Hazelator

[FF7] Pathfinder - 5

2008-04-26T13:43:52Z

[FF7] Pathfinder – Chapter 5
Rating: PG-13 - Status: Incomplete - Warnings: some violence
Characters: Rufus, Tseng, Veld, Vincent, Reno
Timeline: FF7, alternative universe.

Summary: [AU] Sierra, they called him. And Tseng had been appalled and embarrassed to find that their vaunted Junon informant was just a kid... Rufus Shinra, severed from the Company and his destiny by events so secret and buried so far in the past that not even the Turks are aware of them, takes on a different role.

Chapter Summary: In which Tseng has a really bad day.

For liriaen.

A/N: 'Last updated 9 weeks ago'. I EPIC PHALE. )8 And that's just the journal, not even the fic.

“First flight out of Midgar. ...Yes, it is high priority. ... Yes, my clearance overrides his.”

Calm words, calm tone, but the tick that’s starting in Vincent’s jaw gives the game away. Veld hides a smirk; his partner is close to boiling point, which means that things are going to get interesting in a moment, just watch –

One tick

Two ticks

Three

Vincent draws his pistol from its holster, holds it up to the PHS, and fires a shot straight into the ceiling. The report echoes all the way down the corridor, followed by the sound of plaster flaking away from the ceiling. Great, Veld thinks. Another bill. Maybe I can blame it on Palmer.

“Understood?” Vincent says, succinct as ever. Veld can catch the tail end of a terrified wibble from across the line, before the phone is snapped shut and shoved into a jacket pocket. Vincent continues walking, never breaking stride.

“Got our ride?” Reno chirps up from the back of their little procession. Veld, leading the way with Vincent just half a step behind, glances back. Sierra brings up the middle, and Veld catches the flick of blue eyes as he turns his gaze from the surroundings to him. Trying to look around without looking obvious, hm? Handcuffed and bloodied, the boy does look a little worse for the wear, but there’s a firm set to his jaw and a spark in his eyes that shows he’s the furthest thing from cowed.

“Got it,” Vincent confirms, snapping the pistol’s safety back on before he returns it its holster. “Helicopter pad in 20 minutes.”

Veld slows his pace, keeping watch on Sierra out of the corner of his eye. There’s something curious about the way he looks around, gaze lingering on random corridors just a moment too long. His face is shuttered, but illness and fatigue have worn his shields down, and there’s just a hint of ... something that Veld can pick up on, even if he isn’t sure what it is. Thoughtfulness, perhaps. Clearly, there’s a lot more going on behind that wary gaze.

Reno evidently picks up on it, because he elbows Sierra – in the side that he zapped earlier. “Half-gil for your—“

The elbow never connects. Sierra’s eyes flick to Reno, and without breaking stride, one foot moves just so, and he twists just that tiny fraction, so that the only thing Reno hits is the fabric of his jacket. Veld smirks. Sierra looks sharply at him, then evidently shares the same thought – a neat move, but a mistake, nonetheless. Now they know a bit more about what he’s capable of.

“—thoughts,” Reno finishes.

Sierra’s pause goes on for so long that Veld thinks he isn’t going to reply at all, but then the boy arches an eyebrow. “First time in the Shinra building. I never knew it was this large.”

Vincent utters a soft ‘heh’, under his breath. The words are probably not a lie, but it’s definitely only scraping the surface of Sierra’s thoughts. Still waters run deep and all that.

Vincent’s mutter is echoed just a heartbeat later. Someone chuckles, and Veld turns his attention back to the corridor ahead, just in time to catch sight of a familiar sight. White suit, black panther. Quite, quite unmistakable.

“Oh shit,” Reno mutters, and Veld resists the urge to second the sentiment. He stops, but they’re already within spitting distance of the Vice President. Who’s smiling.

“Sir,” Veld says, inclining his head. The movement allows him to glance back at Sierra, just in time to see the boy’s expression go blank. Not just reserved or neutral, but blank, utterly emotionless. Even the eyes, which should be windows to the soul, seem to have their shutters down. Vincent cocks an eyebrow, and Veld knows he’s noticed it too.

Then Sierra blinks, and hatches a bland, weary look that’s almost authentic.

“Director,” Vice President Shinra says cheerfully, the annoyance of earlier evidently forgotten, or put aside until an opportune time. Veld would put money on the latter. “I see we have a guest.”

With that friendly, friendly smile on his face, Aurum Shinra looks friendly, even harmless. His hair is slightly ruffled, a few strands out of place as if he’s been running his hands through it. As though he doesn’t really care for the stiffness and the formality of the building when he’s off the clock. As if he’s just another of the boys, running around doing the 9 to 5 thing, bitching about the clock, then heading out for a walk in the park with the girlfriend he’s reputed to have.

Veld happens to know that there’s no girlfriend, that Aurum spend an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror perfecting that ruffled, schoolboy look, and that a friendly smile is the best mask for a politician. No one survives for long in this nest of vipers without intelligence and, unfortunately, a great deal of ruthlessness. Aurum might be the only child of the President, but there is no shortage of contenders for the throne. No few of those contenders have disappeared quietly from the scene. Veld has seen the fate of those who underestimate him.

“Prisoner transfer,” he replies. “Sending him to Junon.”

Aurum’s smile grows just a trifle broader. It’s so friendly that it’s almost mocking – although Veld suspects that that’s just his bias speaking. He doesn’t like politics, doesn’t like the artificialness of the entire farce... but that’s pure hypocrisy on his part, since he plays the Game like everyone else.

“Oh dear,” Aurum says, “Off so soon? No time to catch the sights of our lovely city?”

Sierra tips his chin up, and for a moment, Veld thinks he’s seeing double. There’s a fleeting moment of resemblance; something in the set of the jaw, in the way the light slants through blond hair and pools in icy blue eyes. Then Sierra ducks his head and scowls belligerently at nothing in general. “Didn’t do nothin’. Tell ya thugs to lemme go.”

Reno blinks. Veld nearly does, for the Slum-accent is so real that he finds himself considering again the theory that Sierra did grow up in Midgar.

“I see.” Aurum sticks his hands in his pockets, his voice cooling just a trifle. “Well, I’m afraid that’s a matter for my thugs to decide.”

Sierra snarls, and Veld sees Vincent tense, prepared for any untowards moves. But the boy just glares at Aurum and spits to the side. The insult is a snarl that rolls off his tongue like silk. “Ya a fuck—“

Reno decks him a good one across the jaw before he can finish, effectively terminating the expletive. Sierra hisses, and the cut on his lip comes open again, bleeding red onto his lips. Veld doesn’t miss the glitter of violence in his eyes.

“Watch it, yo,” Reno says, in his don’t-mess-with-me tone, and Sierra gives him a sullen glare.

Aurum raises an eyebrow. “So. What precisely is he being charged with?”

“Theft and espionage.” It’s not too far off the mark either, and the answer seems to please the Vice President. There’s a razor edge to the million gil smile that glitters on his face, before he nods.

“Carry on, then. Don’t let me detain you.” He brushes past, a whisper of silk and the barest hint of expensive cologne.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of Aurum’s shoes clicking on the polished floors, and Veld wonders, vaguely, if there’s something critical he missed back there.

Then Sierra looks away, and Vincent shifts impatiently, glancing at his watch. Veld nods at him, and signals at Reno to start moving the show along. Veld keeps his eyes on Sierra just long enough to catch the look of pure venom that the boy slants in the direction of the departing Vice President, and unease pools in his stomach.

*

The world is black, murky darkness. It smells faintly of rotting wood and engine oil, the air stale and heavy. For a long, drawn out moment, that’s all that Tseng’s exhausted senses can register, distracted by the pain burning its way through his system.

But this won’t do. At all. The voices of his instructors nag at the back of his brain, wanting him to move, and he obliges out of sheer habit. His shoulder screams bloody murder when he attempts to lift his right arm, bone grating against bone, and he bites his lip to restrain the noise that threatens to get out. Dislocated, then. Courtesy of the once-over they gave him in the name of interrogation, the details of which are fading fast from his hazy memories. The first few blows he recalls, thinking them lacking in finesse, but brutally effective. At inflicting pain, that is, but not at getting information. He doubts he gave him the answers they wished; how could he? He has no idea where Sierra is.

He knows it went downhill after they cracked his ribs. The difficulty in breathing mingled with the agonising flare; he thinks vaguely to himself that it’s perhaps a technique to suggest to Veld, if they don’t already have it in the books. But everything after that is a muddled blur of sound and movement and pain and not enough air. They must have punched him in the jaw at least once, because one tooth is loose, and the others ache. But he’s relieved when he shifts his feet and finds his legs sore, but unbroken.

Amateurs, a part of his mind reflects, even as his eyes flick around the room. The faintest glow is visible from one direction, the slice of light from under a door. Even as he studies it, forcing sluggish thoughts to turn towards escape, there’s a clang that seems to drive daggers right into his skull. He flings his good arm over his eyes out of habit, trying and failing to regain his feet. Silhouettes appear against the blazing light, two, no three. There’s a half familiar voice raised in anger, but, dazed and confused, he can’t seem to place it.

The voice is shouted down. Its owner is pitched into the dark, where he stumbles and falls awkwardly onto his face. The shadows retreat into the light, and the door slams. Its echo clatters throughout the small room, and Tseng winces.

When the noise fades into silence, there’s a bitten off curse as the newcomer shifts, pushing himself into a sitting position with some awkwardness. For a long moment, there’s only the shifting of fabric and the sound of ragged breathing. Tseng waits in absolute stillness, uncertain of the other’s motives, and keeping a low profile until he can better decide on a course of action.

He doesn’t have to wait long. There’s a flash of light in the dark, the dim glow of mako green. A pair of eyes searching the gloom for him. “Tseng,” the other says, and there’s no mistaking that voice. “I know you’re there.”

He props himself up on an elbow. “Sierra. So they caught you too.”

There’s a dry, humourless chuckle from the darkness, which twists off into a cough. Tseng spends several agonising and awkward moments trying to hoist himself to his feet with broken ribs and an arm that’s worse than useless, before limping over to within an arm’s length of the other. He doubts the boy will attack him under the present circumstances.

“Caught?” Sierra says, and Tseng can almost imagine the arch of one blond eyebrow. “Hardly.” There’s another rustle of fabric. “Help me with these ropes, will you.”

There isn’t enough light to see. He bumps into Sierra’s shoulder, and has to guess from there, grasping the boy’s arms to find the rope binding his wrists together. He pats him down for concealed weapons first, and finds none, while Sierra snorts and shakes his head, mumbling something about bloody Turks.

“If you weren’t caught,” Tseng says, trying to find the knots. “Then how did you end up here? Or did you infiltrate to find me?”

Silence for a moment. Tseng’s fingers slip over rope, fumbling one handed, and he senses Sierra clenching and unclenching his hands. When the response comes, it’s laced with a strange cocktail of bitterness and dry amusement. “You could call it that.”

He gives the ropes a particularly annoyed yank, frustrated with the vagueness. Sierra stiffens and glances over his shoulder at him.

“I have no reason to trust you,” Tseng says. It takes a bit of concentration to keep the annoyance from his voice. “I have no reason to help you. In fact, now that they have you, they’ll probably let me go.” He leans forward, lips brushing the shell of Sierra’s ear. “And I must say... they aren’t likely to be particularly good hosts.”

Sierra shudders and jerks away. He exhales, shaky and with an edge of something that Tseng suspects is frustration. “The Turks handed me over.” Anger makes his words waver. “Received a hefty price for their efforts. I don’t know why they didn’t ask for your return, though.”

Despite himself, the cold pang of betrayal lances through his gut at the words, and for a moment his world is lost, reeling the dark. Cut loose? Abandoned? Wouldn’t be the first time it happened to a Turk, wouldn’t be the first time it happened to a failure...

Half of him doesn’t believe it. The other half can imagine it all too well. A Turk who is captured in the line of duty can be considered a liability . A failure. He’s been over the scenario countless times in his mind, thinking of all the stupid, careless mistakes that added up, thinking of all the things he could have, should have done. And hadn’t. Because he was a fool. Because he had been sloppy, careless... because he had fucked up.

“Surely...” it takes him a moment to realise that the voice is his own. “There’s a plan. They must have put a tracking device on you. They must be coming for us.”

Sierra is silent. Nightmare scenarios dance through Tseng’s mind, before he shakes his head violently, denying them. “The Turks don’t need money. They wouldn’t have done it for the money.” Rationalisation and excuses. He can practically taste the desperation in his words.

“No,” the other says at last. “They need information. Or more precisely, they need to ensure that information doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.” He shakes his wrists, and Tseng feels the knots slipping under his fingers. “At the very least... they wouldn’t leave you in enemy hands.”

True enough. Turks know too much to be left alive, if cast out of the department. He forces himself to focus, mentally drenching himself in icy calm as he considers his options and his... resources. “...Are you injured?”

“No,” Sierra says, testing the bonds again. The ropes slip off his hands, and he shakes his wrists out, before turning. Mako green eyes seem to float in the dark. “I can’t say the same of you. Let me have a look at your injuries.”

“It’s nothing,” Tseng starts to protest, but then fingers catch his bad arm and the world goes entirely black for a crazy moment. Air hisses through his teeth, and his good hand wraps itself around Sierra’s neck, his mind registering only disable, don’t kill--

--“Enough,” he growls, and there’s a choked sound in front of him, and the pressure is gone from his arm. It takes him another heartbeat to scramble for control, to persuade his fingers to move. He loosens his grip slowly, feeling fragile neck bones shift under them, feeling the cautious inhalation of breath. One. Two. Slow and cautious.

“...Your shoulder is out of joint,” Sierra says, and his voice is calm and reasonable, if hoarse. “I could help you reset it.”

He could, Tseng grudgingly admits to himself. And it isn’t as if he has much choice in the circumstances. Yet it’s hard for any Turk to get over the gut reaction that doesn’t want to trust anyone except another Turk, hard for him to uncurl his fingers slowly and to let them fall away from Sierra’s neck. Harder still to nod, to get the curt ‘Very well’ past clenched teeth.

“Where else are you hurt?” Questing fingers find his arm again, gently, running up the line of his tricep from elbow to shoulder. In the gloom, he can barely make out Sierra’s silhouette, but the other seems to be have better night-vision, no doubt a courtesy of the mako that’s still burning bright in his eyes. A recent injection.

“Ribs.” The admission is reluctant. “I can look after them myself.”

“I see.” Sierra shifts position, his touch on Tseng’s arm so feather light that it’s almost ticklish. They probe the shoulder joint, and beneath the sullen ache of pain, Tseng is aware of Sierra leaning in close, probably squinting in the poor light in an attempt to figure out how to reset it. The back of his neck tingles, prickling with the sense of danger from the unfamiliar proximity, and his muscles tense in an attempt to keep himself still.

“Relax.” Sierra’s fingers trace briefly the lines along his shoulder blades, reaching to the back of his neck to massage the back of his neck. He sucks in a breath, fingers twitching, itching to grab the boy and fling him away from his person.

“Stop that,” he growls.

“You’re too tense,” Sierra says, a murmur in the dark. “Relax a little. An anterior dislocation?” Back to the joint. Probe, probe, probe.

“I think so,” Tseng says, because talking is better than focusing on that faintly ticklish touch. Too close. Way too close. Sierra hums his acknowledgement, and when Tseng glances over, the light is just enough to make out Sierra’s profile. He glances forward again. “Hurry up.”

“I’m going to move your arm,” Sierra says, and presses his elbow close to his side, raising his forearm until it’s parallel to the ground, cradled against his chest. Tseng’s temper begins to fray, the jangling of his nerves and the anticipation of the pain to come becoming hard to ignore.

“Stop messing ar—“

“This might hurt a little.” The words are a whisper, spoken right into his ear, and even before shocked nerves have the chance to jump, to pull away, his arm is rotated sharply away from his body, Sierra’s fingers digging into the joint—

Tseng strangles the noise of pain, but it escapes anyway. He barely notices, the milliseconds dragging for a moment that seems to go on forever—

...then with a click that sounds like thunder, the joint snaps back into place. The searing agony all but vanishes, leaving behind an ache that Sierra’s fingers seek and attempt to chase away, coaxing the shoulder to rotate, working it fully into the joint.

It seems like another eternity before the breath that’s trapped in his lungs escapes in a shuddering breath. “Thank you.” The courtesy is automatic, and he gingerly massages the shoulder with his good hand.

“My pleasure.” There’s a whisper of movement as Sierra withdraws, and the space that he leaves behind is suddenly very empty. It’s a relief... But..

So abrupt, his mind supplies, unhelpfully, as he tracks him with his eyes, watching the white of his jacket as the boy explores the locks on the door and the limits of the room. One moment here, gone the next.

Words in his ear. Fingers massaging circles on his shoulder blades. Tseng scrubs the back of his neck angrily, trying to erase the memory of that touch.

tbc

[FF7-AU] Edge of the World: 7

2008-02-20T18:01:49Z

[FF7] Edge of the World – Chapter 7
Timeline: post-game, alternative universe
Rating: PG-13
Status: Incomplete

Characters: Rufus, Hojo, Reno, others.
Warnings: Violence. Contains graphic descriptions of gore.

Story Summary: Meteor falls, devastating the planet. The backwash of the Lifestream occurs in time to save a few, too late for others, and leaves some interesting legacies. Some who should have perished live, and others who should have lived, perish. A multi-parter alternative universe fic.

Chapter Summary: Flight from Midgar. Beta revision, subject to change. Not proofread too tired crashing nao. Sorry about the long wait, but it's 4000++ words to keep you guys occupied!

For peacefulchaos. Uh. Merry Christmas? Happy Valentine's? Happy New Year? :D;; SO LATE AUGH.

“There’s water, at least.”

It was with stumbling, swaying steps that Rufus, clutching two chipped, ceramic mugs, staggered to the doorway where Hojo stood, looking out over the wreckage of Midgar. Filthy morning light cast everything in grey, but at least it was light, and it was light which had finally put an end to the relentless pursuit.

“Here.” He shoved the mug at Hojo without ceremony, before downing half of his own. His legs were on fire, the injury on the right one burning with a pain that never seemed to go away. Refusing to stay on his feet even a moment longer, he all but collapsed, sliding down the doorframe to sit on the step. His head thudded against the wood behind as he leaned back, eyes shut.

He didn’t know how long they had run for. It couldn’t have been hours – even if he were not injured, he lacked the strength for it. They had stopped, of course. A few times. After the first nightmare dash, it was impossible not to. They had tried, time and again, to break away from the direction that they were being herded in, but to no avail. Rounding the corners of streets that seemed to be deserted, they would come across Reno, perched on the wreckage, a cruel smile on his face and the EMR slung over his shoulder. Hojo had attacked, and Reno would have broken his arm if Rufus hadn’t slammed a knee into the small of his back at the opportune moment. The scientist was nursing electroshock burns from the encounter, however, and, through slitted eyes, Rufus could see him examining the marks on his arm.

They had played the cat and mouse game, until, the mob hard on their heels, they had plunged into the bowels of a ruined train station. He dimly remembered tripping on the steps – these very steps, cursing the place for the lack of a door. He had fallen, and as he broke fingernails scrabbling on the wooden floor, splinters digging into his hands, the skin on the back of his neck had screamed in anticipation, waiting for hot breath, claws, fangs.

But when nothing came, when he shoved himself on an elbow and rolled over, he had stared up into an empty doorway, and the slow lightening of the sky in the east. They were gone. Vanished, as if into thin air, leaving only the scuff of footprints in the dust to convince him that it wasn’t a dream.

“Get back inside,” Hojo said, curt. “It’s not safe here.”

“I doubt it’s safe anywhere,” Rufus mumbled. “If we’re at a train station, we must be near the central pillar. If we are seeking to leave Midgar, then – perhaps we were running in the wrong direction.”

“Up, President.” Hojo’s sounded surly, not deigning to reply to his pessimism. “I would rather not attract that rabble because they spot you.”

It made sense. Reluctant as he was to move, he was even more reluctant to face another headlong flight. There was a point, he’d discovered, where even horror melted away, a noise in the back of the mind that became constant. And with it would fade the adrenaline that lent him the strength of desperation, and with pain hammering on his senses with every step, it was almost easier just to lie down and wait for death to come—

A hand grabbed him by the arm, hoisting him up, and he realised that he must have drifted again. His right leg protested when he put weight on it, and Hojo had to get an arm around him.

“You’re fevered,” the scientist observed, clinical, and Rufus blinked at him, before staggering down the steps towards the chilly interior of the station.

“Guess,” he said, after a pause that he knew was too long. “It was inevitable.”

Hojo snorted, all but dumping him on the floor beside one of the few pillars that still remained. His eyes wandered of their own accord to the ruined vending machines. They had been ripped open, gutted, their contents strewn across the floor. If there was anything salvageable, he had missed it.

“Whatever did that...” he gestured wearily. “Wasn’t human.”

He had seen the effects of looting. It was common enough in the Slums, and the pictures had passed over his desk. He had seen the destruction that an angry mob could cause, the carnage caused by those armed with all manner of weapons. They could have rent a vending machine asunder with ease, but not in this way. Here, the metal was warped, tortured, but more worrisome were the claw marks that spanned its surface. There were holes where someone had evidently punched a hand through, tearing the contents out with evident ease. The cans and bottles that littered the floor were empty now, but most of them had been ripped open, plastic and metal giving away as easily as paper.

“Whatever that did that was human,” Hojo corrected, grabbing his leg to take a closer look at the injury. “Once.”

Exhaustion made it hard to protest. He let his head fall back, staring up at the light slanting in through the ruined roof. He thought to ask – what had caused the change – but his mind wandered again, distracted by the way the heavy clouds moved. Hojo continued his examination, and although the wound ached, it was nothing compared to the fire when he ran on it. It was fine then. He was content to lie here, thinking about nothing in particular, steeped in grey lassitude.

Midgar did not know truly horrific winters. There was a chill in the air, always, and the skies had a tendency towards grey and brooding, but temperatures never dropped below freezing, and the only snow was that artificial type, churned out by snow machines in shopping centres. But he had liked that time of the year, because it meant coming back from Junon for the holidays. Sunset came early, the sky darkening by four in the afternoon, but the upper plate would be awash with lights of all colours.

He liked the empty streets, rather than the mad rush of the summer crowds. He enjoyed the sense of hurried purpose in the air, as people moved swiftly to evade the encroaching chill, ducking between the shops, looking for gifts. It was a sense of purpose, but it was good sort, not the choking noose of stress that filtered through the air of the Shinra tower.

Rustle of paper packages, the smell of sweets in the air. He would stride down the streets, people clearing a path for him, and though his face would be arranged in a mask of neutrality, his fingers would be tingling with the feeling of being alive. His lights. His streets. His city.

Sometimes--

He blinked, dragged back to reality by a lance of pain as Hojo tugged a crude bandage into place around his leg. His gaze snapped back to the ... the sky... because the upper plate was gone, and those streets, those lights...

...Would be nothing more than memory.

“The stitches are broken,” Hojo commented, his nasal voice commanding Rufus’ wandering attention. “Make sure you don’t tear the wound any further.” He hummed, tapping a finger to his chin. “Not that I expect you to succeed.”

Rufus shot him a sour look, but didn’t argue the point. Hojo stood, dusting off his hands, and shook his head.

“What is it?” Rufus demanded.

“You are truly... as they say – ‘out of it’.” The scientist smirked. “You look pathetic.”

“You look no better, yourself,” Rufus snapped back, wondering for the umpteenth time why, why, when the world as he had known it had ended, when there was apparently only one other sane being in all of Gaia, it had to be Hojo. To whom sanity was, at best, relative.

Hojo snorted, turning away. “The wound is infected. Try not to die, President.”

Something flickered across his senses, something that might have been apprehension, but it passed swiftly. He sighed, seeing little point in maintaining any pretence of strength. “We should move soon. That is, if you’re going with me.”

“And where might you be going?” Hojo folded his legs, settling on the floor against another pillar with some evidence of muscle stiffness. Rufus felt a flash of satisfaction at the winces.

“For the edge of the city,” Rufus returned.

“And then, where to?” Hojo sounded more amused than anything.

“For Kalm. And if Kalm is destroyed, then for Junon.” Against his better judgment, he let his eyelids slide shut. “Then... to ascertain the state of the world.”

“The prince examines his kingdom.” A low laugh. “And what if there is no kingdom, little prince? What if the entire world is in this state of destruction?”

With his eyes shut, he could hear the wail of the wind that gusted in the distance. Here they were sheltered, without even a breeze to stir the dust, or to disperse the smell of death. It was impossible that they were the only survivors, his mind rationalised. They had survived, and Midgar had been the impact spot – or so he suspected, anyway. The world was large. Surely somewhere, even if it was only in distant places such as Icicle, Mideel, Wutai, some others had to be alive.

But in this place, with his senses slowly fading, it seemed impossible.

His throat was dry again. He swallowed, feeling dust scratch at the back of it. Dragging a hand up to massage his neck, he felt for the first time the burn of fever beneath the skin. “Then we find whoever is responsible, and we make them pay.”

“The plan is elegant in its simplicity. You sound almost like a Turk, advocating violence. I would not have expected it of you.”

He barked a laugh. “If all the world is destroyed, then what is left, but to ensure that the deaths of those who perished are not in vain? Sephiroth... Jenova... they would use our planet, even our planet’s lifestream, for their own purposes.” He managed to drag his eyelids open, and the sky was such a flat, lifeless grey. “If, as they say, we return to the lifestream after death, then ... no, it is simpler than that. This is my planet. I will not let them have their way.”

Hojo was silent, not that Rufus had expected an answer. Neither of them were predisposed towards revealing their thoughts.

“We should leave,” he said again. “They’ll be back. We should try and evade them.”

There was a scuff, as Hojo shifted position. “The light will last some time yet. You, however, will not. In your present condition, at any rate. Sleep, President. And I expect that you will take second watch.”

“Wake me,” he mumbled, folding his arms against his chest. His leg twinged once as he stretched it out, but subsided to a sleepy murmur. The blood was pounding in his head, making it spin, a whirlpool sucking him down into the vortex.

Down.
Down.
Down.

*

Come to me, my child
And I will
      enfold you within my arms

And I will
   protect you from the dangers of the world
For I am the sentry at the gate
The guardian by your side

I
am
your

...

Come, sweet child.
For the world is cruel

Come.

*

He awoke, quite suddenly, heart pounding in his chest. The lingers of dream echoed in the back of his mind, something, perhaps about darkness, about light, about... about words. But it faded as he drew breath, skittering away into the corners of his mind. A lost memory, never to be retrieved.

Hojo...

The station was empty. Something seemed to lock, vicelike, around his heart, as his palms chilled with sudden sweat. The scientist. Gone. Left him. Betrayed him.

“Shiva...”

The mumbled word echoed faintly, and he made a mental note to refrain from other utterances. Who knew who... or what... was listening.

But there was no muting the sound of the scratch of borrowed boots against the floor, no stopping the hiss of pain as he placed weight on his bad leg and rekindled the pain. Leaning heavily against the pillar, he cast his gaze around for a clue of any sort, and finally noticed, to his chagrin, the very obvious set of footsteps leading off towards the other end of the station.

It took several steps to convince stiffened muscles to work. But better to attempt this now, while the daylight still lingered, than when nightfall came and the ... creatures returned. If there was even any need for them to wait until nightfall. It seemed... too convenient.

The footsteps led through an archway before they vanished, the dust having given way to chipped stone. He glanced about, catching no glimpse of Hojo, and felt the first stirrings of panic. There was his stubborn pride, which insisted that he depended on no one... then there was the prudence that he had learned through the days of Weapon and Meteor, that knew that humans were social creatures for a reason. There was safety in numbers.

There was a crash as dislodged debris fell behind him.

He spun, shotgun tracking the glimpse of movement he’d caught out of the corner of his eye. Hojo, he thought, catching sight of a lanky figure emerging from around a pillar. He couldn’t help but feel a flash of relief. It seemed that the creatures shunned the daylight after all—

--without warning, Hojo appeared noiselessly, right beside him. Rufus glanced between him and the creature that was slinking past, and bit out a soft curse.

“I advise that we leave quickly, President.” Hojo’s voice was a near whisper.

“I can see that,” Rufus hissed back, as Hojo turned and headed for the other exit. “Some watch you were keeping. Where were you?!”

“On the roof.”

As they backtracked, keeping an eye on the creature, Rufus glanced up ... towards the sky. “There is no bleeding roof.”

Hojo smirked. “Move, President.”

They ducked through the doorway, and Hojo paused. Coming up beside him, Rufus looked to see what the scientist was peering at. The buildings opposite had collapsed, forming a ridge almost three storeys high, and there atop it...

...a familiar flash of red hair.

He moved without thinking, grabbing Hojo by the arm and wrenching him to the side. Down behind a half destroyed wall and along it, as fast as he could move. It was perhaps something the Turks would have done, if they had been the ones escorting him, and memories were starting to awaken and return as he moved – memories of the games the Turks had played with him as a child.

Pretend we’re monsters. You see us coming, you run. If we catch you, you’re dinner.

“This way.” Crouching low, his leg screaming in protest every step of the way, he followed the wall as it circled around the side of the train station. It was dark here, the wall blotting out the sunlight, and he hoped that it kept them from prying eyes.

”This way.” Tseng had always been his escort. He ran after the Turk, complaining that they never let him have the chance to play at being the monster.

“In due time,” a stern voice rang out, echoing from somewhere behind, and he gulped and moved faster. Even to the Shinra Heir, Director Veld was still a fearsome.

“Where are you headed?” Hojo asked.

He grinned. “I don’t know. I’m willing to take any suggestions that you might have.”

“I’m afraid that this is not my area of expertise.”

He would have joked that this was an inevitable side effect of never leaving his precious laboratories or the Shinra Tower. The words had been right at the tip of his tongue, in fact, when something seemed to change in the air—

”Tseng, there’s something behind us—“

He whirled and fired, the shotgun recoil all but knocking him off his feet. Just two feet behind, something that seemed more reptile than human screamed briefly, clutching at its destroyed chest, before falling to the ground, thrashing and gurgling.

Good shot, sir. Well done.

Where the hell were the rest of the Turks? If Reno had survived, surely the rest of them ...?

“Out!” Hojo snapped. “Avoid the shadows!” Slamming a foot repeatedly into crumbling plaster, the scientist brought a section of the wall caving down, and leapt on top of the rubble with strength and dexterity that Rufus was fast beginning to suspect wasn’t natural.

“Light doesn’t affect them,” he yelled back, scrambling after.

“Light does not appear to affect all of them,” Hojo corrected. He gave an impatient hand signal to Rufus to hurry, then took a step forward... and once again, he paused.

There was no need to ask him what the matter was. It was starkly obvious, even as Rufus cleared the ruined wall.

The dim grey daylight that he had awoken in had changed abruptly as the sun dipped towards the horizon.

...dust refracts light; the wavelength of red light is longer than that of violet...

The sunset bathed entire world in the colour of blood.

And out of the debris they came crawling again – male and female, adult and child. Slowly creeping, emerging from their rest, they came, rank upon rank. One paused, then took up a cry, a hoarse high pitched wail. And one by one the others joined in, raising talon-like hands towards the dying sun. A cacophony of screams. The chorus of the damned.

“We... run,” Rufus said, then took off before his knees could give way. It was possibly a bad move to make, for their sudden dash caught the attention of countless glowing eyes, and heads turned to mark their flight. The cries never stopped, but they changed pitched, becoming frantic, frenzied. Then, as though some invisible string snapped abruptly, the creatures burst into movement, swarming towards them.

Red and green blurred crazily as Rufus sprinted, sweat pouring into his eyes and his breath coming ragged. Hojo stumbled, and he grabbed his elbow and dragged him onwards. The thought of leaving him behind never crossed his mind; it was just the two of them in this nightmare of a world, and he would never make it out of here alone.

Tea, he thought crazily, I promised him tea--

An arm wrapped around him and hauled him back. He collided heavily with Hojo, jolted out of his rhythm and momentarily too stunned to even react. A fraction of a second later, there was an agonised shriek of metal as a massive pipe tore loose from somewhere and came crashing down before them. Inches away. Where he would have been standing, or crossing, if Hojo hadn’t...

Holy Odin.

He could feel the shock piercing all the way through the fevered hazed gripping his mind. He continued to stand there stupidly, unable to move despite Hojo’s sharp orders—

Metal shrieked again and he ducked instinctively. But this time, it was no falling beam. Something was scrambling across the metal sheeting of the rooftops, headed towards them at some kind of lurching run. It sprang from the roof to land directly in front of them, perched on the fallen pipe, and its impact dented the heavy steel. Rufus glanced at it... and nearly heaved.

Human. It had certainly started as that... but no human could have survived with half its ribcage protruding from its chest, the bone already turning brown. Its innards had been ripped out, leaving only shreds of entrails hanging from the gaping cavity, and maggots...

Even Hojo was staring, although Rufus suspected that it was more in morbid curiosity than in any kind of horror. For his part, he had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from gagging, even as he dragged the shotgun up with the other hand to keep the thing at bay. It ignored the threat, shuffling towards them, hands reaching out for them, and a low moan whistling through the hole in its chest.

He squeezed the trigger, and was met with the click of an empty chamber. He glanced down at the gun in horror, at the zero staring back at him from the ammunition counter... and the thing grabbed him, teeth bared as it went for his jugular.

Teeth and claws and the stench of rot smothering him, couldn’t breathe couldn’t think and pain exploding in his neck, and his punch was useless; his hand buried itself in the destroyed guts and rotting flesh and he didn’t know if it was the pain or the squelch that made him scream, red and green and black and green and red whirling and collapsing and exploding—

"You know, Tseng...”

He’d forgotten how small he’d been at eight. He was seated, and his legs dangled, not touching the floor. And he had been... so skinny. With bruises everywhere, courtesy of crawling through the air ducts trying to escape Veld monster.

Tseng had been the youngest Turk back then, and naturally, the one to whom had been assigned the rookie’s job of babysitting the President’s son. Bright eyes had turned to him. “Yes sir?”

“I think I hate my father.” He swung his leg a little more.

Tseng had been so easy to read, back then. Honest concern furrowed his brow, and he leaned forward. “Why’s that?”

“He always thinks he’s right. Better than everyone. He founded the Company. He made it what it is today...” he waved his arms, trying to encompass the enormity of his frustration. “Of course he’s the best... but it doesn’t mean that he can’t be beaten! I’m going to beat him one day, just you watch. I’m going to be bigger than him. Bigger and better, and so will my Company!”

What had that been about... oh yes. His grades, probably. Or some competition. Or just one of the myriad times his father had brushed him off with an “I’m too busy for your nonsense, son. There are more important things for me to attend to.”

Something small. All his problems had been small, back in the day. But it was the smallest stone that caused the Avalanche, they said, rolling down the slippery slope and gathering momentum. Ironic that he had gotten involved in a terrorist group of that very name. And true to its name, it had swept him away, brushing him in the ensuing chaos, as everything went to hell.

And then had come the sudden quiet. Three years of staring at the walls of a room that no one but the President and the Turks knew of. Three years without the touch of the sun or the wind on his face. Three years of watching the world go around, but only through a television screen.

Three years was a very long time.

Perhaps the only thing that he had really reflected on during that time was how much he hated his old man. However, perhaps, the entire burning urge to show him up had been nothing more than an attempt to get his attention, to prove his worth. To gain his father’s respect and acknowledgment, grudging or not.

“Tseng,” his eight year old self said. “I’ll never give up. I don’t care what gets in the way. I’ll show him!”

Well.

He’d certainly shown him how well his son could screw up. The entire Company destroyed... and here he was, inconveniently dead before he had the chance to prove anything.

His father was going to laugh. Or scream. Or both. And he had all eternity in the Lifestream to look forward to that.

He sighed, watching Tseng smile tolerantly.

Dead.

Killed by a creature in the ruins of Midgar.

Dead.

Killed by a once-denizen of his own city.

Murdered at the hands of those he regarded as his own.

How pathetic.

Green swirled around him, clouding the scene. Here it came. The Lifestream. The time of reckoning. Did the Planet judge, he wondered, and would it reject souls that were too tainted?

The green came closer.

And closer still, filled with tiny, dancing specks. Souls, lives, of all the living creatures—

--when abruptly, it vanished, wrenched brutally away—

--giving way to red and red was fire. Flames leaping before his eyes, and something was screaming. He sucked in a breath, and realised that it couldn’t be him, for it continued on, and on, and on. Drawn by the cries, he glanced down... to find the creature being consumed by an inferno at his feet.

Hojo’s work, he realised. The scientist had rescued him yet again. Right in the nick of time. Blood was leaking from the bite wound, where teeth had torn into flesh. Just a little later, and...

“President.”

Hojo sounded as though he were too far away. In a daze, Rufus turned. “Thanks—“

“Don’t thank me.” The scientist sounded exasperated. “Or have you completely failed to notice what happened?”

His hand throbbed, and he glanced it, and did a double-take.

His hand... was on fire—

--no, those were materia lights, flickering over his fingers, winding around his palm. Tiny strands coiled, vanishing into the air. The signature of a materia spell. But...

...but he had no materia.

“The power of the Lifestream,” Hojo said, by way of curt explanation, as he continued staring. Green raced blue around his wrist. “The gift to those who survived the Catastrophe.”

[FFX] Circles Within Circles

2008-02-02T12:33:52Z

[FFX] Circles within Circles
Rating PG (Safe for work) - Status: Complete, Oneshot - Warnings: Character death
Characters: Auron
Pairings: None

Summary: Final Fantasy X. Auron, and the second confrontation with Yunalesca. Life and death is an eternal circle.

A/N: This is/was actually an RP ap, but after writing it I figured that - well, even if the ap doesn't get accepted, it's still one of the better things I've written. Especially lately 8D. I know the ending blows; the cadence is just wrong wrong wrong but aldkjfalkfsf I'm so tired. *flops*

Life and death.

It followed a cycle, eternal and inexorable as Sin. He had lived. And here he had died. And yet, he had lived again, only to return to this place, this throne of the Lady Yunalesca. And as the cycle turned, as all things returned to the start, here it was that death would come for him again.

He saw it in her eyes. He saw it, written black against the sky, as she summoned her magic. He saw it and did not waver, only shifted his grip on his sword, and slid one foot forward. Chudan Kamae. The middle stance. The center, the stability, from which all things began.

With the one eye that she had left him, he saw her smile.

Attack, that smile beckoned. Charge at me with your rage, your anger. Release it, as you did when you were younger, stronger. Run me through with your sword, avenge all those whom I have sent to their deaths.

Hn. Did she truly think that he had not learnt anything in all this time?

He swung his sword over his shoulder, narrowed his eyes. Ten years. It had been ten, long years. It was long past time to end this.

He moved. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tidus rushing in from the right, saw Kimahri dashing in from the left. His weight pivoted for a moment on his toes, then he was flying, swinging the blade forward, the steel glittering a path through the air as it arced towards her face.

Too late he saw the fourth. Too late he saw Yuna, Braska’s daughter, determination written on her face as she rushed forward. The spell Holy glowed on her fingertips, and her lips moved with words of power as she gripped her staff with a familiarity that made his heart ache. Too late, he saw Yunalesca smile.

Ten years, and he was still the fool.

His blade came down, the tip smashing into the ground instead of into the undead flesh of Yunalesca and her foul Aeon. He felt it bite, felt metal screech as he flung himself in the opposite direction at the same time Yunalesca struck.

For a single moment, the world hung in the balance. He saw Yuna’s face with a moment of utter clarity, her eyes wide with surprise. For a moment he saw Braska, his beloved, beloved lord, and for a moment, he thought – for the first time in ten years, he could almost smile.

Then he was crashing into Yuna, barrelling her to the ground, shielding her even as Yunalesca’s magic crashed into his back. It was heat, but it was more than heat. It was the core of the sun, a bite so intense that it felt like the stinging ice of Mt Gagazet instead of fire. He felt flesh tear from bone, felt his death reaching for him, and he could have laughed at the familiarity of it.

But this time, this time he held his Summoner tight, even as he felt darkness lock itself around his heart, encase his lungs in stone, boil the very blood from his veins. This time, he was in the right place, at the right time.

And even as the darkness took him, even as the world turned to black and began to fail, he saw light burst into view before him, Holy taking flight under the power of the Summoner he protected. He saw the Aeons burst into view – Valefor, Ifrit, Shiva... and Bahamut, winging his way down from the heavens. He heard Yuna cry out his name, and he heard Yunalesca scream.

And this time, although the circle closed, although the jaws of the cycle snapped shut with unquestionable finality, although it seemed but another turn of the wheel, over and over again, this time, he knew that it was different.

This time, he knew he did not die in vain.

[FF7-AC] Empire : Chapter 11

2008-01-13T15:47:21Z

[FF7-AC] Empire: Chapter 11
Rating PG-13 (Safe for work) - Status: In progress - Chapter 11/? - Warnings: None
Pairings: Tseng/Rufus, Rude/Reno

Fic summary: Post-AC, barreling down the road to the reconstruction ofShinra Company. A Hero, a President, a new world, and the politics that draw them all into a tangled web beyond all ability to forecast.

Chapter Summary: In which there is a lot of running away.

A/N: Draft. Only proofread once. Please let me know if there are any errors.

XI

5.33.

There was something about the air here in Corel. The night brought reprieve from the sun, and with it temperatures plummeted. With the heat and bustle of the day vanished without a trace, it seemed like an entirely different world.

5.34.

The cold gave the Ghost Hotel of the Golden Saucer a real chill, enough to make it comfortable under a thick quilt – one, the staff had assured him, had been stained with the blood of the last occupant of the room, who had been murdered in this very bed.

Right. Whatever.

5.35.

But for all that the cold transformed the place, the taste of the air was still the same. Dry. Dusty. Acrid. It stuck at the back of the throat, whispered tales of lives of hardship, toil, and loss. It reeked of Corel, through and through.

And it gave him insomnia.

5.3—-

Cloud growled in sleepy frustration and rolled over onto the side where he didn’t have to face the green glow of numbers counting the minutes away till morning. Something creaked ominously, one of the myriad sound effects that the hotel provided, and he rolled his eyes at it. Ghosts be damned; the only white spectre haunting him these days was Rufus bloody Shinra. The one who’d sent him all the way out here on a run that was nothing more than a wild-goose chase. Tifa had been mad, and he knew that by the time he noticed something like that, she must have been really mad. It had made him miss... some important event. Some school thing that one of the kids was having. Denzel, probably. But it might have been Marlene. Or both.

You promised, Tifa said, hurt and angry.

I know, he lied, even if he didn’t remember having promised such a thing. It’s just that... things are crazy lately. I’m sorry.

He was making money at last, he felt like saying. The WRO and Shinra paid, and paid well. He didn’t have to go out sourcing for jobs, which should have given him more time to stay at home with them. Except that ... well. He hadn’t. And he was getting the feeling that, like the damn clock on the sidetable, time was ticking on.

Damnit.

He rolled back over.

5.40.

His phone was on the bedside table. He grabbed it, flicking it open. The screen flashed back at him, void of any messages or missed calls. She hadn’t called. Two days and she hadn’t called.

His finger hovered over the numbers for a moment, before he sighed and snapped it shut instead. It would be... 4 am back at the Edge, and Tifa was going to be seriously mad if he called up in the middle of the night, to say—

--to say, what? Hi, I’m at the Golden Saucer. I decided to call and ask how are things...

That ... was simply asking to be kicked. He’d promised to bring the kids here, and come out and visit Barret while they were at it. But one thing or another had come up, and he didn’t have time, they didn’t have time, no one had time, there just wasn’t enough time, and somehow, it had just been one of those things that had hovered on the To Do list until it’d just slipped out of mind.

Too late to regret it now, he figured, staring at the phone for a moment longer before tossing it back onto the sidetable.

5.43.

She hadn’t called. She always called.

Ask her whether they needed anything – bread, milk, books for the kids...? Except that he was headed back to Junon, and Reeve would give him that earnest look and a pat on the back before sending him out on another delivery. And then he’d have to apologise to Tifa again -- sorry, another job came up, sorry, I couldn’t spare time to go home...

Sorry, I couldn’t make time for you.

But you can make time for Rufus Shinra, she would say, eyes flashing with hurt and accusation. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand it either. It was just... work. Work that got in the way of things. Work that drove him out, and ...

...and no, if he was utterly honest with himself, it wasn’t.

Home was... light and noise and the kids’ high voices chiming for attention, their happy chatter, their endless queries. And he loved it, he loved listening to Denzel’s latest project, and Marlene’s school day, he loved seeing their bright eyes and joyful smiles. Most of all, he loved looking up and seeing the corner of Tifa’s mouth twitch, the way her features softened and relaxed. Contentment. The family around him. Tifa smiling. And for a moment, all would be right with the world.

But only for a moment. His eyes would linger a moment too long, and his heart would skip a beat, thinking of brown hair instead of black, green eyes. And his heart would start thinking of another, soft smile, and wondering why— why Aeris couldn’t be here with them, why he couldn’t have protected her, why he couldn’t have led her through the death and destruction and into this new world.

And then he would flee, stuttering excuses, jumping on the bike and revving the engine until he was speeding away. Running. Running knowing that he broke Tifa’s heart each time he did it, but he couldn’t... just couldn’t... how could he be the one she wanted when all he saw when he looked at her was another love, long dead?

“Damnit,” he growled out loud, and somewhere, a fake ghost screamed.

This always happened. He’d start thinking, and his thoughts would fumble down the same, worn path, down to the same, old problems. Aeris was dead, and he loved her. Zack was dead, and he loved him. Tifa wasn’t, and...

...and he felt guilty.

5.46.

He dragged himself out of bed, and headed for the bathroom. The water from the tap was freezing, and it was a welcomed shock to his senses when he splashed it across his face. He swiped the lingering droplets from his face with a vicious movement, angry for no fathomable reason. In the mirror, his eyes glowed in the half-dark, mako light dancing in their depths like fireflies on a summer’s evening.

For a moment, he almost fancied he saw Zack staring out at him. But the blue distracted, and water tugged his fringe down, and instead of a familiar, roguish grin, he saw blue and blond and a polite, distant smile.

I had feelings for Zack.

“Bastard,” he growled, something that might have been envy twisting in the pit of his stomach. “Should have killed you when I had the chance.”

His reflection stared back. Water dripped off his bangs, falling soundlessly to the sink. The words echoed off the walls, resounding more in his head than in his ears. And they sounded tired. Not vehement, not like they used to. Just tired. A mantra he’d said too many times.

And he realised that... that he was getting tired of it. In fact, he realised that he was getting tired of everything. Tired of the twist in his heart when he thought of Zack and Aeris. Tired of the twist in his stomach when he thought of home and Tifa and the kids. Tired of running. Tired of hating. Tired of... tired of feeling, period.

He rested his forehead against the mirror, closed his eyes, and sighed. His breath turned to fog upon the glass.

Half an hour later, he was on the road again. There was a muted glow on the horizon that whispered of dawn and the heat to come, and as dust and gravel pinged against his goggles, he found himself infinitely glad that he was getting out of here before it turned into an inferno.

He bent forward over the bike, jaw set. His mind was made up. He wasn’t going to run any more. Whether or not he loved Tifa ... was irrelevant. He was fond of her. But more importantly, he owed it to her, and to the children, the ones who had given him a home, a family of sorts. The ones who had given him their love, and he... he had selfishly sucked it dry and used to it fuel an ... obsession with the past.

His phone was in his hand as he pulled onto the main road. The sound of the phone at the other end of the line chimed in his ear: once, twice, three times.

No more. He owed a duty to the living, not to the dead. He would not lose Tifa because he was too busy pining over Aeris.

There was a click, then the answering machine: Hi, you have reached the answering machine of the Seventh Heaven bar and restaurant.

He felt like something had just hit him. Hard. In the gut. Tifa... Tifa had changed the message? It had been... it had been Strife Delivery Service for as long as he could remember—

We are unable to take your call at this time.

When had she changed it?

...When was the last time he’d called?

Please leave a message after the beep, and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible!

Why had she—

Beep.

“Uh—” words didn’t seem to want to get past the block. “Um.”

A buggy went past him at full speed, churning up dust and gravel that nearly blinded him.

“Ah... hi Tifa. This is Cloud.” He swallowed, hard, which might have been a mistake. It felt like the dust turned to mud in his throat. “Just finishing up a job. Got a couple of souvenirs for you and the kids.”

He paused, faltering. Floundering. His conviction wavered, and he found himself suddenly unwilling to say the next thing on the agenda. Unwilling to commit. It would be so easy to hang up now... to make no promises, the same way he’d been doing for the past two... three years...

Kid, you faced Sephiroth, and you can’t even face your own family?

Shut up, he told that obnoxious inner voice, that always, always sounded like Zack.

You know I’m right. Come on. Shoulders back, chin up, put some strength into that backbone...

Shut up!

Not until you listen, chocobo head.

Cloud groaned mentally. Fine. Fine. Whatever. Wasn’t that hard. He’d saved the world twice. This was easy. Take a deep breath, and just ... say it.

“Um.”

He could swear he saw his little mental Zack slapping his forehead in frustration. And giving him The Look. It was the same Look that Zack had given him every time he’d mumbled his misgiving about not making it into the SOLDIER programme, every time he’d been tempted to just give up and slink away, and run for dear life.

It was the Look he couldn’t argue with.

Fine.

“I’ll be back.” It was strange how easy it was to say those simple, ordinary words. “I’m coming home after this run, and we’ll bring the kids to the Saucer. Just thought I’d let you know.”

Strange how easy it was to say, once he’d started.

“Promise.”

*

Dawn broke in flames over Junon. The view of the sky between the foliage that was streaking past was one that burned an angry, flickering red.

In between the bumps on the road that threatened to give him whiplash, Rufus glanced out of the car window and scowled. “It seems that they torched Junon,” he muttered.

Rude, bent in concentration over the steering wheel as he threw them at breakneck speed over little used forest trails, nodded his assent.

“Who... could be behind this?”

“Don’t know,” Rude replied. “Tseng went to investigate.”

Which meant that they would know more when they got in touch with Tseng. If they got in touch with Tseng.

They went over a pothole, hard enough to rattle Rufus’ teeth. They’d swerved off the established roads as soon as they could, which left them ploughing through forest trails on a car that was, by all accounts, not a four wheel drive. His PHS was clenched tight between nerveless fingers, and he found that if he held on hard enough, until the edges were cutting into his palms, it could detract from the terrible tide of fear threatening to crash through his mental barriers. There had been no word from Tseng. None. And it had been hours.

“You should get some rest, sir,” Rude said calmly, before tossing them around a bend so hard that it nearly knocked the wind from his lungs. Shrubbery clawed down the body of the car, and branches snapped across the windscreen.

“...If you can,” Rude added.

Rufus shook his head, too tightly wound to even try it. The inaction gnawed at him, made him grit his teeth in annoyance to avoid fidgeting. There was nothing to be done in this mad flight to safety, and the Turks had steadfastly refused to stop or turn back in the face of orders, pleas, and threats. Elena claimed they were being followed. Rufus didn’t see how anyone could possibly have followed them through the chaos and down the Junon cliffs, and deep into this apparently never-ending forest. But the Turks had been adamant. There would be no stopping until they were absolutely certain of their safety. Of his safety.

Even at the cost of one of their own.

He snapped open the phone, and hit the redial. The line buzzed with a busy tone. Unavailable.

He had to force himself not to put the phone through the window in pure frustration. Drawing on the experience of countless boardroom sessions with his father at the head of the table, he schooled his features into impassiveness and clipped the phone shut with deceptive calm.

Rude shot him a sidelong glance. He knew. Oh, he damn well knew.

The worst part about this was that there was absolutely nothing he could do, except trust in his Turks. He glanced at his watch, noted at the stopwatch, which had been ticking since they blew out of Junon, registered two hours and sixteen minutes. The gunfire had stopped one and a half hours ago. He didn’t see why they weren’t stopping.

...As if in response to his aggravation, the engine spluttered. His eyes snapped immediately to the dashboard, where the fuel indicator glowed a warning orange. “We’re running on fumes.”

Rude nodded, and eased off the accelerator. The car continued hurtling down the trail.

“Yo,” Reno’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Looks like the tanks weren’t full. Gonna run out of gas.”

“No safe place to stop,” Rude shot back. The road forked, they went down the right. Rufus had long since stopped trying to keep a mental map of their direction.

“Actually, according to the GPS, we’re fairly close to an old Shinra weapons cache,” Elena piped up over the intercom. “We could ditch the cars and walk.”

“If it’s a Shinra depot, what are the chances that they’ll know about it too?” Rufus queried. “We can’t be sure that they don’t have ex-Shinra personnel in pursuit.”

“We can’t be sure,” Rude replied. “But we don’t have much of a choice. It should have spare gas tanks...”

Obligingly, the engine spluttered again and groaned. Rufus could smell burnt carbon on the air.

“Alright,” Reno said. “I’ve gotta stop before the engine trashes itself.”

Rude wrenched the wheel, and the car swung hard to the right.

“That’s a—” Rufus didn’t even have time for the warning before they slammed straight into the undergrowth, twigs snapping and tearing across the windscreen. He ducked instinctively, but the cacophony was over as soon as it had begun. Rude took his hands off the steering wheel and mopped at his brow.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence in the car. They were encased in greenery, so dense that not a scrap of light was visible through the forward windscreen and the windows. It was surreal, Rufus thought to himself. It was as if they were in another world entirely.

“Well,” Rufus said.

Rude actually looked a tad contrite.

“Warn me before you do something like that.” He unclipped the seatbelt and nudged the door open. It took some effort; the shrubbery was jammed up against it.

“Yes,” Rude acknowledged, then pulled Rufus back just as he was about to exit the car. And shook his head. “Stay here. Let me secure the area.”

Ordinarily, Rufus would have sighed. But ordinarily, he wouldn’t expect to be dragged out of his bed with the city exploding behind him. Ordinarily, he would...

He snapped open his PHS again and dialled. No reception, it said. Swearing seemed like a good idea. He thought about it, then thunked his fist against the dashboard instead, as Rude left the car and moved out.

Silence descended again. He could smell the scent of rain – or perhaps it was just forest damp. City born and bred like he was, he had difficulties discerning the—

--something crashed through the bushes and slammed up against the car. He caught sight of a flash of colour before it wrenched open the door, and the next thing he knew, he had his gun in his hand, his finger on the trigger...

...and a red haired Turk backpedalling really fast, with his hands up. “Still in good form, boss.”

“I am inclined,” Rufus said, willing his heart to slow down from overdrive, “to shoot you anyway.”

“I survived Tseng’s itchy trigger finger,” Reno said cheerfully, opening the door for him, just barely enough for him to squeeze out. The branches caught on his jacket and he fought them off, stooping and pushing his way round to the back of the car. Rufus opted not to grace that with a retort.

“Area secure, I take it,” he said, giving Reno a sidelong glance.

“Yep.”

“Secure enough.” Elena’s voice preceded her by a step. “You should go with Rude, sir. Reno and I will stay behind to camouflage the vehicles—”

“You go with him,” Reno said, jerking a thumb towards the trail that Rufus could just barely make out, once they’d stepped clear of the mangled bushes. “You suck at camo and you have the GPS.”

“We stick together,” Rufus said, eyes narrowed.

Rude shook his head. “The cars are a target. You’d best be as far away as possible from them. Sir.”

“We might be able to contact Tseng at the base station,” Elena said hopefully.

Low blow. Rufus glanced between the Turks – one earnest, one nonchalant, one unreadable. He sighed, and gestured for Elena to lead the way.

*

There was an airlift between Costa del Sol and Junon these days. Cloud stood at the railing of the WRO airship, humming under his breath. He felt cheerful for the first time in days. Weeks. Months. So easy. It had been so easy to make that commitment, to put his foot down. Fenrir was slung in the belly of the airship, and once they touched down in Junon, he was jumping on that bike and speeding home. Reeve could send the payment by telegraphic transfer. Cloud wasn’t about to waste a single moment talking to them – and that would avoid the possibility of being roped into a new job at the same time. He was headed home.

No more running. He was going to look forward, into the future. Into the faces of the family that he had now. He had conquered his own demons, as Rufus would put it. He wasn’t the lost sixteen year old he’d been, trailing along in Zack’s shadow. He was his own person. He had defeated the past, and laid it to rest--

--red sky. Red sky in the morning heralded trouble, his mother had always said.

“Nonsense,” he told himself. “Old superstition—”

“Strife!” someone yelled, and there was the sound of footsteps thumping on the ladder. “We gotta problem!”

Oh damn.

It was Daniel, one of the junior crew who regularly chatted him up while loading Fenrir into the bay. He looked absolutely distraught.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, feeling his bubble of a moment go pop, almost audibly. Dread made his stomach sink in anticipation.

“Junon.” Daniel gasped the word out. “Cap’n says it’s a war down there!”

And he had been wondering how bad it could possibly have been. He felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. “What about... where is the WRO? Where is Reeve? Where is Rufus Shinra, and what the hell is he doing?”

The boy’s eyes were wide and panicked. “Don’t know. No one knows. They say it was an assassination. Someone triedta kill--”

“Shinra tried to kill Reeve?!”

Daniel shook his head. “Someone triedta kill Rufus Shinra. And they took out the whole WRO while they were at it.”

Cloud’s fingers curled into fists.

“You’re gonna do something about it, right, Mr Strife? You’re gonna stop them, save the day...”

He thought of his message to Tifa, and all the explanations and apologies he was going to have to render. “I’ll do what I can,” he said hollowly.

Of course he would. He always did, in the end.

*

It was... it was remarkably hard to get the phone open. Strange, how a simple task could be so difficult, when his fingers were slicked with blood. It wasn’t all his own. He hoped. He wasn’t sure any more. It was hard to be sure of anything, with the chaos, with his head ringing from the explosions.

...The blood kept getting into his eyes.

Seven missed calls. All from Rufus. It figured. The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile.

He hit Rufus’ speed dial. Uncontactable. Good. That meant that he was at least out of range. Hopefully out of the sights of snipers and would be assassins.

I’m alright, he typed out. It took a while. His fingers were numb. I’ll join you soon. His finger hovered over the send button.

“Tseng?” a voice called from somewhere behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Chairman.”

“Call me Reeve,” Tuesti insisted, inching forward towards his side. “Just wondering how the situation is out there...”

He shook his head. “Latest report states that the enemy is still in control of the area. Looks like we’ll have to lie low for a while longer.”

A lot longer, he thought privately. “I’d advise you to move back, sir. You’re a potential target.”

“We’re stuck, aren’t we?” Reeve said, but his voice was softer. Evidently, he’d retreated further back into the ruined tunnel that they had taken cover in.

“It would seem that way.” He glanced back down at the phone in his hand. I’ll join you soon.

Shaking his head, he deleted the last word, and hit Send.

Sweep out the old, bring in the new...

2008-01-07T14:14:43Z

I've only started writing again since RL did the equivalent of Meteor SMASH :D and we're still rebuilding the Edge. Sorry to disappoint with the lack of a more substantive update, but I just wanted to check if there are any friends' requests I've missed...?

Also, due to the proliferation of comment spam I've been getting lately, I've switched commenting to registered users only. Sorry for any inconvenience!

[FF7] Pathfinder - 4

2007-11-03T15:12:20Z

[FF7] Pathfinder - Chapter 4
Rating: PG-13 - Status: Incomplete - Warnings: some violence
Characters: Rufus, Tseng, Veld, Vincent, Reno
Timeline: FF7, alternative universe.

Summary: [AU] Sierra, they called him. And Tseng had been appalled and embarrassed to find that their vaunted Junon informant was just a kid, probably all of sixteen... Rufus Shinra, severed from the Company and his destiny by events so secret and buried so far in the past that not even the Turks are aware of them, takes on a different role.

Chapter Summary: The Turks move, and Sierra does a lot of fast talking.

For liriaen

A/N: And this is the point at which we celebrate the fact that the 2nd harddisk crash in 2 years didn't take out my fics this time..! ...!!!! Sorry about being awful about replying to comments; life eaten by the paperwork monster. Nevertheless, thank you all for your kind words. ♥

Round 4

“Where is Tseng?”

The voice that interrupts Veld’s frantic scanning of the maps of Junon is familiar and unwelcomed. He glances up, something tensing in his shoulders at the mere sight of the other – blond hair, blue eyes, trademark white suit. And he just knows that that little knot is going to work its way up to his neck, and from there to the bottom of his skull, and become a full blown migraine in a moment.

That’s what I want to know, he thinks to himself. Tseng has been missing for almost a day now, not just missing but incommunicado, and despite himself, worry is starting to gnaw at Veld’s stomach.

He shoves pencils and coffee cups off the map, clearing more space on his desk. The other moves in, sauntering into his office like he owns the place, and appropriates the chair, smiling in that infuriatingly smug manner of his. “My, Director. Is that any way to greet your superiors?” The voice is honey and venom mixed in equal parts, and it sets Veld’s teeth on the edge.

“Vice President,” he grinds out, straightening.

“Please,” the other says, voice cool, and Veld can almost feel the smirk. “Call me Aurum.”

“Sir.” Veld resists the urge to order the intruder out of his office. Unfortunately for him, Vice President Aurum Shinra, all of twenty years old, is about as precious in his father’s eyes as the gold that he’s named for, and one crosses him at their own peril.

“So, where is Tseng?”

“Out on assignment,” Veld replies. “May I ask why…?”

There’s a certain flicker of annoyance about the Vice President’s face. “He was supposed to accompany me to Junon.”

“Unforeseen circumstances arose, sir. We assigned Turk Rosalind as your escort. As you know, Rosalind is an experienced—”

“Rosalind is a girl,” Aurum scoffs. “What good would she be in a fight? Scream and run away? I’d end up defending her, more likely than not.”

And right on cue, there’s a pad of quiet feet, and something dark and shadowy slinks around Veld’s door, scenting the air. Veld resists the urge to glare. And Dark Nation, one of the finest guard hounds ever to come out of Shinra’s labs, gives him a sardonic look in return, before moving to Aurum’s side.

“Rosalind is a Turk,” he replies. “And a firearms and protocol expert. I assure you that you will be safe in her hands.”

“I don’t want her.” Aurum’s eyes are hard, flinty, and not for the first time, Veld wonders how the sunny, smiling public face of Shinra Company can be such a bastard in private. “I am meeting with a delegation from Wutai, Director. I require Tseng’s expertise.”

“Tseng isn’t available,” a new voice cuts in, heralding Vincent’s entrance, as he slams a pile of binders and maps down on Veld’s table. Veld heaves a mental sigh of relief; Vincent is notorious for his inability to give a shit about company politics – and the reason why Tseng, not Vincent, is the deputy Director. But that also means that Vincent isn’t above telling a Vice President to get the fuck out of the office, and mind his own damn business, and Veld is infinitely grateful for that.

“The hell he isn’t,” Aurum says. “If he was sent out on assignment, this should have been cleared with the President—”

“Stomach flu,” Vincent says.

“What?” Aurum’s surprise is almost comical.

“He has the shits,” Reno says, as he wanders in, bringing another armful of requested binders. “So we hadta send him home for a few days. Gave him a week off. ‘s pretty bad. You shoulda seen the way he—”

“Enough, Reno,” Veld says, trying to ignore the way Vincent is smirking.

“You said he was on assignment,” Aurum says accusingly.

“Toilet duty,” Reno says, smooth as ever. “Ever heard of it?”

There’s an awkward pause, as the Vice President glances from one Turk to another as though he doesn’t quite believe it. “I’m not taking Rosalind,” he says in the end. “Give me that sword wielding Turk. The other Wutainese one.”

“He’s from Gongaga, sir,” Veld says.

Again with the uncomfortable pause.

“Send him anyway,” Aurum snaps, insisting on getting the last word, before rising fluidly to his feet and heading for the door. Dark Nation pads after him.

Vincent shrugs. “Now that his royal assholeness is out of the way…”

Veld turns his attention back to the map, circling several buildings. “These are the potential areas that Sierra is hiding at. Based on his selection of rendezvous points, we can postulate that he has at least one residence in the upper Junon area. I’ll be dispatching teams to monitor--”

“Actually,” Reno says. “I came here to give you some good news. Rude was scouting out upper Junon. We found our little mole.”

“Excellent,” Vincent says, pulling gloves from his pocket and snapping them on. “Time to find out where Tseng is.”

*

Sierra is dozing when the break in occurs. The disadvantage of being a one man show is that constant vigilance is impossible. The disadvantage of being sick, on top of being a one man show, is that he fails to notice as several of his alarms blink offline, as the lock on his door is disarmed, the booby traps evaded.

In bed with the covers drawn all the way up to his neck, he fails to notice the tiny electronic bug that scampers under his bedroom door. It makes its way over discarded disks on the floor, nudges aside an overflowing ashtray and scrambles amongst the piles of paper, noting the criss-crossing IR beams and the near invisible wires on the floor, before moving to disable them.

He does wake up the moment the intruders enter the room, and drags twin pistols out from under his pillow, spinning and aiming one at each of the newcomers. Then the manipulate spell hits him, the one thing that the Ribbon doesn’t protect against. He fights against the control, but battling sickness has left him weaker physically as well as mentally. His fingers uncurl themselves, shaking all the way, even as he grits his teeth, trying to pull the triggers, then the guns drop from his grip.

Everything goes sharply downhill from there. His hands fall, nerveless, to his lap, and the world goes vague, and consciousness recedes behind a curtain. It’s almost like falling asleep, but not quite; through the haze he registers himself moving, and thanks his lucky stars that manipulate can’t compel someone to spill information, simply because their conscious mind isn’t exactly available for questioning while the spell lasts.

He comes back to himself in a dark room, shivering slightly with the cold, wondering what just hit him. No one’s been able to pull a fast one on him before, not least because his apartment – one of many – has never been discovered. As the dregs of the spell wear off, he wonders how they managed to get through all the safeguards, and more importantly, where they found such a rare and powerful materia. He can think of one candidate offhand immediately, but he’s quite sure that he still had enough of a hold on them that they wouldn’t come after him...

No matter, he thinks to himself. He’ll find out who his captors are soon enough. The rest of his senses are returning, one after the other, and he becomes very slowly aware that he’s seated – or more accurately, secured to a chair. He can’t feel his fingers, and attributes that to the fact that his wrists are bound together tightly enough to limit circulation. Even if he dislocated a thumb or both, he wouldn’t be able to slip these bonds. And it wouldn’t do a thing about the ropes securing his elbows to the back of the seat, or those around his knees and ankles. Whoever did this is singularly paranoid, he reflects sourly.

He suppresses another shudder, wondering if the cold is part of the entire interrogation routine, or whether it’s just his messed up internal thermostat. The skin at the back of his neck prickles worryingly, and he wonders how much time has passed, and how long it is before he’s going to get another attack.

The room is empty, but he has no doubt that there are cameras or scan materia trained on it. He doesn’t bother with regulating his breathing, with pretending to be asleep. A quick scan of the surrounds informs him in no uncertain terms that there isn’t anything here he can remotely use to his advantage. He heaves a sigh and settles in to wait, chilled and uncomfortable and very much aware that this is all a scare tactic on the other side’s part.

No cover is perfect, he reflects. Fact of life. He learnt that, when he stuck his nose into places he wasn’t supposed to, back in Midgar. He relearns that every time he fucks up, and a lot of times when he doesn’t. A lot of bluff is dependent on people not being too observant – in fact, he figures that being a Turk is easy, because by the time they call the Turks in, it doesn’t matter if they get recognised. Because the Turks are relying on people like him to give them the tip offs. But for those people who get the information behind the tip offs, once their cover is blown, they don’t always have the option of silencing the witness.

Sierra has used his manipulate materia so often that he’s mastered it three times over. It’s almost failsafe, where it comes to persuading people to forget about him. And even for those who have better memories or stronger minds than the others, their recollection is usually imperfect. But that all depends on him being able to get to the witness with the manipulate materia, depends on him having enough time to spend with him to wrestle mentally with him and persuade him that he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

The last few months have been rough. Somewhere, someone locked onto his trail and he hasn’t been able to shake them off. He can’t place when it exactly it happened. Or which job it was that blew his cover. But suddenly he had people following him, people whom he couldn’t outrun, or outsmart. Changing his address half a dozen times hasn’t helped. Hiring Tseng was supposed to help him get rid of them... well, he knows now how well that went. He still wonders what became of the Turk.

There’s a shift in the air behind him.

He twists to look back, then the blind spell hits him, and he registers for a moment that he doesn’t have his Ribbon just a nanosecond before his eyesight goes. Shit. So that’s how it’s going to go… he stills his breathing, turning to his secondary senses. He doesn’t hear footsteps, but some sixth sense, well honed, senses the presence of someone drawing near.

Said person pauses. And waits.

He waits too, letting them show their hand first. In his chest his heart is pounding, though, cold sweat breaking out on his palms. It’s the first time he’s been in this situation, and his all too fertile imagination is supplying him with any number of possible scenarios.

Adrenaline, he tells himself. All adrenaline--

Said adrenaline spikes violently as his chin is grabbed, the chill of leather rough and impersonal against his skin. His face is jerked up, and the next moment he feels cold metal kissing his throat.

…Not a gun. It’s a knife, and the edge becomes a point that traces his jugular. He swallows despite himself, and feels the sting as the tip breaks skin.

“Name,” a voice demands, muffled through electronic masking.

“Meaningless,” he replies, and suppresses a wince as his hair is grabbed, his head jerked back. The knife runs teasingly across his jaw.

“There are many ways we can do this,” the voice continues. “This counts as the easy way.” There’s a flick, a flash of pain, and he feels blood starting to trickle. The point of the blade moves towards the back of his neck, hovers over a patch of skin that he knows is black with the rot of the disease, and he can’t stop the flicker of fear that lances through his stomach.

“This is not the way I do business,” he says coolly. “Cease with the threats and we can discuss this in a civilised fashion.”

There’s a low laugh, and his head is released. “Name,” the interrogator repeats patiently, from some distance away.

“You know it,” he replies, and his ears catch the low hum of something electric. He steels himself – just in time, before cold metal meets the back of his neck. He feels more than hears the zap of electricity, as the force sends him falling forward against his bonds. The disease flares to ugly life, white hot pain stabs from neck right through his skull. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, struggling instinctively. Rope cuts into his wrists and ankles, but the slow burn is nothing compared to the raging agony at the top of his spine that’s slowly working downwards. He slumps, muscles gone to water, and spits blood. Metal meets his chin, pushes it up, and he tenses again.

When the zap doesn’t come, he breathes out a sigh of relief that he didn’t know he was holding.

“Name,” the question comes a third time.

He narrows blinded eyes. There’s the hard way, and then there’s the easy way, and then there’s the way that they didn’t expect. He has nothing to lose by attempting it, he thinks, feeling the drip of blood where it’s winding down his throat. “You know it,” he says, forcing calm. When he feels the point of the… EMR?… go suddenly still, the calm before the storm, he sucks in a shallow breath and gambles before they have the chance to shock him again. “You know it, Veld.”

The touch doesn’t move. He finds that his arms are shaking, and he’s not sure if it’s from the cold, the fear, or a residue of the pain.

“Amusing,” the voice comes back at last.

“Careless,” he snaps out. “Manipulate materia, blind spells and EMRs? There are few people so well equipped. Fewer still who would know me, know my residence, and evade my security.”

“Then we can dispense with games.” It’s a new voice, but this one is the one he recognises as Veld’s. There are at least two people in the room; the brush of air across his skin as they move hints at it. There’s a quiet step, and he clenches his fists, hating the helplessness.

“Whatever happened to our deal?” he demands. The gamble hasn’t backfired, but it hasn’t tipped anything in his favour just yet. But knowing who the enemy is goes a long way towards increasing his edge in negotiations. And interrogation is just a more impolite form of negotiation, in the end. If he can keep it from descending into violence.

“I might ask the same,” Veld says grimly, and Sierra knows there must be something terribly wrong, because the Turks have stopped making him guess at what they want, and are going straight for the kill. Time must be of the essence.

“Where is Tseng?” he says first. “Where is my payment?” His shirt is getting drenched again; he can feel it sticking from the neck down.

There’s silence for a long moment, longer than he would have expected, then the EMR is jammed painfully against his windpipe, pressing in hard enough that it makes it difficult to breathe. “Nice try,” a voice he remembers as Reno’s snarls at him. “We’re the ones asking the questions.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “He never arrived at the rendezvous.”

The blow catches him out of the blue, and there’s a crack as the EMR slams into his cheek, sending his head rocking to the side. The cheek he bit earlier starts bleeding again, and he scowls at the blackness, working his jaw until it snaps back into joint with a pop. “I know how this works,” he says, and his jaw is starting to swell, slurring the words just a little. “You keep hitting me until I change my story, until you get the version you like.” He raises his chin, defiant. “Unfortunately, the truth is rarely what you want to hear.”

The second zap is against his right side, and the force of it nearly makes him shriek. His stomach clenches so tight from the stimulus that he gags, nearly heaving, and for a long, long moment, his entire world collapses down to the pain and the inability to get enough air. Something is winding its way down his chin, and he doesn’t’ know if it’s saliva or blood, or both. This is just the warm up, he realises. They’re still giving him enough time to think, enough time to talk. He still has their attention, and he needs to make the most of it.

“He never arrived,” he says. “You know I’m mako addicted. You know I would have taken a dose the moment I got it; I’ve been deprived for days now and it’s killing me.” He’s speaking so fast that his words are all but tripping over each other. “Do a blood test for the concentration of mako in my blood. See if I’m lying. I never met him. I never got the shipment.”

There’s another pause, the sound of hurried conversation.

“Then where is Tseng?” Reno sounds angry and harassed, and that makes Sierra a tad concerned. An angry Turk is an unpredictable Turk.

“If neither you nor I know, I can only postulate that he was apprehended.” He shakes his head to clear the buzzing that seems to have taken up residence in his ears. The spell is starting to wear off, the black fog across his vision turning slowly to grey. Someone steps before him, and he tenses despite himself.

“Even if we accept that as true, there are many more questions to be answered,” a voice says, one that Sierra isn’t familiar with. Valentine, he suspects. And while the tone is quiet, it carries a hint of restrained violence that unsettles him even more than Reno’s voice had.

“I made a deal with Tseng.” He meets the veiled threat with a steady challenge of his own. “I can be persuaded to overlook this as a forgettable error on your part, instead of a repudiatory breach of the arrangement between us. …I might even help you locate your agent, for the right price.”

“Back to bargaining,” Valentine says, shaking his head.

“Conduct the blood test,” Veld orders, from somewhere further away. “Untie him, treat his wounds.” Through the lifting spell, Sierra can see him moving towards the door. They really are in a hurry. He would be too, if he found that one of his agents was missing for a day…

“What is your asking price?” Valentine’s voice catches his attention again, and he glances up.

“Give me an offer, and I’ll consider it.”

“You’re a bastard, Sierra,” Reno says, and there’s a rattle as he reappears in his field of vision with a first-aid kit. “A mako syringe good enough for ya? Will keep you going long enough for you to find Tseng.”

“Three,” Sierra says calmly. “One for the assistance. One for every zap from that EMR. Upfront payment. And two thousand gil, for the time.”

“Three syringes. Upfront payment of one syringe only,” Veld says. “And one thousand gil, payable on completion of the mission. Non-negotiable, Sierra.”

It’s massively discounted from his usual rate, but with the Turks hovering like angry vultures around him, he doesn’t have much of a choice. “Done,” he says.

To Be Continued