn every doorway and crossing in the halls. The receptionist keeps an automatic weapon in view and sits behind reinforced, bullet-proof glass. Whether this is Midgar, or the standards for all asylums, I don't know. Warning signs hang around the walls.
Sunlight doesn't have a prayer of getting inside. No windows, no cracks. Steel or padded walls. There isn't room for ten people in the lobby. I walk to the armed receptionist. "You're no stranger to the Rolan and Miklen firm up here, are you?"
She looks up from her paper and grins at me. "Turner told me somebody might be stopping in for him in the next few days. You him?"
I nod. Turner always plays it safe, while Miklen -- no one calls him by his first name, by the way -- is a jump-in guy. He'd run onto a Wutain minefield if it meant some publicity. I should've actually expected he'd go and do something like this. "10638. Heard a few stories and hoped he might be able to help me out on a dream I had a few days ago. Scared the shit outta me." And I'm not lying; I don't think it exactly screamed good fortune.
She waves it off. Other things to do, huh? An annoying beep sounds from a few alarms in the hallway when she taps a button behind her cell-like glass. She's safe. She likes it that was. "He said a guy'd be coming in. Not a guy and his girl."
Aeris shifts. Shit. I forgot she was even here for a second. I lay my head on the glass to get a better look at her. She's older than she sounds. Old veterans like this aren't the lenient type. She probably abides by all rules and doesn't let anyone fudge on a rule. She wouldn't take in an armless bum with rats gnawing his feet off if he couldn't pay rent. I turn to the flower girl and give her an apologetic look. "Sorry about this. . .she's not gonna let you in, though. . ." I leave it open for suggestions as a SOLDIER walks down the hallway. My escort.
She smiles. "That's alright. I'll wait out here until you get back."
She's going to sit here, alone, in a looney bin waiting room while I go talk to a psychic psycho. She's got some guts. I nod, pat her on the shoulder, and go with the uniformed security. Another one joins us in the hallway, and when I mention 10638, they've got two more there almost immediately. This guy must be a real crack. I enter his room while they go into another. Peeking inside, I see it's like the secret one off of an interrogation room, with a one-way mirror and headphones. And the real room looks like a police interrogation room, too. The ones they use when their suspects aren't killed when they find them. Who I assume is my quarry is handcuffed to two poles on the metal table, and shackled by the feet to the heavy wooden chair he's in. Silver, old-man hair shoots down his back in small rivers of color and his eyes are taped up so he can't see. He's already in the straight jacket for when they take him back. "10638?"
"Mark." I bite the insides of my cheeks as I take a seat to keep from laughing. Mark. What a name for a psychic serial killer. I would've expected something long and foreign; kind of like mine. "Lemme guess by yer voice. Younger kid, pretty dark mood, into a lotta the new music scene. Watch sparin' television, and when 'e does, it's the news to see what's goin' on up at ShinRa. Works at a fast-food place n' drives his dad's ol' piece of shit car. Had a dilemma a few days ago n' somebody recommended the old psycho 'n the nuthouse to 'im. Unhappily married with two kids. How's my aim?"
How many times can I hear that in forty-eight hours? "About two-thirds correct." He curses under his breath and snaps his fingers, saying something about his first guess being me a virgin. Incorrect, too, but I won't waste time. The SOLDIERS in the back are probably already laughing their asses off. I wish they hadn't taken my gun away. "Why'd they tape your eyes up, by the way?" It's very unattractive.
He smiles at me. I'd picture him as the type who's been in here for years and knows the place like the back of his hand even with the blindfold on. "They don't want me going on a rampage again, and I need to see what I'm looking at to make it do anything. Blow up, twist, float here and there, whatever. You've got questions. Keep askin'." He gives one of those wheezy laughs.
"Miklen." He stops laughing and strains to listen. "His partner recommended you to me. Said you knew a lot about the dream business and such. I was wondering if you could give me a little. . .knowledge."
He nods and tries to sit back, then slaps the poles lightly and just leans as far as he can. "I got out of that business a long time ago, Youngin'. Sorry I can't help ya, but it's the rules 'round here. Used to run a stand in Wall Market. . .somebody mighta picked that back up. Next to the old lady sellin' soup. 'Bout all the info I can give ya without gettin' myself locked in the shock-chair here. Maybe I'll talk to some of my friends. Get 'em to talk to ya. Sorry, Kid."
They were listening to us. The four SOLDIERs hurry back in and grab me from the chair, shoving me out the door while a man with a taser walks in. Mark's screams haunt me to the lobby.
And, while we're combining haunting and lobby in the sentences. Reno's propped up on a chair next to Aeris, listening as she rambles on about something, a pleased smile on his face and his head bobbing up and down. Her eyes are lit up, and he looks as if he just landed a thirty-pound fish on half of a pole. I can already, unfortunately, see the pictures rushing through his head. Those would be why he's smiling. I want to shudder, throw up, and strangle him all at once. The Turk looks up when I approach, shows a row of teeth, and waves unenthusiastically. He's feigning amusement. Fear sparkles in his eyes. I make my hand into a gun in my pocket and try to make it unable to be ignored just to screw with him. The receptionist still has my real one. "The Sephmeister!"
Both you and Turner will pay for that someday, Reno. Aeris mirrors his smirk. She won't need a ride home; she'll most likely get one or two from him. "Hey, Reno." I refuse to give him more than that. If I looked closely on the ground, under the flourescent lights, I would see his shadow quivering. I still don't understand what's wrong with me. Maybe it's the whole dark-emerald eyes thing. "How'd you track me down?"
"Well." He kicks one foot atop the other and leans his head back, arms resting on the backs of the chairs beside him. One of those is Aeris', and probably the only reason for this action, and the other one is home to my coat. I debate on which I should save first. It's not that I hate Reno, but. . .he gets women with every bottle of booze. "Drivin' around. Home from my second job at the weapons shop --" Bastard! "-- and saw the trademark 'MKO DRMS' license plate on the back of a Cougar. Now, who else would be so into a band that they'd make a plate out of it? So, I figured I'd drop in and say hey. This your girl?" He knocks heads with Aeris. He's dropping subtle pickups like atom bombs; laying way for his takeoff with her. I'm leaning toward strangling him. What the hell's wrong with my chest all of a sudden?
I shake my head and swallow. This isn't one of those fake help-me-help-me-I'm-dying chest pains. This is one that comes complete with flushed cheeks, worried onlookers, a wobbly shadow, and sweat dripping off your chin like a waterfall. Those ones that sneak up, crawl up your legs, and wrap their teeth as hard around your neck as they can go without popping your skull clear off. I've never had one of these before.
And the next moment, I hear someone crying out -- or is that me? -- and I'm on the floor, colors dancing around the outside of my vision. But there's this guy. This guy with a green buzzcut and long fingernails. Sharp, but not vampiric-long, teeth, a black bomber jacket, and glowing green eyes. Like mine. Like the Lifestream is rumored to be. And then, the man's gone, and I hear sirens minutes later, but I'm already too far into the void to call out. Tell them what hurts and why it does so. Tell them about the big green man, staring at me from the steel ceiling of the asylum.
Where am I. . .?