Before Crisis: The Beginning
By DarkAngel
Disclaimer:It isn't mine. Got it memorized?
Chapter 22: Never Trust Your Own
St. Andrew was dreaming. In his dream, he was running with the very first gang he'd entered. It was one of the ones that roamed the neighbourhoods of the upper plate of Midgar, and they'd become well-known in their neighbourhood for muggings and jackings. The gang was back in the hideout after a successful run, having just looted a bunch of yuppies who thought they'd take a walk on the wild side. Midgar's denizens had a fondness for slumming – to a safe degree. They wouldn't go so far as the real slums below the plate, but a grittier and reasonably safe experience above it wasn't beyond them. Those slum-wannabes soon learned that it was just as dangerous above as below.
Sitting in front of a small stack of wallets piled in a corner, St. Andrew counted out the cash. Enough gil to splash out for a few days. And then there were the credit and debit cards too. He wondered what he'd spend his share on. Maybe more parts for his bike…
And then there was a loud ringing noise, like a klaxon. The gang jerked from their various positions, startled by the sound. What the hell was that? A pounding at the door made them all turn around, alarmed. The knocking was loud, insistent, and at the same time, the ringing noise was only getting louder.
"Damn it, we've been found!" someone yelled. St. Andrew scrambled up. The wallets fell from his lap, scattering around him. The knocking grew louder; people were now running around shouting and suddenly the door burst open and there was light –
St. Andrew's eyes snapped open. The ringing was still there, and he leapt up, looking around him wildly for the source of the sound.
The black mobile on his bedside table was skittering across the table's surface, ringing loudly. St. Andrew breathed a sigh of relief, pressing a button at the side. The ringing stopped. Pressing another button, he looked at the time. 6:22. Groaning, he flopped back onto the bed. He was damned sure he hadn't set his alarm to get him up this early… Closing his eyes once more, he prepared to go back to sleep when he heard it. That knocking sound. Same as the dream.
Shooting up into a sitting position once more, St. Andrew stretched his feet out, bringing them down onto the carpet.
There it was again. He stood up, making his way out of his bedroom and down the short corridor to the combined kitchen and living room. Just off the kitchen was the small entryway to his apartment. The knocking came again, loud and jarring against the otherwise still air of the apartment. Taking hold of the handle, he wrenched open the door.
"Rosie?" He blinked. A tiny woman, blonde and pale stood in front of the door, her arm raised in mid-knock. Immediately she dropped the arm.
"I thought I was going to have to break down your door," she said. She cocked her head at him, eyebrows furrowing in consternation. "You didn't respond to the message, so Tseng sent me down here to get you."
"Uh… He did?" He scratched at the back of his head. "For what?" Belatedly, he realized that his PHS had gone off for a reason. His growing chagrin must have been evident on his face, because Rosalind only raised an eyebrow and stepped back, jerking her chin at him.
"Get dressed, St. Andrew. We've got a mission."
When they arrived at headquarters, Tseng was staring at him impassively, though there was just the merest hint of disapproval in his smooth features. "Why didn't you respond to the message?"
"He was asleep sir," Rosalind said, cutting across St. Andrew. "We didn't get to sleep until late last night, you see."
There was a silence. Tseng and St. Andrew stared at her. Then her words seemed to penetrate, because Rosalind flushed and stammered, "I mean, all of us – St. Andrew, Rafe and I, we –" She stopped again. "Never mind," she mumbled. "I should have realized you wanted both of us here, sir. I'm sorry."
St. Andrew bit hard on his tongue to keep the grin from his face. Tseng, for his part, was moving smoothly on.
"That's all right, Rosalind. I don't expect you to read minds, although" he smiled a little, "that would be an invaluable asset." He addressed them both. "I'm sending you both out to do some reconnaissance work. A report came from Rafe yesterday. We have reason to believe that AVALANCHE has been recruiting and gathering large amounts of funds from civilians around the world to finance their activities against the company.
"These funds are gathered through front groups. The likelihood is that these groups are in just about every major city around the world. Mostly they'll be parading as environmentalist groups, although we can't discount the possibility that there are other guises AVALANCHE will use." Tseng held up a file. "All the pertinent details are in here. I want you both to look carefully through the data we've assembled, then head out and find these front groups." He looked sternly at them both. "I don't have to tell you this, but I'll say it anyway: the membership of these groups is in the majority civilians who don't know anything about AVALANCHE or its true objectives. Don't do anything that will compromise yourselves or the company." Rosalind nodded with a crisp "yes sir". Tseng turned his eyes on him. St. Andrew nodded.
"Rosalind, you'll be going to Icicle. There aren't too many large populated areas on the continent, so it shouldn't take you long. St. Andrew, you'll be covering Midgar."
Wait. Midgar was huge. How come he was getting the bigger detail? Stuck somewhere between feeling proud that Tseng had thought he could handle the entire city and bemusement – where the hell was he going to start? – his thoughts were interrupted by Tseng.
"You'll be covering the upper half of the city. It will take time to make your way through all of the sectors, but I don't want you to rush."
"Okay." St. Andrew scratched the back of his head. "So who's doing the lower?"
"Another agent," Tseng replied. St. Andrew was about to ask who, but Tseng was already giving them their final instructions, and it was clear he wasn't going to get any more in the way of an answer. Sighing, he looked at Rosalind, then at the file in her hands. "Fine. Let's see that file."
They pored over the file until Rosalind left to catch her flight to Icicle. St. Andrew stood up as well, grabbing his EMR. After checking to make sure he had all the supplies he would need, he set out.
Shin-Ra headquarters was at the very centre of the city, cocooned by the eight sectors. The main entrance to the building was in Sector 1, and this is where St. Andrew stood, looking over his PHS and making mental calculations. Tseng had given him a list of all relevant meeting halls, churches and other places large enough to hold a fair-sized congregation of people in each sector. There was no way he was going to be able to finish this all in one day, but at least he knew what he was looking for; it was better than a blind search through the city.
It took him about three hours to finish the first sector. By then it was nearing lunchtime, and St. Andrew groaned. No, he definitely wasn't going to finish this in one day. As he exited the community centre, he ticked it off his list, looking down at the next coordinates. Sector Two.
Making an impatient noise, he scrolled through the locations list on his PHS. The length of this list was even more appallingly long than the Sector 1 list had been. Disgustedly, he stuffed the device into a pocket. Fuck this, he was hungry. He knew just where to go…
He ended up in Sector 8, close to headquarters, home to a little deli that happened to be the best place to get a pile-high smoked meat sandwich. As he ate, he thought about his next course of action. Maybe Sector 8 was a good place to look from; as the newest sector, it hadn't had time to accumulate the kinds of buildings in the way Sector 1 had. It wouldn't take nearly as long; and besides, he was here already. There would be no point in backtracking to get to Sector 2, and nobody had told him he had to go in order.
With his decision made, St. Andrew sipped his soda, nodding to himself. The door beside him opened.
"-make the meeting. I'm working late tonight, so I'll be held up. Can you say hi to Genessa for me if I don't show?"
"Yeah, sure. But you know, one of the biggies is going to be there tonight. They say he's a real show. Can't you talk to your boss?"
"No… What was the guy's name again?"
"I can't remember what it is… sounds like it comes from Wutai or something, though. Morito, or something?"
Their voices faded gradually as they made their way to the counter.
After he'd finished his lunch, St. Andrew found himself outside again, staring at the increasingly despised list on his screen. He peered at the list, taking note of the places he'd have to check out. Eight buildings. Sector 8. Huh.
As he ticked his way down the list, St. Andrew grew increasingly impatient. Checking his watch every now and then, he saw that time was quickly escaping him – it was now almost three in the afternoon and he hadn't found one thing even remotely related to AVALANCHE. Turning a corner, he came to a stop in front of his next destination: the Coruscant Memorial Hall. In front of the building was a wide half-circle of yellow bricks that made a low decorative wall. Following along the curve of the semi-circle were wrought iron benches, which a few people sat on. The steps to the building were low – only three steps to the entrance. He took these up.
Inside, the hall was grander than anything St. Andrew could have imagined. The entire place was made to look like the inside of some ancient building. Like a church, St. Andrew thought, though the last time he had been to one he had been…
…a despicable brat. No doubt you take after your father. Boorish child.
St. Andrew snorted. Why the hell was he thinking of her? Small wonder why he hadn't seen the inside of a church in ages. Cursing under his breath, he shoved the nasty reminders of his childhood down and took a closer look around.
The hall was spacious and airy, with windows set high into the walls. St. Andrew didn't see the point to this. Midgar's sky was so polluted that the best anyone could hope for was a hazy mist through which the sun made a valiant attempt at breaking through; not exactly the cheery, conducive colours that gave a person a sense of benediction or peace. Large columns held up the vaulted ceiling, which was painted with a mural depicting pastoral scenes filled with people of different races working in harmony at ploughing fields, going on hikes and other activities St. Andrew supposed were meant to represent cooperation towards fostering humankind as a whole. The floor itself was also a mosaic, this one of a woman and man surrounded by children. Their hands were outstretched, and the children reached for them. It wasn't clear to St. Andrew just what was being offered here, but the message, soft as it was, was clear enough to him. Community service. The brotherhood of humanity. All that good stuff that painted the world as a place where sufferings were healed, where problems were short-lived and easily-fixed; a world, St. Andrew concluded, of deluded fantasy.
Scowling, his eyes left the floor. Places like this made him pessimistic. He should just search the place and leave as soon as possible.
He was just heading for the exit when a woman entered the building. They collided. The contents of the woman's bag spilled, making various noises as they made contact with the floor. St. Andrew muttered an apology, and the woman, taking one look at him, started. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to –" she stammered. St. Andrew just shook his head, irked. Man, this place was really getting to him. Normally he wouldn't have minded if a pretty woman bumped into him, but he found himself having to bite back a sharp, "Watch where the hell you're going." Which was just as well, because the woman was practically falling all over herself to pick her things up. With a sigh, St. Andrew bent over to help her.
"Oh, no! I – thank you." The woman redoubled her efforts. St. Andrew in the end could only stand and watch as she tossed everything back into her back and practically sprinted off. What the hell had that been about?
Shrugging, St. Andrew ran a hand through his hair. Ah, well. It wasn't his business what others thought of him. Wearing this suit, a person couldn't exactly expect the best of reactions all the time. Moving forward again, he made to leave.
Crunch. St. Andrew looked down. Oh, hell.
There was a tiny disc in a plastic case that was currently lying in pieces under his foot. It must have belonged to that woman. Glaring, he picked the disc up. It was a little scratched up, but the casing had by and large protected it.
He thought about just leaving it. After all, he wasn't really in the mood to be charitable, least of all in places like this. On the other hand – St. Andrew frowned. There had been something off about her behaviour. It was sort of the reaction Turks got from time to time, but from Midgar's own citizens, that was kind of rare. It couldn't hurt to check things out just a little more (and he really didn't want to go to Sector 2 – the very idea was giving him the chills).
Decision made, he went in the direction the woman had gone. Down the hall he walked, looking at the doors on either side of the corridor. They were all the same, though some of them had signs tacked up, written on paper. 'THE CHOCOBO BREEDERS SOCIETY MEETING, 6 P.M.' one sign in bright blue read. A few doors down, there was another sign which proclaimed that in that room lessons were being offered Cactuar cookery.
Hanging a right at the end of the hall, St. Andrew looked around but found no trace of the woman. Damn. His eyes followed the end of this hall to a set of stairs that lead up. He frowned, then shrugged. Oh, what the hell. He might as well see what else was on offer here. Who knows? He might run into that woman again somewhere in the building.
But there was nothing. The closest thing he found was a shut door with a white sheet of standard A4 paper tacked to it that proclaimed:
'THE PLANTERS SOCIETY PRESENTS SEMINAR: CHOOSE LIFE TODAY! THE LIFESTREAM AND HOW IT AFFECTS HUMANKIND. SPECIAL SPEAKER: F. KARIYA.'
The meeting was scheduled for early that evening. St. Andrew read the paper again, brows knitting together. "The Lifestream and how it affects humankind," he muttered. Hadn't Veld said that AVALANCHE had started in Cosmo Canyon from a bunch of people concerned with planet studies and the Lifestream and all that?
His phone rang. Well, speak of the devil.
"What's your situation?" Veld. Taking several steps away from the door, St. Andrew gave his report.
"I see. St. Andrew, I want you there at that meeting tonight. Send me your survey data and I'll have other agents checking into other sections of the city. This lead could be something important."
So St. Andrew did was told, sending the largely unfinished list of buildings he had been ordered to check out back to HQ. He grinned. A little recon was better by far than trawling the streets sector by sector. He was kind of looking forward to this.
--
He came at a quarter to six to the memorial hall once more, this time dressed in a hooded top, jeans and a messenger bag carrying his weapon, supplies, a recording device and an extra set of clothes to hide the contents of his bag should someone peek and to muffle the sound of the other devices within. Climbing the stairs, he arrived in front of the door he'd stopped at earlier. This time, he pushed it open.
The place looked like a classroom, St. Andrew thought with distaste. Ifrit, this building was just pushing up the whole spectrum of awful childhood memories. There were desks with chairs attached. They were all in rows. The floor was that same white linoleum. There was even a blackboard and a clock on the wall directly above it. St. Andrew shuddered.
The people in the room had turned to look up at him when he entered. He slouched, avoiding their glances, and slumped into a seat, spreading his legs out before him. Rummaging in his bag, he took out a notebook and pen and began to doodle. After a while, the buzzing of conversation started up again, and St. Andrew took the opportunity to look around.
They – the people in the classroom – reminded St. Andrew of the very people he'd once made a living off of, back in his first gang: fairly affluent young people who lived in comfortable houses and probably drove to work, even if they lived but a short distance from it. They were exactly the kind of people who would want the experience of slumming without having to set foot in said slums. Unconsciously, his lower lip curled into a sneer.
He'd gone through three pages of his notebook as the room filled and the buzzing of voices grew louder. Lots of women, a good number of men, mostly in their twenties to forties, though there were a good-sized number of older people and even some children. St. Andrew continued to sketch in his monster – a dragon with wings that spanned out on either side of its body. It was only when the room suddenly fell into a hush that St. Andrew bothered to look up – and he nearly fell off his chair.
There had been a photograph clipped to the report on the three AVALANCHE leaders. Here was one of them, in the flesh. Medium height. A bit on the thin side. Glasses. Wearing a diamond-checked sweater in shades of navy and salmon pink. Even through his shock, he felt a bubble of laughter trying to work its way up his throat, and it was only staunched by ducking his head and approximating a grunting cough.
When he looked up again, Fuhito was at the front of the room, gazing at the people in seated at their desks. Quietly, St. Andrew turned another page in his notebook and began to write.
The meeting ended at seven. St. Andrew got up with the others, but didn't stay to linger. Pulling the hood of his top up, he slouched his way out of the classroom and into the hallways. As he left the building, he pulled out his PHS. Finding the number he was looking for, he waited. One ring. Two rings.
"Hey, it's me." A pause. "Yeah. You were right." His mouth twisted ironically as he spoke the code phrase he and Tseng had agreed upon. "The aliens have landed."
--
Tseng listened to St. Andrew's pronouncement about aliens. After a brief moment, he nodded. "Good job. Return to headquarters for a full debriefing." Hanging up, he looked at the map of the world that was currently displayed on his computer screen. Moving his mouse to where Midgar was located, he clicked. A small red dot appeared in the spot he'd clicked on, joining a number of corresponding red dots scattered in different places around the world. One in Midgar. Another in Junon. Yet another in Cosmo Canyon. He didn't doubt that by the time the survey was complete, there would be a profusion of red dots in every significantly populated city and town in the world.
How did AVALANCHE get this far without us noticing? The thought was troubling, and Tseng stared at the dots for several moments, his mind whirring with the information he had received. They had started up in Cosmo Canyon. Initially they had been a group that had studied the movements of the planet's rhythms. How planets were born, how they lived, how they died. Naturally those studies had extended to how those principles also applied to life on this planet, and it had only been a matter of time before what had been a group of people interested in planetary studies had morphed into a collective with a consciousness. A consciousness that had decided that mako was dangerous and unacceptable. A consciousness that had moved beyond word into action. A consciousness that had become AVALANCHE.
The fact that they were siphoning money like this from locations all over the world was indicative of a larger plan in the works; of that Tseng was sure. What the plan involved was anyone's guess. A call came in. Tseng picked up. After a few moments, he hung up the phone again and this time clicked on Mideel. They had penetrated the southern island regions as well.
After half an hour of trying to work out something concrete from the data on the screen and piled around his desk, Tseng stood up, leaving his office. Coffee sounded really good about now.
"How is the reconnaissance progressing?"
Tseng turned around to face his superior, shaking his head. "There's not a place on the planet AVALANCHE hasn't reached, it seems." He gestured to the coffee machine. "Shall I prepare a cup?"
"No." Veld handed Tseng a file. "We've received additional data from the soldiery. You used epidemic as an analogy. You can't imagine how close to that you are."
Tseng glanced at the file. "I take it there have been more sightings?"
"Sightings, yes. And defections." Veld's face was impassive. "We've been infiltrated."
He should have expected it, but he was startled nonetheless. "How long has this been going on?"
The older man shrugged, rubbing at his chin, though whether in thoughtfulness or weariness, Tseng couldn't say. "We can't say for certain, but one thing is clear: AVALANCHE's indoctrination has spread far and wide. We never could discount the possibility that sympathy might spill over into action." He jerked his head at the file. "What's in that file is proof enough of that."
Tseng nodded, sipping his coffee. The bitter liquid – lukewarm – Tseng noted with distaste, slid down his throat. Their work had gotten that much harder. It looked like he would be here a while.
Dumping the contents of his mug down the sink, Tseng began searching the cupboards for the bag of ground beans. If he was going to stay here, he may as well make sure he had a proper cup of brew.
--
Samantha ran as fast as she could, ignoring the heat and the stitch that had become a permanent feature in her side. She had to get the rest of those fugitives back. Her pride wouldn't consider any alternative. As she rounded a bend, she came face to face with three of the escapees. One of them Samantha recognized as King. They turned around when they heard her footsteps. The escapee to the right of King made a noise. "It's the Turks! They're already here!"
"Damn it!" shouted the other fugitive. "Where the fuck is that AVALANCHE ship?!"
"All right," Samantha shouted. "You three – get back on the boat!" She was in no mood to argue, and she still had to find the AVALANCHE vessel. She raised the gun in her hands.
She saw them whispering amongst each other and blew out an explosive breath, rolling her eyes. Obviously they were plotting how best to take her down. Her eyes flitted to King, who watched her, his dark eyes gleaming with a light best described as cunning. He still thought he had a chance. Turning her attention back to the others, who had by now broken out of their impromptu huddle, she cocked her head. "Well?"
As one, they turned. And then the fight began. Samantha ducked, backing up as a punch aimed at her face whistled by her. She kicked out with a foot, taking the man down. King used that opportunity to deliver a roundhouse sweep, which caused her to stumble. The third man tried to overpower her, attempting to wrestle her weapon from her grasp. Samantha's eyes narrowed. "Fire!"
With an agonised scream, the man let go of her. King delivered a punch that temporarily blinded Samantha as she saw white, then fuzzy shapes in her line of vision. Ugh. He was still so much stronger than her. She reacted just in time to ward off the follow-up to the first attack. "Shield!" she practically screamed. The force the barrier now between her and her adversary was so strong that King actually stumbled back a few steps. Samantha refocused her barrier.
She followed up with an ice spell. At that moment, she felt the materia in its slot tingle. A huge chunk of ice – larger, and from the chill that ran down her back – colder than her previous ice attacks, encased King. He stood within his crystalline prison, frozen. And then the ice shattered, the pieces flying everywhere. The debris sliced into King's flesh and the man roared, sinking to one knee. Before he had time to consider his next move, she was pointing her shotgun at his chest. He crumpled, unconscious, as the sleeping dart felled him.
For several moments, Samantha looked down at him, breathing heavily. A shrill chirrup broke her out of her trance, and almost absently, she fished out her PHS. Exhaling deeply, she picked up.
"Samantha. Come back to the vessel."
Her heart skipped. That was Rude's voice.
"Rude!! You're okay!"
"Yeah. Hurry." And then he hung up. Samantha blinked. Staring at her now closed phone, her mind reeled. Rude was alive.
And he had hung up on her without so much as giving her a chance to say anything.
She blew a raspberry at the phone, sticking out her tongue. "Yeah. Hurry," she mimicked, in an approximation of his baritone. Then she laughed. "Yeah. Great that you're all right, Rude." And she ran back toward where the Shin-Ra vessel was docked.
--
When she got back to the ship, Rude was outside, waiting for her. She waved, happy to see him alive and more or less whole. Skipping over the bruise purpling the side of his face, she stopped a few feet in front of him, smiling.
"There you are…" he rumbled, "We've got most of the candidates back."
"Hm," Samantha murmured, looking Rude over, checking for any more injuries. "Speaking of, where's Reno?"
"He's still out there looking for the last of the runaways."
Samantha nodded. She was about to open her mouth when Rude's PHS rang.
Rude listened as whoever was on the other end presumably spoke. Samantha tapped her foot against the concrete, looking around. Finally, with a word in the affirmative, he hung up. Samantha looked up. "Rude, was that Tseng?"
"The AVALANCHE boat is docked along the beach," he said in answer.
He was shifting slightly, looking uncomfortable. Samantha didn't see what there was to be fidgety about. This was it! They had retrieved most of the candidates; all that was left to do was to find AVALANCHE and trounce them! Blood pumped furiously in her veins at the thought of a good fight.
"So if we go to the beach, we ought to find the last of those candidates," she said excitedly. "Let's go!"
She had only gone a few steps when she realized two things. The first of them was that Rude hadn't made to follow her. The second was that, even as she turned around to yell at him to get a move on, he was swinging his fist at her.
The blow brought Samantha down as easily as if she were a domino. As her legs gave way beneath her, Samantha struggled with the blurred vision and the painful spots swimming before her eyes. She thought she heard Rude say something like "I'm sorry" but she couldn't be sure, and in any case, she was going down, down into the depths and soon, she was aware of nothing but the blackness.
--
Rude stared down at the unconscious form of his comrade. She wasn't even twitching. With a small wave of regret, he thought that he shouldn't have hit her so hard. As it was, she was probably going to have a blinding headache when she woke up.
She wouldn't understand why he had done what he did. Truth be told, he wasn't a hundred percent sure that knocking her out had been the best course to take. He only knew that what Shears had done could not stand, and that the Turks always avenged their own. He had been telling Samantha the truth when he said they weren't here to pick fights, but this wasn't a mere fight. He hoped she would understand… in time.
Adjusting his gloves, Rude glanced more one time at Samantha's prone form, then left for the beaches.
He'd reached the bottom of the stairs that lead to the beach when an amused voice caught him short.
"Are you going alone?"
The lazy, can't-be-bothered drawl could only come from one person. Rude raised his eyebrows. He was faster than usual.
Reno stepped forward, pushing himself off the wall of one of the villa houses. He smirked at his partner. "The beach, right?"
Rude didn't answer. It didn't pay to, and in any case, Reno was far too good at filling in the gaps without any assistance.
"What a surprise. I was just on my way to the beach myself."
Rude shrugged. "…don't let me stop you."
"Thanks." Reno grinned, his expression one of unwholesome relish. "I won't."
They got to the beach just as the sun was setting, an orange ball sinking into the watery horizon. Seabirds called to each other in farewell. Beachgoers had by and large gone back to the resorts and the pubs. The sound of the waters lapping at the sands reached their ears, a soothing backdrop punctuated by drifts of laughter and bird calls. It would have been a scene straight out of postcard if it hadn't been for the confrontation that was waiting for them.
There, on the pale sands, stood Shears, his hands shoved into his pockets. He watched as they stopped some distance from him, his expression unsurprised. When they had stopped, he shook his head, kicking at the sand.
"Have you come to get your asses beaten again? You people never learn."
From beside him, Rude felt the aura beside him change. Although his form was still slouched casually, his hands, like Shears, in his pockets, Rude caught the glint in the Reno's eyes. He didn't need a dictionary to translate that glint. It clearly said 'that fucker is going down'. With exaggerated care, Reno took out his weapon. "You talk too much," he said lowly, eyeing Shears with the hungry look of a starved wolf finding prey in its den.
"Fine." Shears crashed his fists together. He eyed them both, a look of mixed derision and determination on his face. "We'll finish this, since it's what you two want. You'll feel the extent of my full power to your bones!"
"It's the other way around," Reno said, moving around so that he was some distance from Rude. The two of them exchanged glances; Rude nodded.
Rude ran at Shears, pulling his fist back. "We…"
"-came here to win!" Reno finished. Shears dodged Rude's punch, retaliating with one of his own. He swatted Reno away easily, as if he were an inconsequential but annoying mosquito. He threw back his head and laughed, spitting on the ground.
"Do you get it now? Neither of you are a match for me!" He shook his head, disbelieving. "Come on. That stuff about Turks being deadly adversaries? You pulled that bullshit out of your asses, didn't you?"
"You may be strong…" Rude conceded. He caught Reno's grin out of the corner of his eye and returned the expression with a small close-lipped smile of his own. Ready. Steady. Go.
"But!" Reno shouted, taking a run at Shears. His EMR flickered, an electric crackle filling the air. Shears grinned, raising his fists to meet Reno's onslaught. Reno, however, had a different idea. Dancing nimbly out of the burlier man's reach, he cackled. Shears whipped around to follow him. That gave Rude just the opening he needed.
Shears stumbled from the force of Rude's punch. Again Shears spun around to counter, but in his moment of anger, he'd forgotten about Reno, who now closed the distance so that Shears was trapped between the two Turks.
"We…" Reno drawled, spinning his EMR around in an arc.
"…have no intention of losing," Rude finished bringing one gloved fist down onto the ground beneath his feet. At the same moment, Reno let loose with a fantastic arc of lightning that shot from his weapon and encased Shears. At that moment, the shockwave from Rude's own attack reached Shears. The man was caught by the simultaneous attacks. His body jerked as it was seized, caught in an electrified landslide. When the attacks subsided, fell stiffly to one knee with an abortive grunt.
Over the head of their stunned foe, Reno shot Rude a grin. Damn right, it said. Nobody but nobody messes with the Turks.
They turned their attention back to Shears, who was getting up with some difficulty. Reno grinned, tapping his EMR against his shoulder. "Had enough? Or did you want some more?" he taunted.
Shears gritted his teeth, staring at them with undiluted hatred. "I won't forget this," he hissed. "This isn't over!" He got up. Reno and Rude got into ready stances, in case Shears wanted to try his luck again, but the man only tottered away, shooting them filthy glances. After shooting each other a quick glance – do we finish this? – they let Shears go. Let him lick his wounds. He would definitely be back. And the next time, they would really show him just how stupid an idea it was to mess with the Turks.
The beach was quiet once more. Reno took a few steps toward the ocean. He shoved his hands back into his pockets, his EMR once again compacted and stowed away. He jiggled his pockets for a moment, then came out with a tatty pack of cigarettes. Taking one out, he fished the EMR out again, raising an eyebrow. Rude shook his head. The redhead was just crazy enough to try it, electrocution be damned.
"Here." Rude took a lighter out of his own pocket, which Reno accepted with a nod of thanks.
Several minutes passed, minutes in which the sun sank lower, the sky changing from orange to grapefruit red and starting to tinge over with darker shades of velvet blue on the horizon. The birds had stopped calling now, but the sounds of partygoers and creole music filtered down onto the beach. The waves moved according to their own rhythm, gently swaying back and forth over the sands.
"It looks like we were able to return the favour…" Rude started. Then he snorted. "You're always going off half-cocked. Be more careful next time." He watched the waters lap back and forth. Beside him, he heard another soft 'snickt'. Reno had lit up another cigarette.
"Right back at you, Rude. I wasn't the only one in trouble there. What would you have done without me?" Rude could practically hear the shit-eating grin. He didn't need to be looking at Reno to see it.
"…dunno." The truth was, Rude really didn't know. He had gone off to find Shears on his own, or so he had thought. Unconsciously, though, he had known that he wouldn't be fighting alone. The longer he thought about it, the surer he became that yes, Reno would have come. He told his partner this.
"Why's that?" He seemed genuinely interested in hearing the answer. Rude smiled. They'd been partners for a very long time. Reno knew as well as Rude did "why's that". Nevertheless, Rude obliged with the answer.
"I've known you for a long time. I know how you think."
Reno affected a tone of mocked outrage. "Hey! I'm a lot more unpredictable than that!" And he threw back his head and laughed.
They stood together, watching the sun set over the postcard perfect beach.
To be continued…