I'm really sorry for not updating this fic for ages. Writer's block held me hostage for about a year. I've had this chapter in pieces for ages, but something called 'divine inspiration' allowed me to finish it today. I've gone through my other chappies semi-revamping them. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Characters copyrighted to Squaresoft inc.
.:Chapter 4 – True Faith:.
"I feel so extraordinary; something's got a hold on me…" New Order
I guess you could say I had a hard time accepting the 'truth' that Rude was dead. I mean… fuck, I don't know what I mean, all I could think of was how I first met the guy. I hate reminiscing, but what the hell, this could be like his, uh, eulogy. I mean it wasn't like he was going to get much of a send off anyway. Guess the question was where to start…
Ah, perfect…
He felt the hidden curves of her streamline body hidden beneath a robe of darkness. Her 'fuck me doll' eyes burned with a hungering passion as she ran her red nails across his taut abdomen, concealed under a loose fitting shirt. His blue eyes glanced around the dingy hotel room noting each crack in the wall, each tear in the dog-eared wallpaper whilst she teasingly unbuttoned his shirt. He looked at her…it was the first time he'd properly looked at one of his conquests, to him they were just an outlet for his frustration – less effort then having to jerk off, cheaper than a whore; however, there was something different about her. He glanced down at her left hand, the dull gold band encircling her ring finger – it'd be the first time he'd had a married woman. You wouldn't have thought she was married…she was just too damn attractive to fall for that marriage shit; tousled chestnut hair that streamed down her back, red lips that drew up into a bee-stung pout, startling blue eyes that thirsted for something more than just a 'loving' husband. His hands continued to work their way up her body to the curvature of her rounded bosom that lay concealed beneath the caress of satin.
"Not that I care about formalities but you never told me your name," breathed the redhead, as his hand gently traced the outline of her breast.
"Likewise," she purred, whilst trailing a line of kisses across his chest. "But, you need no introduction… Reno."
He smiled; reputation got you everywhere, especially in somewhere like Junon. Now it was time he took real advantage of this reputation…
His hands gently parted her black robe to reveal the body that lay beneath. She wore nothing except a pair of black suspenders that graced her long, toned legs - he had to admit, that was one thing that drove him wild. With that he pulled her close, his lips pressed against hers as they hungrily devoured each other. She let out slight moans of passion as his right hand began to teasingly work its way down from her rising chest to her hips; she felt his other hand forcing her against the edge of the double bed.
The brunette's hands found themselves desperately pulling at the buttons on the redhead's slacks. Never had she felt herself so overcome with such raw passion, each time he touched her, a new wave of lust immersed her. She felt him pressing against her, pushing her down on to the bed below. His hands took over from hers as he finished unbuttoning his trousers. Her eyes pleaded with him in anticipation as her legs gently drew apart, inviting him…
…it was an offer he couldn't refuse…
His eyes once again met hers, he could see them begging, begging with him to ravish her over and over again; it would have been bloody rude of him not to...
"I want him fucking dead!" raged a rather large, balding fifty-something gang lord. "No one fucks my wife except me!"
Perspiration ran down the doughy features of the exceedingly pissed off leader of the Sonatine Faction. His chest was heaving with wheezing, ragged breaths causing his face to take on a rather unflattering purplish tinge. Dorian Sonatine had been the 'boss' of the Sonatine Faction for the past fifteen years, within those fifteen years the Junon underworld was his, ruled by the iron fist of the underground. Every week there was a new assassination attempt on his life, and every week each one was foiled. Dorian Sonatine was not a man to be messed with... especially when it involved his wife, Sofia. She was paying dearly for her adultery, her pretty face covered in dark purple bruises and fresh cuts. It hurt too much for her to cry out in pain, and she knew all to well that her husband was not one to reward tears with kindness.
"Get out of my sight!" yelled Sonatine, backslapping her hard across the face one last time. "Worthless whore!"
Sonatine watched his wife stagger towards the door, her arms wrapped around her stomach. He could hear her stilettos clicking on the floor, occasionally stumbling out of rhythm.
"I want her followed," mumbled Sonatine to one of his bodyguards. "Watch her every move."
With a silent nod, the gold-toothed bodyguard slunk out of the room, hot on the heels of Sofia Sonatine, who had run to her room in order to pack up her shit and get out of town.
"You!" A chubby finger shot out, pointing at another one of his intimidating bodyguards.
The man in question stepped forward; a bald, dark skinned man, who took to wearing sunglasses even inside the darkest of offices.
"Boss?" he replied, in a deep rasping voice.
"Bring me that redheaded punk," commanded Sonatine with a snarl, "...alive..."
"Alive?"
"Yes, alive," wheezed Dorian Sonatine, a gummy grin spreading across his face. "He's no use to me dead...well, not yet."
"Can I have a little service here?" drawled a rather scruffy looking redhead.
His strong jaw line was framed by two days worth of auburn stubble, sharply contrasting with the deathly pale complexion on which it was set against. His glazed blue eyes were set in circles of purplish black indicating a serious lack of sleep. Being on the run was a tiring business...
"Look mate, we're closed so clear off will ya?" replied the barman abrasively. "You too, pal"
The dark suited man sitting a stool down from Reno knocked back his drink and walked for the door. The draft sent a shiver through the redhead causing him to reach for his overcoat that lay next to him on an adjacent stool. Pulling the heavy wool coat about him, his eyes caught those of the stern barkeep.
"Alright already, I'm going!" exclaimed Reno exasperatedly, rolling his eyes for added effect. "Jeez..."
Slamming his currency on the bar, the redhead lit a cigarette and headed for the door. The bittersweet scent of the tobacco mingled with the night air as he exhaled, the smoke swirling into nothingness. Reno stared up at the sky, looking for a glimmer of moonlight, but was greeted with the oppressive smog that seemed to hang about Junon, night and day. One day he'd get out of this dump, make something of himself instead of being just another street thug. Absentmindedly, he took another drag of his cigarette, inhaling deeply.
"Smoking'll kill you," whispered a voice from the shadows. "Although, that small indulgence isn't the biggest threat to your life at the moment, is it?"
"Who's there?" replied a slightly taken back Reno. He usually knew when people were following him, but this guy had completely caught him off guard.
"I can't tell you my name, but I think you can guess who I represent," answered a softly spoken man.
From the shadows emerged a tall, dark haired man dressed in a dark navy blue suit; the same guy who was sat at the bar with Reno. The darkness obscured his face, but from what he could make out there was something Wutain about his looks, the dark hair, the sallow skin... it all reminded him of some girl he 'knew'.
"You're the guy from the bar," responded the red head. "You following me or something?"
"In a manner of speaking," smiled the dark suited man, "The buzz from the bees tells me that you've rather upset a certain someone. Sleeping with his wife, wasn't it?"
"You're good...Turk," smirked Reno.
The dark suited man merely smiled and continued.
"Dorian Sonatine has been a thorn in our side for quite some time," replied the Turk smoothly. "It would appear we have that detail in common."
"So what? That don't answer my question... are you following me?" Reno shot back.
"I merely have a proposition I would like you to consider," responded the dark haired man, calmly. "A proposition you might find hard to refuse."
The Turk reached into his inside jacket pocket, removing a pair of black leather gloves which he deftly began to slide on to each hand. Reno caught a glimpse of a pair of holstered guns by the sides of the occupied Turk – a pair of perfect .44 Peacemakers. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as the streetlamps highlighted the sleek ebony handles, flawless... not a single fingerprint in sight.
"Hard to refuse, eh?" replied Reno, his tone dripping with forced confidence.
The Turk merely smiled as he pulled on the last of his black gloves, flexing his fingers into the soft leather.
"Hard to refuse," agreed the Turk, a sly smile flashing across his shadowed face.
"So, why me?" questioned Reno, carefully. He had to be careful; no one messed with a Turk and got away with it...
"Let's just say, you've caught our eye," replied the Turk, that sly smile still ever present, "And people who catch our eyes do not easily dismiss our propositions."
"Are you threatening me?" countered the redhead, feeling his temper rising even though he knew it would probably cost him his life. One false move and he knew he'd be dead meat
Reno's piercing blue eyes met the beetle black ones of the Turk who stood in front of him. He could feel his body shaking beneath his heavy overcoat; whether through cold or fear he didn't know, but he had a feeling it was probably the latter.
"What if I am?" replied the Turk as calmly as ever, "Would you be able to do anything about it?"
Reno was lost for words... he knew that by asking the Turk questions such as 'Are you threatening me' would only lead to a further barrage of rhetorical answers, it was against their practice to tell more than what was necessary.
"Hmm, I didn't think so," smirked the Turk. "Now, about this proposition..."
Interrogating the bartender had been easy enough; apparently this Reno character had vacated the bar moments ago, he had to be near by. Pushing his dark glasses further up his nose, the bodyguard aptly named Rude scanned the surrounding slum area. Removing the .45 Magnum from the inside of his jacket pocket, he moved quietly into position, keeping low, making sure he didn't draw any attention to himself. He thought he caught the sound of soft voices on the night air, but he couldn't sure. This would be the third night Rude had gone without sleep; the Boss had ordered a continuous search, not caring about the effect that three sleepless nights would have on his prized bodyguard.
"Don't move," whispered a voice, the coldness of a gun muzzle pressed against his left temple. "Drop your weapon."
One didn't argue with someone who had just placed a gun against one's head, so complying with the assailant's demands, Rude dropped his .45 Magnum to the floor, hearing it clattering loudly as it made contact with the dirty ground.
"Who are you?" began Rude, his voice calm and collected.
"I'll ask the questions," replied the serene voice.
"Don't expect any answers," spat Rude, coming to the opinion that this guy was all talk.
"Not meaning to sound cliché," began the suited assailant, "but I have ways of making you talk."
"Heard it all before," drawled Rude, tempted to pull his emergency revolver from his other jacket pocket.
It was then that he felt the gun drop from his temple. Rude felt his body subconsciously relax as the threat of being shot in the head subsided. Through his dark sunglasses, he could make out the gloved, navy suited attire of his attacker. It hit him like a proverbial shot that the man who had held him at gunpoint was, in fact, a Turk.
"I've been waiting for you," smiled the Turk, "We both have."
"We?" questioned Rude monosyllabically. "You thought it'd take more than one Turk ta bring me down?"
Ignoring Rude's comment, the Turk gestured to a hidden associated lurking in the shadows; as he saw the second man step forward, Rude instantaneously reached into his jacket pocket, but the Turk was too quick. Rude felt his arm wrenched behind his back and a flick-knife grazing his throat.
"Too hasty," tutted the Turk. "Far too hasty."
Rude watched as his quarry came forward, the punk's red hair blowing in the cool air. An almost triumphant smile blazed across his face as he watched another one of Sonatine's assassination plots foiled.
"Tell your boss," leered Reno, "that he can't kill me that easy,"
Rude said nothing; he refused to give this street-punk any regard, and he was also fully aware as to how close the knife was to his carotid artery.
"Why are you following this man?" questioned the Turk, ignoring the street banter between the two.
The bodyguard's silence ensured that his arm was further wrenched up his back, the ensuing result – a muffled grunt of pain followed by a series of expletives. Loyalty was priority to Rude, but he had a feeling this confrontation was about to get nasty and he was right.
"You refuse to talk?" questioned the Turk. "Very well, it seems I'll have to resort to more extreme measures."
Within the blink of an eye, the flick-knife was gone and replaced with a syringe filled with a yellow-tinged aqueous solution. Reno didn't like to think what was contained within that syringe; he'd heard rumours about ShinRa's science department, along with its more than slightly insane inhabitants...
"This is a 25ml shot of Sodium Pentothal," began the Turk, relishing the tenseness that shot through his victim, "commonly known as 'truth serum'. Just one shot is all it takes before you start divulging your most sordid secrets to me."
"You think dat shit frightens me?" countered Rude, attempting to mask his fear with a veil of confidence.
"I don't think," sighed the Turk, "I know. The results will speak for themselves."
"Your sick," spat Rude, unable to comprehend the calmness in the Turk's voice.
The Turk merely chuckled, he'd been called worse.
"Now," started the Turk, "will you talk freely, or will it have to be by force? Count yourself lucky, I don't give many a choice."
"I'd tell him man," mocked Reno, glad that he wasn't in a similar position, "Could be poison in that syringe that he ain't telling you about."
"Sonatine," muttered Rude, not wanting to experience the effects of this 'truth serum' that, as the punk said, was more likely to be poison then anything else.
"Good," replied the Turk, the syringe still millimetres away from Rude's neck, "Reno?"
"Yeah?" replied the red-head, eyeing the syringe nervously, hoping he wasn't about to be subjected to the same treatment.
"I want you to unholster your gun and shoot this man," demanded the Turk calmly and self-assuredly. "He is of little use to me anymore."
"You shittin' me!" choked Rude, vainly attempting to struggle against the Turk's surprisingly strong grip.
"What is this shit?" hollered Reno, his eyes flickering between the Turk and his captive.
Reno gulped as he watched the Turk replace the syringe with one of his Peacemakers, knocking off the safety before pointing the gun at Reno's head.
"Shoot him, he dies. Don't shoot him, you die," warned the Turk, his eyes dancing with fire. "Clear?"
"Crystal," replied Reno, vainly attempting to detach himself from the situation.
"Yo man," called Rude, watching Reno hesitantly remove his Magnum revolver. "You gonna listen to dat shit?"
"You'd have killed me if this guy hadn't stopped you," replied Reno, pulling the trigger back on his gun.
"Kill ya?" scoffed Rude. "Why'd I waste my bullets on your white ass?"
"If you didn't kill me, Sonatine would," drawled Reno, nervously aiming the gun at Rude's bald head. "Either way, I'd be dead."
Something pulled harshly at Reno's stomach, a feeling of insecurity. Why was he pointing a gun at some guy's head? Because he would have led you to your death, dumbass... This guy was in the same position as Reno though, both street-scum, both trying to get by... the only thing that was different was that they were on opposite sides. That's enough isn't it? Kill him already! No... What? That Turk'll kill ya if you don't! Reno didn't take orders from anyone; it was a matter of principle. He didn't need no jumped-up, suit-wearing murderer ordering him around, telling him who and when to kill. Besides, Reno had a feeling that he was too valuable... he hoped that feeling was more than just wishful thinking. Fuck that...
Aiming his gun, he let off a shot that pierced the silence, its noise reverberating endlessly around the graffiti stained walls.
FINALLY! After a whole year, I've managed to complete this chapter. Looks like you'll have to wait another year for the next chapter, or at least a few months. I've got evil Uni exams and I vowed to finish my Harry Potter fic too. Keep checkin' though, and as always, feel free to give me a review.
