By Ktrenal
Chapter Seven - Missions
The cell was small, and of dimensions that made it almost a perfect cube. Seven feet high, seven feet wide and seven feet deep. There was a shelf suspended from the back wall, about two feet off the cold concrete floor, and covered with a moth-eaten old thing that he could only assume was a blanket. It smelled strongly of damp, mildew, and - naturally - urine and vomit. The perfect police cell, but evidently designed to contain only one person at a time. There was another such cell next to this one, containing a large hulk of a man who watched the scene with tiny, squinting eyes. The area in front of the two made up the open-plan police station itself. It put Reno in mind of the sheriff's headquarters in old Western movies.
The two police men holding him escorted him into the cell, and forced him down onto the bed, holding him there. He was a little confused at this rough treatment, since escape was unlikely. He was handcuffed, and they'd taken his weapons, his materia and his wallet. His wallet which unfortunately had contained his various forms of ID, including the driver's license that nobody believed he actually had. So now the police here knew his name, and had reason to believe he was involved in fraud, due to the obviously 'fake' Gil and strange plastic cards.
After a moment or two, Bob entered the cell holding another crossbow bolt, which he pushed between Reno's jaws so he was forced to bite down on the length of wood. Reno realised this was the medical treatment he'd been promised. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. A man with the gentle touch of a landslide was going to be the one pulling the bolt out of his leg.
At least he'd been nice enough to give him something to bite on, even if he hadn't been inclined to give him a warning before actually doing it. Bob held Reno's leg with one hand, easily pulling the bolt out with the other, which elicited a surprised cry of pain from the Turk. In retaliation for the sudden pain, Reno kicked out at Bob with the uninjured leg the mountainous man hadn't pinned down.
If they'd just warned him, allowed him to prepare himself for the removal of the bolt, he'd have quietly let them do it. But no, they were the ones who had to treat him roughly and cause him unnecessary pain. They were the ones that had so little faith in his ability to take pain. He was a Turk, and he'd suffered worse injuries than this. They weren't to know that, but that hardly changed Reno's opinions of them.
Bob grunted at the force of the kick, dealing the red-head a rough backhand in retribution. "Hold still while I bandage this, kid, else you'll bleed to death," he said firmly. Before Reno had a chance to react, the huge man had torn off the Turk's black jeans in order to gain access to the bleeding wound.
"Hey!" Reno objected - both to the rough treatment and the forceful removal of his trousers. He was wearing boxers underneath, but that wasn't the point. Again, Bob could have just asked. Reno wasn't an idiot, and he knew the value of getting injuries tended to before they became any more serious than they had to be. Well, at least now Bob would see that he was used to being hurt; his legs, like any other part of his body, were scarred enough to prove he was no stranger to pain.
"Just hold still, kid," Bob told him, quickly stemming the flow of blood from the wound and then bandaging it. The speed and skill with which he did so suggested to Reno that the shooting of criminals was a fairly common occurrence here. It also boded well for the near future, since they were unlikely to be looking after him now if they intended only to kill him later. Not that they'd have any luck with that, since even without weapons Reno was a capable enough fighter. He preferred to use a weapon when he could, but as a Turk he'd been trained in a wide variety of different combat styles.
Not that he'd call this being looked after, for that matter. He could feel significantly more bruises than he'd started with, and although the pain was tolerable, it still wasn't pleasant. No pain ever was, unless you really were a very sick, twisted and perverted individual. Reno wasn't such a man however, and he enjoyed his injuries no more than anyone else would. He merely carried the pain better.
When Bob was finished with the bandaging, he drew back from Reno, and the two other men holding him down did the same. "I suggest that you rest, and regain your strength. All the injury to heal," was the command offered by the human mountain, before retreating from the cell and pushing the heavy metal barred door closed with a solid clang.
Reno shifted position on the solid shelf that was evidently intended to be a bed, trying to find some way of being comfortable. It seemed highly unlikely in the face of it, so he pulled off his jacket and balled it up to create a pillow, then rolled onto his side. He lay with the jacket beneath his head, looking across the cell and out to the open plan office in front.
How, exactly, was he supposed to get any rest in a cold cell with a hard shelf for a bed, a jacket for a pillow, wearing only a t-shirt and boxer shorts, and with absolutely no privacy at all? Exactly the same way he always rested, of course. He was nothing if not adaptable, and on occasions slept on his feet during long and boring body-guarding missions. He'd never been particularly motivated to make sure Palmer didn't get killed.
With a soft grunt that trailed into a sigh, Reno shifted position again, stretching his injured leg painfully. He watched the activities beyond the confines of his cell, feeling a little too alert and self-conscious to go to sleep just yet. People were constantly coming and going from the office - officers returning from or heading out to distant towns and far off patrols, and locals dropping in to report minor crimes or visit the officers themselves. The police were held with high regard in Darton, it seemed.
"Hey, Bob?" he called out. "Can I have a proper blanket? It's kinda cold with people opening and closing the door all the time."
Bob was sitting at a desk nearby, hunched over it like an overhanging rock-face, and occupied with the cleaning of the most enormous crossbow Reno had ever seen. If that was the weapon he'd been shot with, he was amazed he still had a leg. He had to assume that more likely than not, Bob owned many such weapons, and that large one was used for taking down chocobos, or possibly dragons.
"You're a criminal, and a prisoner. You're not meant to be comfortable," came the response from Bob, who looked up from his task of cleaning the crossbow and gazed in Reno's direction.
"Yeah, but come on, you ripped up my jeans, and I'm cold, and I'm hurt," Reno pointed out, determined to get his way, one way or another. Here, he was playing the part of the kid that had taken more than he could handle by turning to crime and getting caught, and really wanted someone to be nice to him. He'd be anything he needed to be if it got him what he wanted.
"Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt, since you're injured and all. We need you in good health," Bob said, getting to his feet and lumbering over to one of the storage lockers at one side of the office. They were probably intended to be used as storage for evidence, but some of them at least appeared to be overflowing with cleaning equipment. Against all probability, Bob withdrew a rolled up sleeping bag from one of these lockers.
As if he sensed Reno's eyes on him, Bob explained. "For the night-shifts, usually. You can use it." He brought the sleeping bag over to the cell and took his keys out of his pocket, fumbling with them for a moment before finding the correct one and opening the door. He entered the cell, simply tossing the sleeping bag across it so that it landed on Reno, and then retreated from the cell once more, locking it behind him.
Feeling pleased with himself for this measure of success, Reno rolled out the sleeping bag and wriggled into it, trying to do so without having to move his leg too much, or jarring the injury any more than necessary. Easier said than done, and by the time he was inside the sleeping bag, he was happy to pull it up around his neck and curl up inside. Despite this, he stayed awake, watching as Bob returned to cleaning his enormous crossbow.
"That's a really impressive weapon," Reno commented. He was curious, more than anything. Why would anyone need a weapon that huge and powerful?
"It is, isn't it? Custom made," Bob replied, turning in his chair and holding it up so the prisoner could get a better look.
"What do you need it for? Not for shooting at the likes of me, I assume?" the young red-head asked casually, giving the crossbow an appreciative look. He had enough experience with weaponry to recognise fine craftsmanship when he saw it, and the kind of destructive power something that size would have, even if it was only a crossbow... Reno had to admit to a certain liking of powerful weapons.
"Oh, no, we use much smaller weapons for criminals. No, there's a monster prowling the mines, killing off the workers, and we're the only ones with the resources to deal with it," the huge man responded, evidently seeing no harm in telling Reno this.
"What kind of monster? You wouldn't know it by the look of me, but I've got a lot of experience with monsters," Reno said, his curiousity running rampant at this point, more so than was perhaps sensible for this situation, but since when had he let every single action be guided by common sense? That would make life far too boring.
"You're right, I wouldn't believe it. I'm not sure what it is we're facing, other than the fact it's big," Bob told him. "I have to wonder where you got that monster experience from?"
"I worked for a rich guy in Midgar who liked trophies on his wall, but didn't like to do the work to get them himself, unless the work included paying me to go hunting for him. I've killed dragons, hippogryphs, griffins, manticores... you name it, I've killed it," Reno replied with an easy-going smirk. It was easy to boast when he was actually telling the truth, too; he'd traveled long distances during the course of his career, and monsters were common in his time. They practically went out of their way to find people to kill, or so it seemed at times.
"That's where you got all those scars from?" Bob asked, seeming to blindly accept the Turk's word for it.
"Most of them, yeah," he answered with a satisfied grin. "So how about, you let me out of the cell, and I help you with your monster problem?"
"Now, you know we can't be doing that. Although having said that, it is the mines you're headed to. Best thing to do with petty thieves is drop them into the mines for a few years," Bob pointed out, sounding completely logical, but nevertheless returning the grin.
"I'm not a petty thief. I'm hard working, loyal and as professional a guy as you could hope for. I'm just a long way from home, and stuck for cash. I was hungry." Reno had to admit that he didn't exactly look professional, huddled in a sleeping bag as he was, but then, with that said, he hadn't ever looked particularly professional as a Turk either. Looks could be most deceiving, that he knew well.
"A professional fraudster, from what we've seen," Bob said with a frown, evidently quite disapproving.
"I am not!" Reno objected, a little more strongly than he had intended. Admittedly, he wasn't entirely certain how else he could explain his credit cards, which didn't even exist in this time, or his ID card, which bore a birth date of sometime in the distant future. How distant, he wasn't sure. If he ever reached Midgar, he would find out.
"So, what are you then?" the mountainous officer asked, and now it was his turn to give a satisfied grin, as if he knew already that Reno wouldn't have another explanation.
"The cards are a system of transferring money around, back where I come from. When something costs too much to pay for it with coins. It's cutting edge technology, which is why you've never seen it here. As for my ID, well... the guy I'm working for doesn't like real information to leak out, so he had that made for me," Reno said.
"So it's a fake ID? Reno Fletcher's not your real name then?" Bob asked.
"Nope," Reno said with a grin, unable to resist letting this play out in this unexpected direction. Maybe he'd still get out of here without too much difficulty. No one could compete with a Turk's brain, especially not Reno. He was just far too smart for the likes of Bob, who might have a subtle intelligence that took a while to warm up, but before that happened, he seemed genuinely quite slow.
"What's your real name, then?" Bob asked, giving him a look that was partly quizzical, and partly skeptical, as if he wasn't yet certain of this.
"Well, if you must know. If it means that much to you. Mallory Turk," Reno replied, pulling a name at random from his mind; the surname was easy enough anyway. He was a Turk, so if he wasn't using his own name, he'd use that one. He was fairly certain he'd once killed a guy called Mallory. It was as good a name as any. And his tone of voice he knew would sound genuine enough. Lying came so naturally to him.
"Alright then, Mallory," Bob said, his own rumbling voice seeming to be trusting. The living mountain had actually believed him. Not that there was any doubt of that, but even so.
"So, how about a deal? I help you with your monster, since I bet, even if you have a kick-ass crossbow, you don't know how to deal with big monsters, and you let me go? I need to go through the mines anyway, since I've an errand or two to run in Midgar. So everyone wins. You get rid of the monster, and a pesky criminal that's far too scrawny to last long working in the mines, and I get to kill a monster and go on my way."
Bob seemed to hesitate, caught in indecision. It was obvious enough that the enormous man didn't particularly want to fight whatever this monster was, but again, he didn't want to release a prisoner either. "I don't have the authority to make that deal. I'll have to talk to Daverrison."
Daverrison was, Reno guessed, the superior officer in this place, presumably the man who'd been in command during his capture, considering the very local feel of the law enforcement here. The guy in charge actually got involved with the town, with the people, with the criminals. It gave it all a so much more personal edge to it, and likely made the locals trust him.
Reno nodded, and grinned at Bob. "Great. I hope he's willing. It'll save us all so much trouble, don't you think?" he asked, finding himself quite liking the huge man. Maybe it was just because he'd given in, but not without a little bit of a fight. That kind of thing amused the red-head; it kept things interesting. And Bob was basically a decent guy, he guessed.
"I think it will," Bob agreed, giving Reno a nod. "You get some sleep, Mallory. You're going to need it, if Daverrison agrees to this."
"Yeah. Gonna need to be in better shape than this to kill a monster. Hey, I do get my weapons and my coloured stones back, though? I fight better with my own weapons, and those stones are like good luck charms to me," the Turk explained. The materia would give him an extra edge, although he was perfectly capable of fighting a monster without the use of magic.
"I imagine so, yes. Since you'll be paying for your crime by helping us, there's no reason why you can't have your belongings back," Bob responded, and then offered the captive a smile. "You'll probably even get some clean clothes, since they say blood attracts monsters."
"Yeah, that's true. Depending on what monsters are around here. I haven't been in this area before." It was the truth, in a way, if time was considered as a place, which for the purposes of this conversation, was true enough. The future was like a far off country, and Reno was certain he'd heard a quote to that effect before, although he couldn't remember it now.
He could hardly say no to fresh clothing, however, considering the distance he'd traveled with the ones he was wearing. Muddy, dusty and sweaty, and that was just for starters. Of course Bob had destroyed his jeans too; and there was no way in hell Reno would be going to fight a monster wearing only his boxers.
There was no response to this from Bob, who'd returned to cleaning the crossbow. It was an encouragement for Reno to rest, perhaps, while the human mountain himself waited for the commanding officer to return. Taking the hint, the red-head shifted position on the hard metal shelf that served as a bed, and tried to will his mind and body to rest. He understood the wisdom of letting his injury heal as much as possible, since it seemed likely Bob would persuade Daverrison.
As he drifted towards sleep, idly listening to the sounds of the police station and the bustling town outside, Reno found himself reflecting, admittedly in a very half-asleep manner, on this world he'd found himself in. People were so gullible, so innocent and naive, as if they had absolutely nothing to fear from lies or deceit. They were so intrinsically trusting; the way Argus and Maggie had returned his materia to him and left him so unguarded, and the way Bob was so willing to make a deal with him.
What had happened to make these people so trusting, or was it purely human nature to trust each other? If that was the case, what had happened to people in the future? What had made them so suspicious and paranoid of each other, so that nothing was taken at simple face value?
Already Reno could half imagine the answer, a single word. He knew it, but felt a little uncomfortable with the realisation. Shinra was the answer, obviously; but in all seriousness, it can't have been entirely and wholly responsible for the change in people from this time to his own. Partly, yes; Reno could agree with that. He was perfectly aware of just how many times Shinra had lied to people, given them a reason to distrust. But it can't have done so much damage entirely on its own. Could it?
Disclaimer - Reno's not mine, Final Fantasy VII isn't mine. Bob is mine though, and I'm actually feeling kind of attached to him now. I may have to find a reason to work him into the story later one.
Author's Notes - Okay, so no Midgar this time. Next chapter, okay? I promise. If all goes well next chapter. This one was meant to have more, but this seemed like a good place to end it, as if I'd put in the next bit, it would've been far too long a chapter. Despite that, I like how this one turned out, on the whole. I suppose my rating on how much I like a chapter is based on how easy it was for me to write; the better chapters feel like they flow better to me, and I'm such a perfectionist...
With the plot thing, I suppose it's like I know where I'm going with it, and so I know I've been weaving about a little so far. I have many plans, and so to me it feels like I've barely even touched on the plot for this story. But even so, I can't develop it any faster than I have. I swear this story is alive and wants to do things its own way...
And this has to be the most Beta'd chapter yet, thanks to my buddy Addy, who seems to have better grammar skills than me. He successfully managed to find an error in practically every paragraph. You may notice a much less random use of commas in the above text, although I still refuse to change wordings that were deliberately informal. Or words that are used differently between the English and American languages...
Tijuana Pirate: Well, I hope this is interesting enough a solution to the problem. I wonder if I'm making things a little too easy for Reno, but then, people are so much more trusting in this time. But then, I'm being kinda evil to Reno too, so it all balances out in the long run, doesn't it? No butterfly references this time round though...
WrexSoul: You would not believe the trouble I had finding a surname for Reno that actually worked for me. I ended up trawling through client's names at work, until I came across Fletcher. It's kind of... simple, and recognisable, but not too common. There will be less average and normal names drifting around later on, away from the unoriginal little villages and towns.
Anyway, onwards, outwards and twirling-twirling-twirling towards the next chapter. Or something. Really, I will get to Midgar next chapter...