PROLOGUE
Reno frowned and stabbed the cigarett butt into his palm, cold eyes watching as the raw flesh fizzled. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air as he kneeled next to the body of a little boy, perhaps eight years old.
"'Lo there, little one," he breathed, in that sort of voice grown ups used when talking to a child.
The boy was lying on his stomach, legs sprawling, with one little hand balled into a fist under his small chest. His eyes were wide open, sporting lines on his dirty face where tears had slid down, and an ugly hole gaped on the smooth forehead. Reno carefully flipped the little boy over so that he lay on his back and brushed his fingers through the silvery blond hair, stringing out lumps of caked blood and dirt. Somewhat satisfied with his work, he smoothed out the hair neatly and placed his hand over the boys small face, gently brushing his lids closed.
Rude, arms folded firmly across his enormous chest, shook his head slightly, a half-smile curling his full lips. Reno was a pitiful sight where he was kneeling in front of that dead boy, and it surprised Rude that Reno actually showed a sign of.. Perhaps not remorse, but more as if he had accepted what he'd done to Sector 7 and understood that it had been wrong. Not only wrong, Rude added to himself mentally. Reno had set off the bomb that had taken thousands of innocent lives, destroying the homes of another thousand. He'd pryed apart families, lovers, friends and not once under the time Rude had known him, had he ever looked so worn out since Sector 7 collapsed under his hand.
Dusting his marine blue trouers off, Reno rose slowly, all long angles and a sort of graceful cat-likeness Rude quite admired. When Reno snapped his head around, eyes trained on his massive friend and partner in crime, they were as sly and taunting as ever before. Rude liked that in Reno – he looked quite harmless, except maybe for the fact that he almost was as tall as Rude himself, all scrawny and too thin to make any real threat.
But Rude had seen Reno in action, and knew better than to underestimate the temperamental red head. Wickedness and mischief gleamed in the turquoise eyes, but something, something,flickered behind the pools of vivid colour. Rude frowned for a moment, eyebrows knitted together in concern.
"Are you alright?" he asked, dark voice rumbling through the cool air. Reno whipped around, eyes blazing, and grabbed Rude's neat collar, bringing their faces close. Very close.
"Shut up," he snarled, his whole appereance screaming threat and that Rude must be praying for his life. And if he's not, he fucking should be. Alas, Rude is aware, in a distant way, that he is less a simple thug than he is a force of nature, and therefore has, personally, nothing to fear from storm nor armageddon nor Reno. What he has more trouble understanding is that other people don't have this particular outlook on life as he gently peeled Reno's fingers off his crisp white collar.
Through the years, Rude has learnt to, well, love his comrade, in a brotherly sort of way of course. There has been times when Reno's been drunk and more often than not, Rude has had to drape his friend's lean body over a shoulder to get him home. Reno has annoyed him with the most childish things, like shining light on his bald head and never stopped go on about how amazing the way Rude's head reflects the light truly is. Whenever Reno's been talking back to Tseng, Rude's always been there to apologise and clean his mess up. They've known each other for long enough to communicate wordlessly, eyebrow twitches, lip quirks, a flash of teeth, a nervous tug of the earlobe, a scratch to the side of the nose. So Rude knows. He always does.