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10. Rod – Quitter

Rod was mad. Mad as hell. Mad as a hornet. Mad as lightning cutting through the sky in a thunder storm. Not about Sephiroth, although that was shocking enough. The hum of traffic from the street beyond the alley undercut his words. He had been ready to shoot the 'mugger' stupid enough to grab him, a suited Turk, and drag him down here, until he realised who it really was. Alejandro, his one-time second in command and best friend, looked back at him with arms folded and an indecipherable expression.

Rod knew that the Rage Riders had given themselves up to the feuds. What was more, he knew they blamed him for the ill effects they had suffered because of it. According to their skewed understanding of how things worked on the streets, he had driven them to give up their name and independence to ally themselves with a bigger, stronger gang. That was what the kid he'd pinned down had said, right before Naifu fell on her ass and her stupid cherry bomb flung them both into a building. The chaos that followed had allowed the kid to get away, but Rod had known someone would be back. That it was Alejandro just made this easier. He wouldn't have to interpret hearsay; he could get answers straight from the source: the guy who had broken his trust and sold them out.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he demanded.

"Nice to see you too, bro," Alejandro said easily. The livid red of his tatts made him look like he had been slashed across the tops of his cheekbones. They drew attention to his eyes, which were anything but relaxed. Rod fell instinctively into a defensive stance at the fury burning in them.

"You joined one of the big gangs?" Rod demanded.

Alejandro shrugged. "Not like you left us much choice."

"Fuck that for an explanation!"

"See, since you made me leader, bro, I don't gotta explain myself to you no more. You left. You ab-di-ca-ted." He enunciated the word, punctuating each syllable with a flick of his index finger. "I don't owe you no explanation. Only reason I'm giving you anything is 'cause I want you to know what you did to your bros when you left to take care of just yourself."

"I left you in charge –"

"That's right; you did. And I made a decision about the situation you left us in."

"You mean you betrayed the Rage Riders."

Alejandro's expression became murderous. If Rod had been a more timid guy, he might have taken a step back at the shot of pure venom. "You wanna talk to me about betrayal? Do you really wanna go there? Really?"

"I never betrayed you –"

"The hell you didn't! You abandoned the gang. You walked out on us because we weren't enough for you anymore. You promised to protect the boys and then you just left to suit yourself. Call me crazy, but that sounds like betrayal to me."

"I left you in charge," Rod insisted. "You were there from the beginning. You knew as much as I ever did about running things."

"But nobody else believed in me."

"The boys –"

"That's not who I meant. We both know my rep wasn't worth shit compared to yours. It wasn't just knowing how to swing a bike chain or fire a gun that kept us safe from outsiders; it was the name that went with it. Your name, Rodriguez. Everyone knew not to mess with you. The big gangs, they're feuding all the time. We both know that. We grew up seeing it, didn't we? You remember growing up with me, bro? You remember all the times we shared as kids? You remember the cycle of all gangs – the Bloodbaths, the Acid Tongues, the Keepers? No matter the name, they all ended up doing the same thing in the end. They always tried to recruit smaller outfits like us to pad out their numbers when they lost too many of their own in fights. Remember?"

"I remember," Rod said flatly.

"Your rep kept them away from us. As long as they knew you'd bust the heads of anyone who tried to absorb the Rage Riders, nobody tried. And then suddenly, poof, you weren't there anymore. Did you think they wouldn't find out? After you left to join Shinra, guess who came calling? And they weren't taking no for an answer no more."

"They would've if you'd said it hard enough. I wasn't special. You could've done the same as I did and shown them the Rage Riders weren't for sale."

Alejandro laughed and shook his head. "Never thought I'd hear you sound so naïve. What do you care, anyhow? You left. How've you been finding life as a Shinra lapdog? Or should I say," he curled his mouth around the word like he was being asked to taste turpentine, "Shinra's bitch?" He tossed his head. For a street-rat, Alejandro had pretty good hair. Soft brown and wavy, it moved like something out of a shampoo commercial. He was always tossing it about when making a point. When did that start? Rod had memories of them shaving each other's heads when they got lice as kids, and laughing at how ridiculous they looked. Other than that and staying free of gang-tatts, appearances hadn't been much of an issue for Rod. He never got into that 'gotta be buff to get girls' mind-set. Maybe that was because just staying alive turned his muscles solid and his long body trimmer than gym bunnies from above the Plate.

Alejandro, on the other hand, always seemed aware of every inch of himself as he moved. He had nursed a suspicion of being seen as weak and done his damndest to appear tough while they were teenagers. He had dressed to impress and played the part of the young gangbanger to the hilt. Even now he was dressed in leather, spiked wristbands and thick steel-toed biker boots. A bright red bandana sat loosely around his neck and a single stud glittered in one ear. It wasn't a diamond, but glass often sparkled more because it had more to prove.

His tone was calculatingly spiteful. "Did you know that your Turk friends iced one of your old bros just last week?"

"What?"

"But then why would you care, right?" Alejandro shrugged. "We ain't your bros no more. Your boys ain't your boys."

Rod's mind bubbled with lava-hot anger. "You can't pin that on me. I left you in charge. What I did wasn't anything special. The bigger gangs listened to me because I didn't give no ground and always did what had to be done to make 'em respect me. Like you said, we were kids together. You know I didn't have no superpowers or special connections; I just sent the right message to the right people and let the rest take care of itself. You remember the recruiter I sent back to the Bloodbaths when the Rage Riders first started?"

"I remember," Alejandro said softly. His eyes shone with memories, and perhaps something more. "You sent him back in pieces. On film."

Rod had committed a single act of conscious, outsized cruelty and violence to seal his rep. It had been distasteful and made even his stomach lurch to remember, but there had been a need in order to stop further bloodshed – his boys' blood in particular. The Bloodbaths were a gang with a name that was more of a description. There was no way Rod was going to let the Rage Riders become a part of them, but the recruiter had refused to take no for an answer. Rod had thrown him out of the building they made their home at the time, only to find the guy in the alley outside leaving a message in the shape of Alejandro's dead body. Alejandro still had the scar on his stomach where the recruiter had slashed him. Rod had heard the scuffle, stepped in and seen with a predator's simplicity that he needed to send a message of his own.

He had documented it. Alejandro had helped him get the unconscious man inside and down to the basement. Then Rod had locked himself in alone with the guy and, using a stolen phone, taken photos and videoed what came next. It had been disgusting, but Rod had used the footage and the message it gave to fortify the Rage Riders' against anyone looking to intimidate them: The is what happens if you try to recruit us. He distributed them to the underground network and waited for the message to spread. Such a small gang wasn't worth the amount of aggro it would take to get them. As long as they didn't step on anyone else's toes or make any enemies, the bigger gangs were content to leave them alone. Rod wasn't proud of what he had done. He had never told anyone about the nightmares that followed, or the unclean feeling he got when handling blades of any sort. It was one of the reasons he now preferred blunt weapons or hand-to-hand. He had done it because it was necessary.

Growing up homeless on the streets of Midgar was tough. You grew up fast or you didn't grow up at all. That was what Rod had always believed. It was what had made Veld look twice at the punk who tried to lift a prototype model motorcycle from Shinra's workshop so he could copy its design and trick out bikes for those who brought them to him for repairs. Rod did what was necessary to get the job done, even if it was unpleasant. He was perfect Turk material.

The Bloodbaths were eventually absorbed into the Red Fangs. The few surviving members had spread word of the little biker gang and their ruthless leader. Rumour always elaborated the truth, so Rod had never had to be quite so vicious again, or so public. One death wasn't out of the ordinary in the part of Sector Six where they lived, but Rod had made himself out to be the best and used that as a yardstick until he really was. He had thought Alejandro was smart enough to do the same.

Apparently not. Apparently Alejandro had taken the easier path and ended up as cannon fodder for someone else's gang. Now things had gone wrong, he had shifted responsibility onto the absent Rod and convinced the other Rage Riders it was Rod's fault they'd lost their identity, their home, and probably their hope of hitting thirty.

Rod's hand clenched around his gun. He hadn't put it away and had no intention of doing so. This wasn't the Alejandro he had known. This wasn't the guy with whom he had shared food when one of them had picked enough pockets to eat and the other hadn't. This wasn't the guy who had saved enough to take him to the Honeybee on his sixteenth birthday. Alejandro had changed. So had Rod.

"If you'd just held your ground, they'd have respected you and left you alone," Rod said.

Alejandro snorted. "You really believe that?"

Rod wasn't sure, but he had to convince himself, and if he couldn't, he had to fake it. He straightened his spine, even though he was still feeling the effects of the medical treatment after the cherry bomb incident. "Whatever happened, it's on your head, Alejandro, not mine."

"No way, dude." Alejandro shook his head. "It's on yours. And the boys? They want to pay you back for it, Turk or no Turk."

"And you don't?"

He shrugged.

Rod scowled. "Whatever happened after I left, it wasn't my responsibility."

"You built the Rage Riders. Everything that happens to them is your responsibility."

"And none of it's yours?"

"I'm already taking my lumps," Alejandro said bitterly.

"Rod? Where'd you go?" called a voice from the street: Sandan, his partner while Naifu was being reprimanded. "Rodriguez?"

Rod didn't take his eyes off Alejandro.

"Watch your back, bro," his old friend said as he faded into the shadows. "You can be sure we will."

Rod stayed on his guard every step out of that alley.

"There you are!" Sandan cried. She bobbed up to him, sweeping bits of her long brown ponytail from her mouth. What was it with Turks and unsuitable hairstyles? And inappropriate nicknames, too. "Darling, if you needed to step out for a moment, there are perfectly usable facilities in the restaurants two streets over. You didn't need to use a," she wrinkled her nose, "brick wall. Phew, it smells like every dog in the neighbourhood uses this one."

"Whatever." Rod pushed past her, head too full and chest heavier than it had ever been.

He remembered the time he'd had pneumonia and the Rage Riders had been forced to cope without him while he recovered. They had pulled their jobs, stealing bikes and scavenging parts to rebuild and revamp whatever customers' brought them. Alejandro had been smoking hot back then, bringing in more than anyone else and cutting deals for classic motorcycles beyond anything anyone else could do. Rod had been insane with jealousy. That competence and talent had convinced him that Alejandro was a good choice to replace him as leader when he joined the Turks.

Something prickled at the base of his brain. Anger? Disappointment? Betrayal? He had never felt guilty before. He couldn't recognise it.

"Darling?" Sandan caught up to him. "Did something happen that I should know about? We have to be alert, now more than ever."

She was talking about the mess left by Sephiroth's passing, and the fact the general public weren't being given the whole story, but Rod interpreted her words differently.

"Fuck off, will you? Let's just get this fucking patrol over with and get the fuck back above the Plate."

"Well." Sandan folded her arms primly. "Someone rolled out of the wrong side of bed this morning."

Side-flings, Homages and Downright Rip-offs

Sandan is Japanese for 'gunshot' (roughly translated) and is Shotgun (Female) from Before Crisis.See her picture at finalfantasy (dot) wikia (dot) com (slash) wiki (slash) Shotgun (underscore slash) (Female)