CHAPTER TWO: SOME PEOPLE THINK TURKS ARE GLAMOROUS
[in which Tseng and Commander Veld discuss recruitment, we meet more Turks, and Veld demonstrates his management style]
As he rode the tram to work that morning, Reno tried to figure out what could have happened to the cat. The only ways out of his apartment were through the front door (tripled locked and bolted), through the bathroom window (propped on the lever, but the gap wasn't wide enough for even a skinny cat to squeeze through), or off the balcony… and he had left the balcony door ajar last night. So – had it climbed onto the railing and fallen? That seemed the likeliest explanation. The only other possible route was over the rooftop, but the cat could not have jumped from the railing to the eaves; the distance was too great. So much, then, for his act of random kindness. The cat was probably a furry pancake by now. At least Cissnei would never have to know.
Rattling along, thinking these thoughts, Reno suddenly sensed he was being followed.
He was sitting, as he always did, in the corner at the rear of the tram, with his back to the wall. Casually, almost lazily, he ran his eyes over his fellow passengers. They were the usual crowd of working stiffs and schoolchildren: there wasn't one face he hadn't seen before. Yet someone was watching him. In that watchfulness Reno sensed neither hostility nor friendly interest - so it wasn't a pretty girl checking him out, unfortunately.
Whoever it was, they would show themselves when they were ready. Folding his arms, Reno leaned back against the upholstered seat and closed his eyes. He had something more immediate hanging over his head to worry about.
The Chief was not going to be happy about last night's performance.
On the 66th floor of the Shinra Electric Company Building, the light outside the window had turned from splenetic green to liverish yellow, sign that it was fully day. Veld and Tseng sat facing each other, a pile of manila folders spread across the polished table. A bottle of mineral water stood by Tseng's elbow. Veld nursed a shinrafoam cup of coffee between his large hands. One hand was boney and rough-skinned. Dark hairs sprouted on its reddened knuckles. The other hand, though it looked real at first glance, was made of titanium and silicon.
The two of them, Director and Lieutenant, were going through potential candidates for recruitment into the Turks.
Veld put down his coffee, reached for the next folder, flipped it open, and scanned rapidly down the page. His brown eyes narrowed under heavy brows. "What is this?" he demanded, holding the document up for Tseng to see.
"It appears to be a resume, sir. For an application."
"Since when have we been accepting applications? The suit finds the man it fits, that how it's always been done. Look at her specs, Tseng. Look at her family name. Recognise it?"
Tseng nodded. "Mideel gentry. Old money."
"They make Shinra look like a parvenu. Her hobby is big game hunting, for god's sake. And there was another one…." Veld's hand searched through the folders, found the one he was looking for. "The heir to the chief of Bone Village. Listen to what he says here. I want to discover life on my own terms. Does he imagine he can do this by joining the Turks? What world do they think they live in? What's wrong with them? Are they spoiled? Is that it? Have they exhausted every thrill money can buy?"
"In some quarters," Tseng observed mildly, "Turks are considered to be glamorous."
Veld stared hard at him for a moment. Then he chuckled: a deep, pleasant sound.
"Myths are useful," he said. "Which is more than I can say for these candidates. They're too old, for starters."
Something like the shadow of a cloud passed over Tseng's face. Veld, if he noticed it, gave no sign, but went on, "And they're not hungry enough. Don't waste my time with any more of these applications, Tseng."
"I will have Reno put them through the shredder immediately upon receipt, sir."
"Ah yes," said Veld, sitting back in his chair. "Reno. Has he come in yet?"
Outside the building and sixty-six floors down, a crowd of Shinra office workers was seething up the marble steps and through the narrow security doors into the lobby. They were many, and they were pressed together too close for comfort; each one of them was impatient to clock in and get to work. Yet even they, accustomed as they were to the sight of Turks on a daily basis, moved aside in subtle eddies, like sardines parting for a barracuda, to let Reno pass.
The thrill this gave him never grew stale.
He took the steps three at a time, twirling his nightstick. With him it was always either sprinting like a mad hare or sloping along with his hands in his pockets; as Rude had once pointed out, he could never just walk like a normal person. The back of his head had registered the fact that the stalker from the tram was still tailing him, and still seemed to be posing no threat. On any other day, Reno might have wondered if it was Cissnei playing a trick on him, trying to freak him out. But she would be in no mood for jokes this morning.
The lobby and mezzanine were bustling with secretaries and IT guys and middle managers elbowing each other, with varying degrees of politeness, for a spot in one of the elevators. Reno, in no hurry to face the music, decided to slouch against the front desk for a while: he could chat up the new blonde receptionist while keeping one eye out for the stalker to reveal himself.
The receptionist stood up as he approached. "Hi, Reno."
She knew his name. Sure she did - they all did. He gave her his patented lazy-lidded smile, guaranteed to weaken knees at thirty paces.
"Oh my God," she squealed. "So cute!"
It was almost too easy.
But wait – now what was she doing? She had pushed back her chair and was hurrying around the reception desk towards him, hands stretched out, eyes wide, looking almost – scary -
"Oh!" She fell to her knees beside him. "So sweet!"
"Hey – hey – " He took a step back. "Isn't this kind of – "
"Look at him! He's so little and cute! Is he yours, Reno?"
Reno looked down.
The cat looked up.
So this was his stalker.
They stared at each other – or it would be truer to say that Reno stared at the cat, and the cat looked right through him as if he were not there.
"Aw, little kitty," crooned the receptionist, "Do all the big trampling feet scare you, huh?"
The cat gave her a look of utter contempt. She sighed rapturously.
"It's funny," she said, sitting back on her heels, "I would never have pegged a Turk as the kind to keep a pet. You all come across so cool and 'talk to the hand' like. But why'd you bring him here? There's a strict no animal policy, didn't you know? Except for Dark Nation, of course. Look, we have a storage cupboard in the back, I could put him in there for you if you like. No one would know. I'd take good care of him, I promise."
"It's not my cat," said Reno. "It just followed me here."
"Oh." Her face fell. "Oh well, it must be a stray. Are you lost, little kitty? You look like a healthy kitty, you look like somebody takes good care of you. I bet they're looking for you right now. I'd better put you back outside – "
"Don't touch it!" cried Reno.
But the cat was already in her arms, snuggled up against her neck. Reno could hear its engines revving. Against the thin fabric of her blouse its paws kneaded in rhythm with its purr as she stroked its back, and it gazed over her shoulder at Reno with suddenly sleepy green eyes.
"Let's go, kitty," said the receptionist.
Reno now abandoned any lingering notion he might have had of giving the cat to Cissnei. Clearly the animal was not something that could be given, or commanded, or owned. He had done his bit by saving its life; let it look after its own neck from now on. He watched the receptionist put the cat down on the ground outside, come back in, and shut the door; through the tinted glass he saw the cat walk away without a backward glance. Then he made his way through the thinning crowds to the elevator, and rode up to the 48th floor.
"Something's wrong," said Veld to Tseng. "What is it?"
Across the table Tseng meet and held the brown depths of the older man's gaze. "Nothing, sir," he lied.
Veld wasn't fooled. "Don't give me that. I can read you like a book. Come on, my boy, spit it out."
Tseng hesitated.
He trusted his Commander more than anyone – far more than he trusted himself. And Veld, in return, trusted him. An essential element of that trust was Veld's expectation that Tseng would speak his mind honestly when called upon to do so. But the mental reservation niggling away at him now seemed hardly worth mentioning. He was never happy being openly at odds with the Commander.
In his uncertainty he hesitated too long, and Veld's patience (always short, always tautly-wound) snapped. "Just tell me what you're thinking, dammit," he ordered.
"It's - it's the candidates, sir." Tseng gestured at the three folders that remained in front of them, the ones selected.
"You have a problem with them?"
"They are…. young, sir."
"Too young, you think?"
"That's not for me to say."
"But you think it," said Veld. The dark scar that seamed his left cheek from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his mouth was twitching a little – with anger? Or amusement? Even Tseng, who was closer to the Commander than anyone, had trouble reading the older man's face sometimes.
Veld said, "You're think they're too young for this line of work, don't you? You think they're just children."
"If you insist," Tseng replied, "Then, yes, they are children."
"And how old were you?"
"That's different – " said Tseng without thinking, and immediately wished he hadn't.
"Why different?" Veld's eyes glinted. "Do you think you're somehow unique?"
Tseng looked down at his hands, folded pale against the dark blue of his trousers, and held his tongue.
With a rough gesture Veld sent the three remaining manila folders skidding across the table into Tseng's lap. "Read Natalya's summaries," he ordered. "Out loud."
Tseng opened the first folder." 'Male, sixteen. Place of birth: Madouge Corner. Parents untraceable. Current address: Mythril Jail, held on a charge of manslaughter. Weapon skills: martial arts, explosives. Notes: accused in the death of his employer, a mining-gang operator, to whom he owed debt-bondage-"
"Next one," said Veld.
" 'Male, sixteen. Place of birth: Midgar Sector 5 slums. No known relatives. Current address: Wall Market. Weapon skills: sawn-off shotgun. Notes: has been in Don Corneo's employment as an enforcer for the last three years –' "
"Next," said Veld.
" 'Female, fifteen. Place of birth: Corel. Father killed in mine collapse ten years ago. Mother and siblings died in bombing raid during Wutai War. Current address: Corel. Weapon skills: knives. Notes: performs novelty knife-throwing act. Occasional prostitute, question mark' –"
"Technically speaking," said Veld, "You're right, of course. If we go by the count of years, they are children. And yes: the fact that they are children works to our advantage. Children are fast learners. Their morality is still fluid. Children obey even when they don't see the point of an order. A child's loyalty is like a steel cable, and children need to feel they belong to something – a gang, a family, call it what you like. But if you think those three children are better off where they are now, just say the word, and their folders can go into the recycling bin."
He stood, holding out his hand.
Tseng said nothing – as Veld had known he would, for there was nothing to say. After a moment, he closed the folders and passed them to Veld, who put them into his briefcase.
"Those kids left the playground long ago, and we can't put them back," Veld said as he snapped the case shut. "Don't get sentimental, Tseng. You have that weakness in you; I've noticed it before. But you can't be their rock unless you're hard."
The first person Reno saw when he walked onto their floor was Cissnei. She was alone in the lounge area, standing with her back to him, staring out of the panoramic window. Off to one side, the wide-screen plasma TV was showing the breakfast news with the sound muted.
Reno lit a cigarette. "Yo, Ciss."
She didn't turn around. "You had to be late this morning. I've already filed my report."
"Keen, aren't we?" he retorted, but his heart wasn't in it.
Stock footage of the Sector Seven slums filled the TV screen. The scrolling subtitles read: Dangerous group of Wutai rebels pacified by Shinra. Security reports no further threat to residents. Reno found the remote and turned up the sound. The scene cut to the outside of the Sector One dispensary. A thin, pale woman with her arm in a sling was talking to a reporter off camera. Reno recognized her at once. "The rebel just came out of nowhere and shot me for no reason," she was saying. "If that young man and woman from Shinra hadn't been there, I would have been killed for sure. They're heroes, risking their lives to keep – "
"Turn it off," said Cissnei.
He did, remarking, "Why do we even have to write reports when he knows everything already?"
"Can't you just go and get it over with?" she exclaimed. "I've had no fucking sleep and I've been here since four, just waiting. The waiting's the worst. And you're acting like – like –"
"I was followed to work today," he told her.
"What?"
"By a cat."
"What?"
"It wasn't dead. When I went back, it was still alive, so I healed it – "
"What? How?"
He took her arm. "Come talk to me while I file my report, and I'll tell you."
They went through the pneumatic plexiglass door to the inner office. Chrome shelving units lined tobacco-coloured walls, and each piece of furniture was arranged so that nobody sat with his back to the door or the window. The floor, a padded speckled linoleum, absorbed footfalls. Rude was at his desk, fiddling with a digital camera no bigger than an eyeball. He looked up and grunted hello.
Three of their colleagues were out today. Natalya, who at thirty-six was the oldest of the Turks, had been away on a scouting mission for the last two weeks; bespectacled Knox, the number three man, was in Junon, while Mozo, whose battered boxer's face belied his sharp detective's mind, had left at dawn for the Grasslands with a second class SOLDIER named Zack Fair to promote Lazard's recruitment drive. That left twenty-five year old Rosalind, expert in all things ballistic, who right now was sitting at a computer terminal, her back ramrod straight, her feet neatly together on the floor. The bob of her blonde hair had been cut with razor precision. Reno slid into the seat next to her. Without moving her eyes from the screen, she said, "Did you sleep in those clothes?"
"And a very good morning to you too, Roz."
"They smell. And there's a bullet hole in your sleeve. For heaven's sake."
He laughed, and began to type rapidly with three fingers, talking to Cissnei all the while. His completed report was a series of bullet points, riddled with spelling mistakes and lacking any punctuation.
He pressed send. "Done."
A tense silence fell.
All four knew what was coming. Rosalind and Rude had been in Reno and Cissnei's shoes before now, though it was probably true that nobody had stood in those shoes as often as Reno. They all understood the necessity of punishment. It was part of who they were; of what they did.
It wouldn't be long. The Chief must have read Cissnei's report by now.
In the silence, a faint scratching sound could be heard.
"There's something outside," said Rude,
They turned their heads to see a small dark shape sitting on the windowsill, tapping at the glass.
"Is it a bird?" said Rosalind.
"Holy shit!" cried Cissnei. "It's a cat! Quick, get it in before it falls." She ran to the window, followed by Rosalind; the two of them pushed hard but the frame refused to budge. Cissnei swore. "When was the last time we opened this thing?"
"We've never opened it," said Rosalind. "It's against company rules."
"You need to unlock it," said Rude, pushing back his chair and coming over. With his thumb he flicked the catch. The window flew up, the two female Turks tumbled backwards, and the little ginger cat jumped down into the room.
Cissnei rolled over onto her elbow. "Look! Reno! It's your cat!"
"Is this your cat, Reno?" demanded Rosalind.
"No! It's just a crazy stalker!"
"How the fuck did it get up here? Forty-eight floors," Cissnei marveled. "How is that even possible? It must really love you, Reno."
"Or really hate me and really want to shred me."
"It is kind of cute, though," said Rosalind. "Hey – Rude, are you all right? You've gone pale."
His sunglasses fixed on the cat, Rude was backing slowly away.
"Don't you like cats?" asked Cissnei
"I – have an allergy."
"You're not allergic to anything," said Reno. "I've read your medical report. Hey – you're not…. scared of it, are you, big guy?"
"Not scared. I – just don't like it."
"But it really likes you," said Cissnei.
Tail up, ears pricked, purring loudly, the cat was making a beeline for Rude.
"Cats always do this to me," said Rude, and there was something almost like feeling, like a groan, in his voice.
"Good," said Reno, "Maybe now it'll leave me alone and persecute Rude instead."
"Why did you help us open the window, then?" Rosalind asked Rude.
"Couldn't let it fall. Just keep it away from me."
"You big softie," Cissnei smiled, bending over to pick the cat up.
"Careful!" cried Reno.
"Yow, shit!" Cissnei dropped the cat and wrapped her hand round her slashed wrist.
The office doors hissed open. Tseng came in, and stopped. He took in the scene: Rude backed against the wall; Cissnei scowling in pain; Rosalind cross-legged on the floor, her hair messed and her tie askew; the opened window, the cat, and Reno…. Well, Reno looked no worse than he ever did.
Tseng said, "What's that cat doing in here?"
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then Reno, too mouthy sometimes for his own good, said, "It's our new recruit, boss."
"Shut up, Reno. Rosalind, what's been happening here?"
Rosalind had risen to her feet, was smoothing her jacket and straightening her tie. "Sir, the cat was at the window. We were afraid it would fall, so we let it in."
"The open window is a security breach. Rude, close it. Rosalind, do something about that cat. Reno and Cissnei, come with me. Commander Veld is ready for you now."
The Commander administered his punishments in the Turks' secret chamber. This was a large, windowless surveillance room, with a smaller 'cooler' room attached, located on the floor between floors. No elevator stopped there. It appeared on none of the plans for the Shinra building. It had no number, and none of its doors could be accessed from the endless stairs. Outside the department, only two people knew that it existed and how to find it: Reeve Tuesti, who had designed it, and President Shinra.
While Veld dealt with Reno, Tseng and Cissnei waited outside in the corridor. Neither of them spoke. Tseng studied a spot on the wall about a metre to the left of her shoulder. Cissnei kept her eyes fixed on her shoes. When he thought she wasn't looking, he stole quick glances at her. She was biting the inside of her cheek. The walls were soundproofed, but both knew from experience what was happening to Reno in there. Her turn was next.
A beating normally took between fifteen minutes and half an hour, depending on the seriousness of the offence. The offender was required to remove his or her suit jacket, but otherwise remained fully clothed; the objective, as Veld had explained to Tseng, was not to humiliate them, but to teach them. Veld never lost his temper when he was engaged in corporal punishment. He used his belt, as a father might who disciplined his children for their own good, and he took his time, working the sinner over with care, striking him, or her, on the shoulders, the back, the thighs and the buttocks, but never the face; never where outsiders might see the welts, and, seeing them, leap to conclusions.
Outsiders would not understand, nor did the Turks desire their understanding. Among the initiated, no explanation was necessary.
Only rookies, Tseng reflected, really cared about the pain. Fear of pain was the first stage, the hump they had to get over. Pain was a constant. You learned to live with it – the expectation of it, the reality of it, the memory of it. To be any good at this job, you very quickly had to get to the point where the prospect of pain – your own, or someone else's – didn't make you flinch, didn't cause you to hesitate that split second too long that made the difference between life and death. Outsiders accused the Turks of being indifferent to suffering. The Turks understood that their objectivity was something to be proud of.
Tseng glanced again at Cissnei, only to find that she was looking at him. Their eyes met. Hers, golden brown with flecks of copper, widened slightly; she gave a wry little smile, a twitch of her left shoulder, as if to say Hey, Boss, whaddyaknow – back a week and already I'm in the shit. Tseng felt a smile touch his own lips in response.
None of the others could have got that smile out of him, and he didn't even mind admitting it. Although he had realized very early on in his career that it would be a mistake to get too attached to any of his colleagues, he couldn't help feeling glad that Veld had called Cissnei home. Her femininity brought warmth into the office. She had a knack for managing Reno that made Tseng's own job easier. And she was beautiful, of course. Those big eyes could light up a room.
She hadn't been anything much to look at when the Commander had first recruited her – more of an eyesore, really: a skinny, scrappy ten-year-old with her head shaved against lice, wearing a patched school tunic too short to cover the scabs on her knees. To Tseng's eye, at the time, there had been nothing special about her, nothing that made her stand out from the orphanage's other three hundred fierce, hungry kids, any one of whom would have killed for the chance of that scholarship to the military academy. But Veld had recognised her promise straight away. The Commander had a nose for a Turk. He could sniff out raw potential in the unlikeliest candidates – just like the trainers at the chocobos auctions, who ran their eyes once over a flock of wild birds and knew immediately which ones would be champions.
Veld only ever backed winners. Thus, by choosing them, he had defined them.
The door to the surveillance room hissed open. Cissnei immediately pulled in her chin and stood up straight. The Commander appeared in the doorway. His forehead was glistening. Sweat darkened the armpits of his shirt. By the looks of things, he'd given Reno quite some going over. And maybe, Tseng realized, Reno hadn't been entirely selfish in insisting on going first, "to get it the fuck over with", as he'd claimed. Veld's arm must be growing a little tired by now.
"Go in," said Veld to Cissnei, standing back to let her pass through the doorway. He turned to speak to Tseng. "Board meeting's at eleven. I'll need to shower and change first. Meet me in my office at ten-fifty. We'll go together."
"Understood," said his lieutenant.
Author's Note
This is the place for me to acknowledge my huge debts: to the Inimitable DA, whose labour-of-love translation of the Before Crisis scripts at gunshotromance on freewebs has been my main source for this fic; to kain454 on youtube for his incredibly useful videos of BC gameplay, and to SandG (Mo) for his awesome chapter summaries of the game at . Since I don't speak Japanese and don't live in Japan, my fic would have been impossible without their work. Thank you SO MUCH.
A note on the BC Turks
As you may know, the BC Turks are known by the names of their favourite weapons;you, the player, can then name them whatever you like. [That's why Cissnei tells Zack that Cissnei is not her 'real name' - all the Japanese players of Crisis Core would have given her their own names in BC]. DA's names have become almost canon. For some of the BC Turks, I have kept her names; for others, I have substituted my own choices. The three BC Turks mentioned in this chapter are
Rosalind (Pistols, female) - DA's Rosalind, and Elena's older sister
Mozo (Fist Fighter, male) - DA's Durman
Knox (Katana, male) - DA's Adrian
[Natalya, the Number 3 Turk mentioned in the chapter, is an OC. We won't be seeing much of her.]
In BC, all the 'new' Turks are recruited at or after the beginning of the game. In this story, some of them have been working for Shinra for many years. Knox, Mozo and Rosalind are all senior to Rude, Reno, and Cissnei. It was just easier that way.