Reuben was still drifting between world after world of faceless apathy when I wandered into the lounge for an excuse to look at him. I leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded, watching his eyelids flutter in rhythm with his dreams, conceiving endless lines of poetry so captivating and poignant that I forgot them all. His chest rose and fell, made ever so slightly more perfect by at least three healed bullet wounds, long since buried in blistered calm. Not even Jenova could want him more than I, salient and deranged before the rising sun. Would that half of her that made Sephiroth make him the next, if she were still alive? That part of the hallowed harbinger that still takes breath may command no independent thought of its own, whatever remains is splintered, haggard and aggrieved by the loss of its remaining self. It might think after all and not give a flying fuck about humanity. Or it might want the revenge it rightfully deserves, if the convoluted justice rife in Midgar is to be believed.
I tilted my head forward to catch the sound of hair sliding across the couch cushion as Reuben awakened slowly. Before he noticed me I slid into the kitchen, suddenly seeing the ramifications of my observing him sleep. Such behaviour would arouse even my reticent suspicion. And so it came to pass that, weary of his own exhaustion, my guest rolled off the couch and found the bathroom without my intervention.
When at last I recognised the sounds, strangled screams cloaked in running water I did not respond immediately. Call it a general disrespect for human life. But respond I did and it was probably just as well. Zach's body lay sprawled awkwardly against the shower wall, leaning on the temperature slide and bringing water of increasingly unbearable heat onto his unconscious form. Pulling the shower door open with one hand I caught him with my free arm and dragged him, all steaming skin and taut muscle, onto the cool floor. He winced as all his weight landed on scalded flesh. The older wounds, covered yesterday in sterile dressings, gaped in virulent rage, contracted and purple with heat. No Mako had come to cleanse them. Despite my efforts I could no sooner sprout wings and fly than think of what to do next. Kill him now; end it? No, not like this, injured and robbed of the dignity such an act deserves. Fuck knows how long the phone had been ringing.
"Sinclair?", a stressful voice barrelled down the receiver. I wiped my brow.
"Hey Reeve, how's it hangin'?"
"For fuck's sake, have you carried out your orders yet?", my orders stirred from the next room, raising themselves up on wet shoulders.
"Uh, yeah, sure. I'm busy removing the evidence right now." There was a brief pause, the awkwardness of which I found utterly orgasmic.
"That sounds like a lie, Sinclair." How uncharacteristic of either of us to be at all deceptive. I entertained a proverbial sweatdrop.
"Really? Well, I learned from the best. And who knows when you're lying to me? After all, boss, you are the one who killed-"
"That is not the point. The point is that the Knights of Neo-Midgar have called an urgent meeting. If you can't be here within the hour I shall have you shot."
"Love you too, Reeve". I hung up the phone. Looks like I've only got fifty-nine minutes of freedom left today. Who the hell are the other Knights anyway? The title suggests an aura of austerity and thoughtless strength, not ex-Turks, or anyone the Shinra would have considered employing for that matter. All I know is that we are all trained killers, all genetically engineered and none are forthcoming with their identity. Time to go meet the team.
My car smelled of him through the entire trip. With all avenues of escape from my apartment locked from the outside there was little chance of Reuben causing much damage. If he tried to rob me he wouldn't be able to get out. Nothing worth trashing or burning, my Electro-Mag rod secure in the glove box and my ID cards somewhere on my person; wherever I left them last time I sent this suit to be laundered. No Shinra employee will question the contents of a uniform before or after servicing it. It's more than their lives are worth not to replace whatever they find. Then again, Turks kill menial staff just for the fun of it. Target practice, not like we needed it. Rude and I could shoot so true when facing other at close range that our bullets would clash and rupture, landing as a single lump of charred lead.
Shinra National Headquarters. Words can be so bitter, so synthetic, an unwanted presence to which I sometimes cannot lend solidity. They are no more forever than the structures they represent, the disgustingly opulent foyer with its potted palm trees, the genes of which all came from a Petri dish, and the columns of "marble", painstakingly painted onto limestone to save an immaterial amount of money when the fact that the Shinra own every mining colony in the world is taken into full and objective consideration. My first john met me here. He was a janitor, keeper of so many keys that we would always wind up in a room impossible to disturb, keys tied in a bunch to his belt that rattled like asthmatic birds when he thrust, nervously at first and then more assertively when I quit caring about the pain. I often wonder, now his body will never be found, why he only ever undid his fly rather than dropping his pants when he knew we were alone. And why he always carried four hundred gil when he knew I'd do it for three.
* * * * *
I tilted my head forward to catch the sound of hair sliding across the couch cushion as Reuben awakened slowly. Before he noticed me I slid into the kitchen, suddenly seeing the ramifications of my observing him sleep. Such behaviour would arouse even my reticent suspicion. And so it came to pass that, weary of his own exhaustion, my guest rolled off the couch and found the bathroom without my intervention.
When at last I recognised the sounds, strangled screams cloaked in running water I did not respond immediately. Call it a general disrespect for human life. But respond I did and it was probably just as well. Zach's body lay sprawled awkwardly against the shower wall, leaning on the temperature slide and bringing water of increasingly unbearable heat onto his unconscious form. Pulling the shower door open with one hand I caught him with my free arm and dragged him, all steaming skin and taut muscle, onto the cool floor. He winced as all his weight landed on scalded flesh. The older wounds, covered yesterday in sterile dressings, gaped in virulent rage, contracted and purple with heat. No Mako had come to cleanse them. Despite my efforts I could no sooner sprout wings and fly than think of what to do next. Kill him now; end it? No, not like this, injured and robbed of the dignity such an act deserves. Fuck knows how long the phone had been ringing.
"Sinclair?", a stressful voice barrelled down the receiver. I wiped my brow.
"Hey Reeve, how's it hangin'?"
"For fuck's sake, have you carried out your orders yet?", my orders stirred from the next room, raising themselves up on wet shoulders.
"Uh, yeah, sure. I'm busy removing the evidence right now." There was a brief pause, the awkwardness of which I found utterly orgasmic.
"That sounds like a lie, Sinclair." How uncharacteristic of either of us to be at all deceptive. I entertained a proverbial sweatdrop.
"Really? Well, I learned from the best. And who knows when you're lying to me? After all, boss, you are the one who killed-"
"That is not the point. The point is that the Knights of Neo-Midgar have called an urgent meeting. If you can't be here within the hour I shall have you shot."
"Love you too, Reeve". I hung up the phone. Looks like I've only got fifty-nine minutes of freedom left today. Who the hell are the other Knights anyway? The title suggests an aura of austerity and thoughtless strength, not ex-Turks, or anyone the Shinra would have considered employing for that matter. All I know is that we are all trained killers, all genetically engineered and none are forthcoming with their identity. Time to go meet the team.
My car smelled of him through the entire trip. With all avenues of escape from my apartment locked from the outside there was little chance of Reuben causing much damage. If he tried to rob me he wouldn't be able to get out. Nothing worth trashing or burning, my Electro-Mag rod secure in the glove box and my ID cards somewhere on my person; wherever I left them last time I sent this suit to be laundered. No Shinra employee will question the contents of a uniform before or after servicing it. It's more than their lives are worth not to replace whatever they find. Then again, Turks kill menial staff just for the fun of it. Target practice, not like we needed it. Rude and I could shoot so true when facing other at close range that our bullets would clash and rupture, landing as a single lump of charred lead.
Shinra National Headquarters. Words can be so bitter, so synthetic, an unwanted presence to which I sometimes cannot lend solidity. They are no more forever than the structures they represent, the disgustingly opulent foyer with its potted palm trees, the genes of which all came from a Petri dish, and the columns of "marble", painstakingly painted onto limestone to save an immaterial amount of money when the fact that the Shinra own every mining colony in the world is taken into full and objective consideration. My first john met me here. He was a janitor, keeper of so many keys that we would always wind up in a room impossible to disturb, keys tied in a bunch to his belt that rattled like asthmatic birds when he thrust, nervously at first and then more assertively when I quit caring about the pain. I often wonder, now his body will never be found, why he only ever undid his fly rather than dropping his pants when he knew we were alone. And why he always carried four hundred gil when he knew I'd do it for three.
* * * * *