Many Moons, by Moira
Chapter 6; Hangovers and Hang-Ups
A gray, overcast color dominated the sky, if a 'sky' it could be called. It seemed more a logical half of a divider between up and down. Down, as it were, was characterized by concrete colored grit. Smooth and even. There were no hills or marks on the land to distinguish one spot from another. All in all, bland was perhaps the kindest word to put to it. It even lacked a 3-D type quality. As if one could set it on its side and it would simply be a straight line.
There in this odd kind of space was one thing to make it worthy of comment though. There was a man. And he had been sitting in this place for a long time. Or so it felt.
He had no other means by which to judge this, but his inner clock spoke of years. Years he couldn't place or define. Time was a funny thing here.
This strange, or at least unprecedented, return to 'wakefulness' was what made him notice the incongruity. That it had never occurred to him until now made for uneasy company. It also made him restless. Troubled, he stood and began pacing, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his white coat.
It was if…there were something he should be aware of, could be, if he concentrated hard enough. The elusive measure of time ticked away at him like an uneven beat of fingers on a surface.
He frowned and raked a hand through his hair in a gesture that seemed as familiar as breathing. As recognizable as the large, metal bound watch he had once worn, the casing molded from tempered silver, the clock face a smooth chip of mako that glowed. He drew out his arm and scrutinized the left wrist. It had been there. There was even the pale ghost of a mark where the skin underneath the band had been shielded from the sun. He wanted it back. Something tangible. He wanted a way to measure things, to give some kind of reality to this state he was in. How else was he to prove his existence? It could all be a dream, or worse yet, not even happening. Maybe just someone else's memory.
How does a man explain himself? He mused. How do I know for sure that I am?
Anger bubbled up inside, but with an ease borne of years of guarding his emotions, he pushed it back down. He was stuck somewhere, somewhen, for an unknown amount of time. Time was important, and he could feel it wasting away on someone else's prerogative. No one wasted his time. He had always set his life by the clock, and even in death…
The notion startled him.
Why had he thought that? If there were something to remember surely he would know about that. But then again, he did not know when or where he was. The how although…. It was beginning to make more sense. Provided that death was indeed the answer, and it was certainly seemed an option.
He sat down again and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. Analyzing situations and their eventual, or possible, outcomes was something he considered himself an authority on. If he were indeed not alive, then being dead was just another factor to consider. If that were the case. Apparently something strange was going on, and he hadn't the means to work it out just yet. Best to start with the basics anyhow. One couldn't build a company on reputation alone, or an empire on guesses.
He tried to rattle off the basics. Things to lend shape to man he was starting to recall. Names, age, lifestyle, family, etc, but it was like knowing how to operate a complicated piece of machinery and having no information to input to it. The inability to do something as simple as map out details irritated him. Why should he know with a certainty that he loathed cats, but not be able to write his own name in the sandy grit on which he sat? Was remembering that he had (or once had, seeing as he was possibly R. I. Pieces) a hidden bottle of Midgar's finest bourbon stashed in a secret compartment in his desk more important than the details of his own life? And of his death? Though he felt that he knew now with a certainty that this was the case. He had died, and rather messily at that.
The memory stirred and sharpened as he forced himself to focus. It had been quiet in his sound proof office. Of the chaos outside he heard nothing. The faint swishing of a jacket on finely tailored slacks had been the only admission of a human presence as he crossed the room to look out the window. He remembered well his forehead and hand pressed against the cool glass, breath leaving a foggy impression right up until the point where it exploded in his face. He could feel the brief memory of pain at the white light that had seared his corneas before the end. Before the end of everything.
He sighed, stood, and paced again because he needed the variety.
"I never liked handguns. I have no use for things that only wound if you're not careful," he said aloud.
"There is a machine in the fitness room on the 60th floor that if you kick hard enough, spits out power drinks."
His brow furrowed in concentration.
"There was a fat man in my employ that I meant to kill the following week. He was a useless toad that laughed like a horse."
He smiled as more flickers of recognition bounced between his synapses.
"There was a woman…" he fumbled for the name, "…Scarlet, who runs the weapons development section. She has a .22 snub revolver in her cleavage at all times, a metal spike strapped to her inner thigh, poison tipped hairpins, and a pair of stiletto heels that could bore a hole through a concrete wall."
"If I didn't manage to kill her in the next month," he added with a sly smile, "I meant to give her a raise."
The small circular track he walked around where he had been sitting grew wider as his memories sped up his feet.
"There is a red-haired, loud mouthed, indolent, alcohol saturated Turk, who if he didn't do his job so well, or manage to avoid every would-be Turk I send to assassinate him, would be Hojo's pet for as long as he survived."
Another recollection flashed up along with an almost audible click of something coming together. He made a mental note to really put in an effort to punish that man. The bourbon in his desk was indeed gone, and he thought he knew who had compromised it.
p align="left"He blew strawberry blond bangs from out of his eyes with a breathy chuckle. There was yet another face he recalled, clear and distinct in his mind's eye. He also had a name to put to it that came without calling. The corner of his brain where he had stored pertinent and pending information drew up a list of persons he had labeled "Unexplained and Mostly Harmless", though for this man he might have to upgrade the second half to "Serious Liability".
"Cloud Strife," he said slowly. "Do I have you to blame for this?"
* * * * *
In the medical examining room at the Junon base, Cloud found himself subject to more poking and prodding then he felt was necessary for what he considered 'cosmetic' damage. All the major wounds had been force healed by Reno's FullCure, and if one discounted barbed wire that was dangerously close to some delicate areas, he was perfectly capable of getting out of there on his own steam.
The doctor in his turn had cast a low level Heal and Esuna combo aimed at cleaning up anything infected and sealing the bigger cuts. The rest he left to Cloud's own body and some well placed staples. It was better to let one heal naturally if a big spell didn't take care of it. Standard Army training in Mako warfare (his own knowledge he was sure) had included some rudimentary instruction on healing by magic. The doctor's treatment jived with the "High Level magic attacks used in sync mean bad mojo for you" breakdown of the military course. Apparently, using too many FullCure, Revive, and Esuna spells had telling effects on human physical makeup in the long run. Add in the attack spells used against you and, well, it could take some time to get over. Dementia was a common side effect, and he gathered that the doctor was being extra careful with a patient who had already enjoyed the drooling, crayon drawing phase of lunatics. The thought did little to cheer him.
When the last of the wire had parted company with his backside he immediately shucked the hospital whites for his own pants, which did little to hide either knee nor said backside. A younger nurse had come in to retrieve the dressing gown and blushed as he handed it to her. The older nurse gave him a smile that would make many nights hard to sleep. And not in a good way.
"Doctor," Cloud called.
The man left whatever he was doing and returned to the bedside.
"Will you be staying the night?" He wanted to know
Cloud blanched. Even if the price weren't astronomical he wouldn't sleep here for all the Gold Chocobos wandering the planet. Instead he gave a polite dissent and paid for his bill without comment, although the Doctor seemed keen on discussing both Cloud's past and Reno's supposed future.
"Are you sure the young man will be alright? We have extra beds here where we can keep him under strict observation." And in a straightjacket, was the almost audible suggestion.
As tempting as the offer was, Cloud wasn't in any shape to haul Reno in for observation.
"He'll be fine. He's a Turk."
The Doctor's face, and Cloud had to give him credit, stayed smooth, but behind the eyes information was flying. Whatever the Turks had been or were, people still associated them with the worst kind of trouble. It was like a ticket to freedom. After mentioning Reno's association with clandestine group, Cloud received little resistance to leaving. With a warning about the care of his staples and various other ailments the doctor guided him gently, yet firmly to the door.
Actually smiling for the first time in a long while, Cloud decided that Reno was good for something after all. Except that it was the same red- haired menace who had landed him there. And the same man who had saved his life. The conflicting thoughts were headache inducing and spoiled his mood. He left the hospital wing with a limp and scowl, clearing his path by virtue of expression alone.
***********
When Reno departed the premises, some time before Cloud, there was a bounce in his step and a cheerful air of one who knows that the drinks will be half-price. He had donuts. He had gil. And, there was a conspicuous absence of blond-haired, bitter, nutballs without a drop of humor. Well, agreeable humor anyhow. He could finally take a breather and assess the next course of action with food, a shower, and a pint of something to help him forget the nurse. Calling his real partners was another high up on the list of 'must do' things.
The simple fact that Reno had a working plan, and was thinking ahead, might have come as a surprise to many. It was a trait that others would have found completely alien to the Turk, if one discounted the imminent drinking. Others who operated solely on his reputation as a loose cannon and a sloppy drunk. This was of course, a decoy, of the first order. Or at least the loose cannon part was.
Turk guidebook, Rule #1, made it very clear that you were not to be who you were in either appearance or action. There were certainly a lot of ways to translate this, which of course embodied Rule #2. Be adaptive, or adapt the situation.
Tseng, the former leader of the group, had been the most successful at this of any Turk to date. It was notoriously hard to rise to the rank of Turk in the first place, but to be its standing leader for more than 5 years was a record. Tseng had been one for 12, and Reno was his prodigy.
The redhead, though never entirely comfortable at the double life required of Rule#1, was still heartily in favor of Rule#2. Adaptability, he learned from experience, was all. That was the rule he felt most likely to be the one to save your ass, because humans more than anything were unpredictable creatures. Take Cloud and co. for example. Coulda killed the guy straight off when they met. Coulda saved himself some irritation and broken bones. Tseng had seen something else though. He had made a point to let that damned AVALANCHE group get away time and time again, because somehow he knew. He knew that even a group of rejects could become strong enough to take on Sephiroth and save him precious personnel. The Turks weren't a numerous bunch, and Tseng was a careful planner in that respect.
Reno also guessed, with much ire, that Tseng had probably measured the Turks' success rate against Sephiroth, and found them wanting.
His own experience with unpredictable people was a little less noble and lot more embarrassing. As a personal reminder for himself he had explicitly added to the list; never underestimate the target, even if the intel tells you that said target is a 250lb man who hasn't exercised a day in his life and would have died anyway from a heart attack right down the road. It was disconcerting and just a bit awkward to find the tables turned because one didn't have the foresight to calculate that 250lbs of flesh can and will take 3 bullets, multiple shocks from a nightstick, a kitchen knife, a bar stool, one of those 1/35 Sephiroth statutes, and finally end with a bic pen to the jugular. After the mess that left, Reno had become one of the more dedicated students of Tseng's instruction on planning for all contingencies.
The Turks though, by anyone's standards, were a different breed of chocobo. To really understand the function of their outfit, to even begin to put a face to the enemy, and they were the enemy, one had to stop missing the forest for the trees. Of course, this could be a challenge in itself as the whole point was to make understanding them difficult if not impossible.
Reno would have been startled to know that Cloud had similar feelings about AVALANCHE, in respect to group work.
Adolus P. Harper, one of the original group of 8 Turks sometime 60 years back, had wrestled with this problem and finally worked out, after three consecutive kills on their members, that they needed a change of tactics. The Turks' original mission statement had been to keep ears and eyes pinned on the varied factions of the ShinRa conglomerate for the head honcho, Shinra himself. While this worked out fine for the first couple of months, word got around to watch out for the watchers. The warning also emphasized how easy it was to dispatch of them entirely to save one's ass from being reported to the boss. Convenient and easy on the nerves, as legally the Turks were not supposed to even exist.
Adolus mulled over this problem while mopping up after a fellow Turk. Though he wasn't exactly remorseful about the man's death, as he hadn't liked him to begin with, he did feel rather motivated to preserve his own bullet-free skin. Therefore, a new Rule of conduct was drafted, passed unanimously, and squeezed into place between Rules 3 and 4. This inclusion merely stated, "Carry a gun" and "Work in groups".
Therefore, Turks by nature and training, worked best as a group. They were handpicked to operate as a unit capable of living together for months at a time, on a small cramped sub, with little privacy and no chance to get away. That was the staple of the diet; live together or die apart. They had learned it the hard way and meant to make the most of the lesson.
Throughout their almost year long orientation, they were fed that fact of life relentlessly. For the surviving Turks this was an exception. They had never undergone the rigorous chore of having to know each other that well. Rude, the oldest of the three in both years and service, had been in a group with two unfortunates who had never quite recovered from the experience. Tseng had his own experience many years past. Reno had been snatched up from the SOLDIER ranks and had his training condensed to little more than a month, which hadn't included playing nice with others. Elena similarly had been recruited and promoted to replace an out of commission Reno. It had been a thin and deadly year for the organization. There were very few capable of the job, and even less willing to do it. They had who they had, and now there were only three. Or four, but Vincent Valentine wasn't on the payroll anymore.
Tseng must have sensed their time was drawing short even as he trained the few remaining candidates himself. He had a 6th sense about these things. The quick promotions for Reno and Elena were the last desperate act of a leader trying to breathe life into his dying profession. But he had taught them, and done it well. They were a new and old breed of Turk, with new and old Rules they followed, and exemplified.
As Reno reminisced he nearly missed the turn for the sublevel catwalk. Wheeling about he snaked his body through the narrow opening and began the decent down. Invisible sand crunched underfoot as he followed the circular path of the metal gangplank to the lower level shops and buildings. He was quite familiar with Junon, as the Turks frequented there often in preparation for missions that drew them away from Midgar. He almost liked the place he thought.
The Lazarus Pit was a back alley bar perfect for private meetings. It was situated nicely between a munitions shop and an inn. Two places that Turks found invaluable when traveling. It was also a favorite hangout because there was a credit line for any ShinRa employee of proper rank. The Turks, whether for rank or reputation, ate free, and drank free.
The proprietress of the establishment, one Jaz, no last name given, was a woman of singular talents. She ran the bar with one simple rule, one that no person in their right mind would challenge. It read, "No fighting on the premises". Jaz was former military, spoke softly and carried a very large gun.
Reno sidled in through the front door, trying to pass under her radar while simultaneously signaling the barmaid. Both reacted to his presence with a drawing of weapons.
"Well if it isn't our favorite customer."
The Turk raised his free hand in a way that looked like a hello, but said he wasn't on duty, and therefore, not packing heat that he wouldn't turn over.
Jaz kept both barrels steady on his chest while the barmaid patted him down and confiscated the Eagle, the nightstick, 2 out of 4 of his knives (she neglected to make him remove his boots), and pocketed the materia.
"Traveling light I see."
He tried his best smile. "It's been awhile Jaz."
The woman smiled thinly. "That's because I said the next time I saw you in here I would take that head from your shoulders."
Reno thought about offering a peace donut, but he didn't think it would make amends.
The barmaid disappeared with the weapons, and returned a moment later with a small device which beeped and shot a red ray of light on his torso. Reno stood patiently as the device checked him for anything warmer than his own skin. The barmaid stopped at his boots and looked pointedly at Jaz. The owner shrugged and said,
"You can keep those two, but if you take them out-" She drew a line over her own throat.
Reno nodded. "So...why aren't you kicking me out?" He had obviously been accepted if they had taken his hardware and hadn't shown him immediately to the door. The hostility he expected. The last visit he had made to Junon had left a rather bad impression, and the money needed to cover the damages was enough to make Reeve dock his pay for a month. It was the easy entrance he worried about.
Jaz's smile grew bemused, but she countered his question with another. "Did you think you could sneak in here? Dressed like that? As if the red hair wasn't enough of a giveaway."
"Or smelling like that." The barmaid wrinkled her nose.
Reno shrugged. "I had a bad run in with a snake. TURK business."
Jaz didn't appreciate the implication. She pressed the rim of the barrels underneath his chin and tilted it up.
"I don't care what business you're on Delaney. You bust up my bar again and not all the Presidents on the planet will get you another free pass. Do you understand me?" She growled.
Reno gave his assurance as best he could. Not easy with a shotgun up your nose.
Jaz dropped it and looked at him closely for the first time, noticing the more rumpled than usual state he was in.
"Well, you're not sitting in my place like that. You can use the washroom out back, and if you give Mina your clothes I'm sure we can find a garbage can worthy enough."
Reno snorted. "And what do you expect me to do? Run around naked?"
Jaz raised a fine blond eyebrow. She motioned for Mina to return to work and drew closer to him. The gun was at ease now, but Reno was sure it was aimed at a foot.
"You left an extra pair of clothes last time you came to visit me."
"I did, did I?"
She leaned forward and breathed lightly in his ear as she spoke. "Don't you remember? You promised you'd have occasion to need them when you returned."
Reno's skin tingled as she rested a hand on his arm.
"You promised to call me."
The Turk, confused, but not unhopeful said,
"I'm here now..."
Jaz smiled sweetly and casually kneed him in the crotch.
"The washroom is the second door on the left," she called over her shoulder as she left him. "Don't make a mess!"
Reno gritted his teeth and walked mechanically to the back of the bar. There was just something wrong with the blonds in this world. Something really unfair.
***********
Since time, like so many things, didn't seem to work properly here, he took to keeping a mental count while fleshing out his memory. Every 1000th count got a line etched into the ground with the heel of a shiny, black boot. He currently had twelve lines, and was well on his way to another.
What he had worked out thus far was that he had been a man of some importance, if a lot of people working for him, or the impression of wariness mingled with fear was any indication. In his definition of power, fear and caution were signs of status, and the people who had interacted with him, that he could remember, embodied both traits. Strangely, he didn't feel as much concerned about knowing his name as knowing what it meant to other people. Names were power as well. It was a signature of authority that opened doors and sealed plans without ever being uttered. Naming something gave it definition and identification, and he needed all these things.
He thought, if I knew my name I would know what to do. It was important, because he had several names for other people and they needed to be dealt with.
The many tangent thinking had lulled him into straight-backed stance, and he suddenly realized he had stopped counting the minutes. Furious at himself and the situation in general he kicked at the marks on the ground. The dust scattered, and took to the air in a brief cloud that dissipated within seconds. When it settled it looked exactly the same as it had before.
The outburst of anger lasted even shorter. Now he had no marks, and was back at square one, with only the knowledge that some time had indeed past. And even then, no evidence. That was where emotion got you though. Backwards.
Automatically he glanced at his wrist and was startled to see an iridescent circular cut of mako reflecting his astonishment. Then, just as suddenly it vanished, and reappeared, the hands frozen between 10:45 and 11. It vanished again a moment later, leaving him with the impression that it really didn't matter. It was not as if he could even remember coming here, so maybe time wasn't an issue. But…
He brushed away the bangs absent-mindedly and thought hard about what had just happened. It wasn't difficult to narrow down the source, as there was little active around this place but him. It was his doing, but how? There was the puzzle. He had become angry, a rare emotion for him even though it had happened twice in this place. He had also wanted something tangible very badly, and gotten his watch a moment later. A specific action to reach a desired result. Something desired…
And suddenly, it was there. Everything. Just there and open to him like the personnel files in his office. A genuine smile spread over his youthful face, but he let it flow smoothly into a look of practiced blankness. There would be time to celebrate later. He had to figure it all out. Had to find a way to get out, because he certainly desired that more than anything, and it hadn't happened as casually as his watch. There was a trick to every box, and this one was already part way open.
******************
Word from the author: Wow. Been such a long time since I updated this, but like every writer knows from personal experience, unfinished stories nag at you. I mean REALLY nag at you. Hope this earns me some peace of mind, and expect some serious strangeness in the next chapter. And Cloud dancing on a table. No, really. I did promise. Comments as always are the food I live on. Thanks. ^_^
Also, I have made a section of my webpage exclusively for this story, whose title it 'Waking' there. It has all the revisions to earlier chapters, and the art I've done for it. Soon to come are psychoanalysis and the beginnings of the comic I've drawn up. Here's the addy, and just cut and paste it in as geocities can be a bastard about outside linking. http://www.geocities.com/flush_royal/Goggle/writing/Waking/index.html
Chapter 6; Hangovers and Hang-Ups
A gray, overcast color dominated the sky, if a 'sky' it could be called. It seemed more a logical half of a divider between up and down. Down, as it were, was characterized by concrete colored grit. Smooth and even. There were no hills or marks on the land to distinguish one spot from another. All in all, bland was perhaps the kindest word to put to it. It even lacked a 3-D type quality. As if one could set it on its side and it would simply be a straight line.
There in this odd kind of space was one thing to make it worthy of comment though. There was a man. And he had been sitting in this place for a long time. Or so it felt.
He had no other means by which to judge this, but his inner clock spoke of years. Years he couldn't place or define. Time was a funny thing here.
This strange, or at least unprecedented, return to 'wakefulness' was what made him notice the incongruity. That it had never occurred to him until now made for uneasy company. It also made him restless. Troubled, he stood and began pacing, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his white coat.
It was if…there were something he should be aware of, could be, if he concentrated hard enough. The elusive measure of time ticked away at him like an uneven beat of fingers on a surface.
He frowned and raked a hand through his hair in a gesture that seemed as familiar as breathing. As recognizable as the large, metal bound watch he had once worn, the casing molded from tempered silver, the clock face a smooth chip of mako that glowed. He drew out his arm and scrutinized the left wrist. It had been there. There was even the pale ghost of a mark where the skin underneath the band had been shielded from the sun. He wanted it back. Something tangible. He wanted a way to measure things, to give some kind of reality to this state he was in. How else was he to prove his existence? It could all be a dream, or worse yet, not even happening. Maybe just someone else's memory.
How does a man explain himself? He mused. How do I know for sure that I am?
Anger bubbled up inside, but with an ease borne of years of guarding his emotions, he pushed it back down. He was stuck somewhere, somewhen, for an unknown amount of time. Time was important, and he could feel it wasting away on someone else's prerogative. No one wasted his time. He had always set his life by the clock, and even in death…
The notion startled him.
Why had he thought that? If there were something to remember surely he would know about that. But then again, he did not know when or where he was. The how although…. It was beginning to make more sense. Provided that death was indeed the answer, and it was certainly seemed an option.
He sat down again and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. Analyzing situations and their eventual, or possible, outcomes was something he considered himself an authority on. If he were indeed not alive, then being dead was just another factor to consider. If that were the case. Apparently something strange was going on, and he hadn't the means to work it out just yet. Best to start with the basics anyhow. One couldn't build a company on reputation alone, or an empire on guesses.
He tried to rattle off the basics. Things to lend shape to man he was starting to recall. Names, age, lifestyle, family, etc, but it was like knowing how to operate a complicated piece of machinery and having no information to input to it. The inability to do something as simple as map out details irritated him. Why should he know with a certainty that he loathed cats, but not be able to write his own name in the sandy grit on which he sat? Was remembering that he had (or once had, seeing as he was possibly R. I. Pieces) a hidden bottle of Midgar's finest bourbon stashed in a secret compartment in his desk more important than the details of his own life? And of his death? Though he felt that he knew now with a certainty that this was the case. He had died, and rather messily at that.
The memory stirred and sharpened as he forced himself to focus. It had been quiet in his sound proof office. Of the chaos outside he heard nothing. The faint swishing of a jacket on finely tailored slacks had been the only admission of a human presence as he crossed the room to look out the window. He remembered well his forehead and hand pressed against the cool glass, breath leaving a foggy impression right up until the point where it exploded in his face. He could feel the brief memory of pain at the white light that had seared his corneas before the end. Before the end of everything.
He sighed, stood, and paced again because he needed the variety.
"I never liked handguns. I have no use for things that only wound if you're not careful," he said aloud.
"There is a machine in the fitness room on the 60th floor that if you kick hard enough, spits out power drinks."
His brow furrowed in concentration.
"There was a fat man in my employ that I meant to kill the following week. He was a useless toad that laughed like a horse."
He smiled as more flickers of recognition bounced between his synapses.
"There was a woman…" he fumbled for the name, "…Scarlet, who runs the weapons development section. She has a .22 snub revolver in her cleavage at all times, a metal spike strapped to her inner thigh, poison tipped hairpins, and a pair of stiletto heels that could bore a hole through a concrete wall."
"If I didn't manage to kill her in the next month," he added with a sly smile, "I meant to give her a raise."
The small circular track he walked around where he had been sitting grew wider as his memories sped up his feet.
"There is a red-haired, loud mouthed, indolent, alcohol saturated Turk, who if he didn't do his job so well, or manage to avoid every would-be Turk I send to assassinate him, would be Hojo's pet for as long as he survived."
Another recollection flashed up along with an almost audible click of something coming together. He made a mental note to really put in an effort to punish that man. The bourbon in his desk was indeed gone, and he thought he knew who had compromised it.
p align="left"He blew strawberry blond bangs from out of his eyes with a breathy chuckle. There was yet another face he recalled, clear and distinct in his mind's eye. He also had a name to put to it that came without calling. The corner of his brain where he had stored pertinent and pending information drew up a list of persons he had labeled "Unexplained and Mostly Harmless", though for this man he might have to upgrade the second half to "Serious Liability".
"Cloud Strife," he said slowly. "Do I have you to blame for this?"
* * * * *
In the medical examining room at the Junon base, Cloud found himself subject to more poking and prodding then he felt was necessary for what he considered 'cosmetic' damage. All the major wounds had been force healed by Reno's FullCure, and if one discounted barbed wire that was dangerously close to some delicate areas, he was perfectly capable of getting out of there on his own steam.
The doctor in his turn had cast a low level Heal and Esuna combo aimed at cleaning up anything infected and sealing the bigger cuts. The rest he left to Cloud's own body and some well placed staples. It was better to let one heal naturally if a big spell didn't take care of it. Standard Army training in Mako warfare (his own knowledge he was sure) had included some rudimentary instruction on healing by magic. The doctor's treatment jived with the "High Level magic attacks used in sync mean bad mojo for you" breakdown of the military course. Apparently, using too many FullCure, Revive, and Esuna spells had telling effects on human physical makeup in the long run. Add in the attack spells used against you and, well, it could take some time to get over. Dementia was a common side effect, and he gathered that the doctor was being extra careful with a patient who had already enjoyed the drooling, crayon drawing phase of lunatics. The thought did little to cheer him.
When the last of the wire had parted company with his backside he immediately shucked the hospital whites for his own pants, which did little to hide either knee nor said backside. A younger nurse had come in to retrieve the dressing gown and blushed as he handed it to her. The older nurse gave him a smile that would make many nights hard to sleep. And not in a good way.
"Doctor," Cloud called.
The man left whatever he was doing and returned to the bedside.
"Will you be staying the night?" He wanted to know
Cloud blanched. Even if the price weren't astronomical he wouldn't sleep here for all the Gold Chocobos wandering the planet. Instead he gave a polite dissent and paid for his bill without comment, although the Doctor seemed keen on discussing both Cloud's past and Reno's supposed future.
"Are you sure the young man will be alright? We have extra beds here where we can keep him under strict observation." And in a straightjacket, was the almost audible suggestion.
As tempting as the offer was, Cloud wasn't in any shape to haul Reno in for observation.
"He'll be fine. He's a Turk."
The Doctor's face, and Cloud had to give him credit, stayed smooth, but behind the eyes information was flying. Whatever the Turks had been or were, people still associated them with the worst kind of trouble. It was like a ticket to freedom. After mentioning Reno's association with clandestine group, Cloud received little resistance to leaving. With a warning about the care of his staples and various other ailments the doctor guided him gently, yet firmly to the door.
Actually smiling for the first time in a long while, Cloud decided that Reno was good for something after all. Except that it was the same red- haired menace who had landed him there. And the same man who had saved his life. The conflicting thoughts were headache inducing and spoiled his mood. He left the hospital wing with a limp and scowl, clearing his path by virtue of expression alone.
***********
When Reno departed the premises, some time before Cloud, there was a bounce in his step and a cheerful air of one who knows that the drinks will be half-price. He had donuts. He had gil. And, there was a conspicuous absence of blond-haired, bitter, nutballs without a drop of humor. Well, agreeable humor anyhow. He could finally take a breather and assess the next course of action with food, a shower, and a pint of something to help him forget the nurse. Calling his real partners was another high up on the list of 'must do' things.
The simple fact that Reno had a working plan, and was thinking ahead, might have come as a surprise to many. It was a trait that others would have found completely alien to the Turk, if one discounted the imminent drinking. Others who operated solely on his reputation as a loose cannon and a sloppy drunk. This was of course, a decoy, of the first order. Or at least the loose cannon part was.
Turk guidebook, Rule #1, made it very clear that you were not to be who you were in either appearance or action. There were certainly a lot of ways to translate this, which of course embodied Rule #2. Be adaptive, or adapt the situation.
Tseng, the former leader of the group, had been the most successful at this of any Turk to date. It was notoriously hard to rise to the rank of Turk in the first place, but to be its standing leader for more than 5 years was a record. Tseng had been one for 12, and Reno was his prodigy.
The redhead, though never entirely comfortable at the double life required of Rule#1, was still heartily in favor of Rule#2. Adaptability, he learned from experience, was all. That was the rule he felt most likely to be the one to save your ass, because humans more than anything were unpredictable creatures. Take Cloud and co. for example. Coulda killed the guy straight off when they met. Coulda saved himself some irritation and broken bones. Tseng had seen something else though. He had made a point to let that damned AVALANCHE group get away time and time again, because somehow he knew. He knew that even a group of rejects could become strong enough to take on Sephiroth and save him precious personnel. The Turks weren't a numerous bunch, and Tseng was a careful planner in that respect.
Reno also guessed, with much ire, that Tseng had probably measured the Turks' success rate against Sephiroth, and found them wanting.
His own experience with unpredictable people was a little less noble and lot more embarrassing. As a personal reminder for himself he had explicitly added to the list; never underestimate the target, even if the intel tells you that said target is a 250lb man who hasn't exercised a day in his life and would have died anyway from a heart attack right down the road. It was disconcerting and just a bit awkward to find the tables turned because one didn't have the foresight to calculate that 250lbs of flesh can and will take 3 bullets, multiple shocks from a nightstick, a kitchen knife, a bar stool, one of those 1/35 Sephiroth statutes, and finally end with a bic pen to the jugular. After the mess that left, Reno had become one of the more dedicated students of Tseng's instruction on planning for all contingencies.
The Turks though, by anyone's standards, were a different breed of chocobo. To really understand the function of their outfit, to even begin to put a face to the enemy, and they were the enemy, one had to stop missing the forest for the trees. Of course, this could be a challenge in itself as the whole point was to make understanding them difficult if not impossible.
Reno would have been startled to know that Cloud had similar feelings about AVALANCHE, in respect to group work.
Adolus P. Harper, one of the original group of 8 Turks sometime 60 years back, had wrestled with this problem and finally worked out, after three consecutive kills on their members, that they needed a change of tactics. The Turks' original mission statement had been to keep ears and eyes pinned on the varied factions of the ShinRa conglomerate for the head honcho, Shinra himself. While this worked out fine for the first couple of months, word got around to watch out for the watchers. The warning also emphasized how easy it was to dispatch of them entirely to save one's ass from being reported to the boss. Convenient and easy on the nerves, as legally the Turks were not supposed to even exist.
Adolus mulled over this problem while mopping up after a fellow Turk. Though he wasn't exactly remorseful about the man's death, as he hadn't liked him to begin with, he did feel rather motivated to preserve his own bullet-free skin. Therefore, a new Rule of conduct was drafted, passed unanimously, and squeezed into place between Rules 3 and 4. This inclusion merely stated, "Carry a gun" and "Work in groups".
Therefore, Turks by nature and training, worked best as a group. They were handpicked to operate as a unit capable of living together for months at a time, on a small cramped sub, with little privacy and no chance to get away. That was the staple of the diet; live together or die apart. They had learned it the hard way and meant to make the most of the lesson.
Throughout their almost year long orientation, they were fed that fact of life relentlessly. For the surviving Turks this was an exception. They had never undergone the rigorous chore of having to know each other that well. Rude, the oldest of the three in both years and service, had been in a group with two unfortunates who had never quite recovered from the experience. Tseng had his own experience many years past. Reno had been snatched up from the SOLDIER ranks and had his training condensed to little more than a month, which hadn't included playing nice with others. Elena similarly had been recruited and promoted to replace an out of commission Reno. It had been a thin and deadly year for the organization. There were very few capable of the job, and even less willing to do it. They had who they had, and now there were only three. Or four, but Vincent Valentine wasn't on the payroll anymore.
Tseng must have sensed their time was drawing short even as he trained the few remaining candidates himself. He had a 6th sense about these things. The quick promotions for Reno and Elena were the last desperate act of a leader trying to breathe life into his dying profession. But he had taught them, and done it well. They were a new and old breed of Turk, with new and old Rules they followed, and exemplified.
As Reno reminisced he nearly missed the turn for the sublevel catwalk. Wheeling about he snaked his body through the narrow opening and began the decent down. Invisible sand crunched underfoot as he followed the circular path of the metal gangplank to the lower level shops and buildings. He was quite familiar with Junon, as the Turks frequented there often in preparation for missions that drew them away from Midgar. He almost liked the place he thought.
The Lazarus Pit was a back alley bar perfect for private meetings. It was situated nicely between a munitions shop and an inn. Two places that Turks found invaluable when traveling. It was also a favorite hangout because there was a credit line for any ShinRa employee of proper rank. The Turks, whether for rank or reputation, ate free, and drank free.
The proprietress of the establishment, one Jaz, no last name given, was a woman of singular talents. She ran the bar with one simple rule, one that no person in their right mind would challenge. It read, "No fighting on the premises". Jaz was former military, spoke softly and carried a very large gun.
Reno sidled in through the front door, trying to pass under her radar while simultaneously signaling the barmaid. Both reacted to his presence with a drawing of weapons.
"Well if it isn't our favorite customer."
The Turk raised his free hand in a way that looked like a hello, but said he wasn't on duty, and therefore, not packing heat that he wouldn't turn over.
Jaz kept both barrels steady on his chest while the barmaid patted him down and confiscated the Eagle, the nightstick, 2 out of 4 of his knives (she neglected to make him remove his boots), and pocketed the materia.
"Traveling light I see."
He tried his best smile. "It's been awhile Jaz."
The woman smiled thinly. "That's because I said the next time I saw you in here I would take that head from your shoulders."
Reno thought about offering a peace donut, but he didn't think it would make amends.
The barmaid disappeared with the weapons, and returned a moment later with a small device which beeped and shot a red ray of light on his torso. Reno stood patiently as the device checked him for anything warmer than his own skin. The barmaid stopped at his boots and looked pointedly at Jaz. The owner shrugged and said,
"You can keep those two, but if you take them out-" She drew a line over her own throat.
Reno nodded. "So...why aren't you kicking me out?" He had obviously been accepted if they had taken his hardware and hadn't shown him immediately to the door. The hostility he expected. The last visit he had made to Junon had left a rather bad impression, and the money needed to cover the damages was enough to make Reeve dock his pay for a month. It was the easy entrance he worried about.
Jaz's smile grew bemused, but she countered his question with another. "Did you think you could sneak in here? Dressed like that? As if the red hair wasn't enough of a giveaway."
"Or smelling like that." The barmaid wrinkled her nose.
Reno shrugged. "I had a bad run in with a snake. TURK business."
Jaz didn't appreciate the implication. She pressed the rim of the barrels underneath his chin and tilted it up.
"I don't care what business you're on Delaney. You bust up my bar again and not all the Presidents on the planet will get you another free pass. Do you understand me?" She growled.
Reno gave his assurance as best he could. Not easy with a shotgun up your nose.
Jaz dropped it and looked at him closely for the first time, noticing the more rumpled than usual state he was in.
"Well, you're not sitting in my place like that. You can use the washroom out back, and if you give Mina your clothes I'm sure we can find a garbage can worthy enough."
Reno snorted. "And what do you expect me to do? Run around naked?"
Jaz raised a fine blond eyebrow. She motioned for Mina to return to work and drew closer to him. The gun was at ease now, but Reno was sure it was aimed at a foot.
"You left an extra pair of clothes last time you came to visit me."
"I did, did I?"
She leaned forward and breathed lightly in his ear as she spoke. "Don't you remember? You promised you'd have occasion to need them when you returned."
Reno's skin tingled as she rested a hand on his arm.
"You promised to call me."
The Turk, confused, but not unhopeful said,
"I'm here now..."
Jaz smiled sweetly and casually kneed him in the crotch.
"The washroom is the second door on the left," she called over her shoulder as she left him. "Don't make a mess!"
Reno gritted his teeth and walked mechanically to the back of the bar. There was just something wrong with the blonds in this world. Something really unfair.
***********
Since time, like so many things, didn't seem to work properly here, he took to keeping a mental count while fleshing out his memory. Every 1000th count got a line etched into the ground with the heel of a shiny, black boot. He currently had twelve lines, and was well on his way to another.
What he had worked out thus far was that he had been a man of some importance, if a lot of people working for him, or the impression of wariness mingled with fear was any indication. In his definition of power, fear and caution were signs of status, and the people who had interacted with him, that he could remember, embodied both traits. Strangely, he didn't feel as much concerned about knowing his name as knowing what it meant to other people. Names were power as well. It was a signature of authority that opened doors and sealed plans without ever being uttered. Naming something gave it definition and identification, and he needed all these things.
He thought, if I knew my name I would know what to do. It was important, because he had several names for other people and they needed to be dealt with.
The many tangent thinking had lulled him into straight-backed stance, and he suddenly realized he had stopped counting the minutes. Furious at himself and the situation in general he kicked at the marks on the ground. The dust scattered, and took to the air in a brief cloud that dissipated within seconds. When it settled it looked exactly the same as it had before.
The outburst of anger lasted even shorter. Now he had no marks, and was back at square one, with only the knowledge that some time had indeed past. And even then, no evidence. That was where emotion got you though. Backwards.
Automatically he glanced at his wrist and was startled to see an iridescent circular cut of mako reflecting his astonishment. Then, just as suddenly it vanished, and reappeared, the hands frozen between 10:45 and 11. It vanished again a moment later, leaving him with the impression that it really didn't matter. It was not as if he could even remember coming here, so maybe time wasn't an issue. But…
He brushed away the bangs absent-mindedly and thought hard about what had just happened. It wasn't difficult to narrow down the source, as there was little active around this place but him. It was his doing, but how? There was the puzzle. He had become angry, a rare emotion for him even though it had happened twice in this place. He had also wanted something tangible very badly, and gotten his watch a moment later. A specific action to reach a desired result. Something desired…
And suddenly, it was there. Everything. Just there and open to him like the personnel files in his office. A genuine smile spread over his youthful face, but he let it flow smoothly into a look of practiced blankness. There would be time to celebrate later. He had to figure it all out. Had to find a way to get out, because he certainly desired that more than anything, and it hadn't happened as casually as his watch. There was a trick to every box, and this one was already part way open.
******************
Word from the author: Wow. Been such a long time since I updated this, but like every writer knows from personal experience, unfinished stories nag at you. I mean REALLY nag at you. Hope this earns me some peace of mind, and expect some serious strangeness in the next chapter. And Cloud dancing on a table. No, really. I did promise. Comments as always are the food I live on. Thanks. ^_^
Also, I have made a section of my webpage exclusively for this story, whose title it 'Waking' there. It has all the revisions to earlier chapters, and the art I've done for it. Soon to come are psychoanalysis and the beginnings of the comic I've drawn up. Here's the addy, and just cut and paste it in as geocities can be a bastard about outside linking. http://www.geocities.com/flush_royal/Goggle/writing/Waking/index.html