FFVII - BREAKING POINT - R - CHAPTER 2
Breaking Point
|Chapter 2|
His PHS is going off again.
He eyes it with disdain as he scrubs at his wet hair with a towel. He should turn it off, but that would require caring enough-and it’s already on mute. He watches it vibrate across the table with a detached sort of amusement.
It’s his day off. He’s not sure who’s calling and he doesn’t care, but if it’s anyone who knows him personally, then they should know better.
On his day off, Reno doesn’t take calls. He sometimes makes them, but he’s not interested in anyone else’s plans unless it’s possibly getting drunk and lately he’s been doing that in his apartment more often than not, since they can’t spare more than one TURK off at a time.
This fact does not deter the caller. If it continues like this, it’ll probably end up on the floor. Maybe even broken. Boss might jump his ass about it, since they’re technically not made of money anymore but he’s heard the spiel and even if it’s true he just doesn’t care.
He drapes the towel over his shoulders and does a quick area check. His apartment is a standard shoe-box less than a stone’s throw from the office, but he’s lived in the Slums too long. Long enough to know that shit can go down anywhere. Even in a shiny new town like Edge.
So, he does a quick perimeter check as he walks to the bedroom.
Bathroom: Check.
Living area: Check.
Kitchen: Check.
Front Hall: Check.
Figure on Balcony: Che-
Reno puts his ratty sofa between him and whoever is perched on the railing of what is structurally considered his balcony but, in reality, is a fire escape with lofty aspirations. He’s not armed, but his mag rod is a short distance away in the kitchen and there’s a gun or two…somewhere. One in the bedroom (again, somewhere) and another… um. Actually the other one might be a knife. Shit. -Here’s hoping the cushions are as hard as they feel.
The bathroom door is still open and the steam is clearing enough so that he can kinda make out the vaguely human-shaped blob of the intruder in the mirror-the bathroom is across from the sliding door separated only by the tiny living area, which is a great floor-plan if you don’t mind giving the unit across from you a show every now and then but a terrible one for home invasions.
Above his pulse pounding in his ears, he hears a low buzzing and realizes his PHS is still ringing.
It’s on the coffee table, which is in front of the couch which is facing the balcony access and windows but if it’s Tseng or even Rufus they can have back up here in minutes. Whoever is out there has had ample opportunity to do whatever it is they’re here to do but they haven’t. Obviously they’re waiting. But for what?
He stares hard at the fuzzy, dripping reflection and decides the PHS is his best weapon at the moment.
In a move that would have done a SOLDIER proud he flips over the back of the couch, rolls on top of the table; snagging the vibrating device on his way off. He then dives back behind the couch with his prize and punches the accept button before whoever is calling finally gives up.
“This is Reno, I need back-“
“-Let me in, dumbass!”
His brain stutters at the distressed whisper. It’s not anyone he can readily identify but the voice is female and familiar in a way that he can’t quite put his finger on. The fact that he was casually insulted is noted, but he’s in a potentially violent situation and-wait. What did she say?
“Who is this, and what do you mean let you…”
Oh. Oh.
Slowly, putting his belly to the ground, he peeks past the edge of the couch. The intruder, who still hasn’t moved, does indeed have a PHS next to her ear. As he watches, she sways a bit.
“It’s Yuffie. -Look, I’m sorry if I startled you, but can you please, please let me inside?”
With the identity of his would-be assassin confirmed, he collapses face down into the pile of his questionably clean carpet; the tension leaving his body as quickly as it came. That was why it was familiar. Reeve had been actively using the ninja for WRO work, and that inevitably lead to their paths crossing more often (and less violently) than they had before.
He ends the connection and rights himself with a grunt. Finally getting a good look, he notices that the normally perky girl looks wrecked. There’s obvious fatigue and a leanness that suggests a lack of provisions for an extended period of time. The device is gone from her ear but the sway has only gotten worse. He’d better do something. If a gust of wind takes her out, it’ll probably be war. Again.
He opens the sliding door, and reaches for an unsteady arm. The Princess has grown a bit, but she’s still all leg and the way she gingerly unfolds herself makes it clear that while she’s not bleeding anywhere he can see, she’s not in perfect working order either. The way she lists into the apartment pretty much confirms it.
She makes for the sofa and oozes into it in such a way that suggests she won’t be moving for some time.
Now a good host would offer some form of refreshment to this weary traveler, but he’s just spent the last few minutes on high alert for no real reason and isn’t feeling very charitable about it.
In fact, he’s actually kinda pissed off.
“Since you’re in no condition for me to march down to the nearest WRO office, I guess you’re stuck in Chez Reno.”
He makes a grand sweeping gesture that encompasses his sad little abode that is totally wasted on his guest who looks like she might have slipped into unconscious in the two seconds he wasn’t paying attention. He nudges her with his foot until he she focuses again. The glare is weak, but wary.
“-Listen up. Your five-star amenities include: this ergonomic sofa, guaranteed to improve your posture or your ass can sleep on the floor. A luke warm shower with about 10 minutes of warm left-I’d take advantage of that pretty quick if I were you. All the tap water you can drink and maybe, if I feel like going out to get it, some food later. -It’s my day off, though. I might just decide to sleep all day and pick up something on the way to work tomorrow.”
Yuffie doesn’t answer beyond a groan-like his questionable hospitality is the best. Thing. Ever. He has to wonder about the sort of peace-time mission that does this to an elite ninja. Definitely not something he’d want to sign up for. -Who knew Reeve was such a slave driver?
“I have… nothing on me right now. But if you let me use your shower you can name your price. On my honor as Princess and Premier Shinobi of Wutai…”
Invoking the Royal Family for a chance at his tiny bathroom might be a sign that he should be taking her pitiable state a little more seriously. Which means food in the near future. And not whatever junk he’s got rattling around here.
“I already said you could use it, but since you’re offering how about some Quid Pro Quo? You want a shower, I want answers. Let’s make a deal.”
This time the groan is a bit more like the one he was going for.
“Oh man, I hate you. -But ok.”
She tries some slick ninja move to get into the bathroom first. He grabs for her ankle and connects. It’s all too easy since a half-hearted flop was all that came of it. She glares at him balefully. It fails to impress.
“Aw, I hate you too, honey. -Now, how did you get my number?”
“Grrah! I can’t believe it! Not again!”
The outburst was one of many amidst a cacophony of cheers and groans as the Winners are announced. The man in question tears his ticket up into tiny pieces and throws them in the air like cheap confetti before stalking away from the announcement board. Vincent eyes the trash left behind with distaste.
It’s only a petty act of childishness, but the fact that it mildly offends only serves to remind him just how far removed his is from the here and now. He tugs the sleeve of his turtleneck over his claw and continues his reconnaissance, mentally going over the Intel while he scans the area.
“Gold Saucer?”
Rufus merely raises an eyebrow, seamlessly taking control as Tseng remains silent beside him.
“You seem surprised. You realize that the most popular and viable outlet for the less clandestine branches of genetic science have to do with livestock, and breeding superior racing birds is pretty much the highest-grossing form of that.”
He skims down until he sees a name.
“Leighton Labs. I’m not familiar with that name. You’re certain he’s an employee?”
If the former president is irked by the second-guessing of his intel, he shows no indication. Once again in his element, the perfect mask of confidence is firmly in place.
“Yes. -Under an assumed name, of course. Leighton is well-known in their respective field. At least they were, until our mutual blond friend changed the whole dynamic by introducing Natural Golds into the racing circuit.”
There was a page indicating the company’s current financial status. Leighton had shrunk considerably just before Meteorfall and had recently consolidated their assets into their new main office at Gold Saucer. He recognized Dio’s flamboyant scrawl at the bottom of their 10-year lease.
There.
A hint of pink. Making a casual trek around the lobby, he makes visual contact. People may find it odd, but Ester’s seemingly outlandish style of dress is actually a uniform based on the old docent costumes from Gold Saucer’s early days. It speaks of a deep connection to the park and it’s not the first time he’s wondered if she is actually a Partner or relation to one. The fact that she controls one of the most lucrative areas in Gold Saucer is a good indication, but Dio is notoriously eccentric. She could be an excellent kick-boxer or something equally ridiculous.
Taking up her usual spot, Gold Saucer’s Chocobo Racing Manager has changed little since the last time he saw her. If anyone can get him into the Saucer’s hidden Commercial District, it’s her. He can only hope she recalls his association with Cloud. The diminutive ex-SOLDIER might be famous in certain circles, but he handed the rights to his birds over to Chocobo Bill some time ago and he hasn’t raced since then.
Ester sees hundreds of faces a day. If she doesn’t remember Cloud, then she likely won’t remember him. That will make things difficult.
“Pardon me.”
Ester looked up at him with a smile; chocobo feather waving as she bobs in greeting.
“Hello! What can I do for you?”
Vincent had once made a career out of terrorizing others. Certainly the changes made to his body were intended to be a more physical manifestation of that career, but he’d learned that anything could be overlooked with the right affectation.
So with turtleneck and slacks, heavy rimmed glasses and a marginally tamed ponytail, the former TURK sincerely hopes that he’s reining back the intimidation factor. -It’s difficult to determine when you can kill someone with everyday household items, just exactly what ‘harmless’ is.
“Hello. I was hoping you could help me. Do you happen to know an acquaintance of mine? Cloud Strife?”
She makes a show if thinking it over, but she knows exactly who he’s asking about.
“Hmm. About yea tall, blue eyes, hair like a chicobo’s butt? I might know who you’re talking about. -You said you were a friend?”
She looks skeptical. No doubt he’s not the first one to inquire about the reclusive man and likely not the only one to pose as a ‘friend’. He briefly considers using a cover, but thinks better of it. If he can convince Ester to help him using the real story, any action he takes will be viewed as being in the park’s best interest. Besides, thanks to his part-time WRO work he has a laundry list of references, besides Cloud and his group.
He bows slightly, arm across his chest and her eyes go round at the sight of his claw.
“My name is Vincent Valentine. I don’t suppose you remember me; I only mention Cloud because it was in his company that I first heard of you. I accompanied him on a few of his visits here during the Meteor Incident. -You’ll find my name in your logs, as a Guest on his Gold Ticket Pass.”
At his established paper trail, Ester looks a little less combative. He had struggled with whether to use his real name during his visits to the Saucer, but he’s glad he did so now. Wary of the patrons wandering about, he leans in a bit, not enough to crowd but enough so that the general noise of the area covers what he’s about to say.
“A situation has recently been brought to my attention which could put many in danger, elements of which have been found right here in Gold Saucer. Though the danger is not immediate, it is imperative that the matter be addressed as soon as possible. -Of course, I don’t want to cast any doubt as to the safety of the park, especially where others might hear. Is there a time where we can speak privately?”
Shuffling behind him causes him to turn and notice the sizeable crowd forming behind him, waiting for their chance at Ester. He’s a little surprised. It’s not the weekend, so he assumed the jockeys would mostly be staffers on standard rotation. It seems he greatly overestimated his window of opportunity.
She frowns at the unsettling news.
“Mister… -Valentine, was it? If this is as serious as you say then I need to bring the Owner in. I’m afraid I can’t do anything without his consent, and if it’s a matter of security he’ll need to know anyway. -He’s the head of that.”
It’s a complication, but an inevitable one. He had considered going straight to Dio with his information, but was afraid the man’s own eccentricity would prevent him from taking the matter seriously. He had initially hoped to bypass him entirely but as this was no longer an option, it was better to have the situation presented by a trusted member of staff who is well aware of the man’s foibles.
“I expected as much. -Dio is a very difficult man to track down or I would have gone to him directly. I apologize for having to approach you this way.”
With Ester mollified, he is promised a meeting and given a time and place. Since Gold Saucer’s owner is every bit as elusive to his staff as he is to guests, the meeting is scheduled for later in the week, giving him time to check in with Tseng and to make what will likely be a very awkward call to Cloud.
He gives another short bow and takes his leave, allowing the flow of people to move him along. He had hoped it was a mistake, and maintained that hope still. But Cloud would have to be told sooner or later and as a former experiment of the man in question, he believes himself to be the best candidate to do so.
As he takes the chute back to the hotel, he tries to gauge Cloud’s reaction to the news using what he knows about the younger man. None of his hypothetical situations end particularly well. The question remains.
How exactly is he going to tell him that Hojo is alive?
He shakes off the unnatural lethargy with some effort. It costs him in that his vision swims and doesn’t quite settle but he is considerably more aware that he is not where he ought to be at the moment. Which is in the office, working. With Tseng. -Or Rude.
He’s too addled to remember the rotation, but he knows he usually works with someone capable of stopping something like this from happening. The gap between waking up this morning and waking up now is depressingly blank. Whoever’s shift it was is getting their pay docked-assuming he survives of course.
“He’s waking up.”
The voice helps hold his focus a little but his body is still comfortably heavy; like an old quilt. He blinks blearily down at himself and realizes he’s tied and that the person who did it has some skill. It will take more faculties than he has at the moment to get loose.
That doesn’t stop him from flexing some life into his stiff hands and feet.
Even with the very likely odds that he will not come out of this unscathed, Rufus feels more annoyance than anything else. When you’ve been abducted as many times as he has, it eventually becomes rote. Either they’ll have demands or they’ll try to kill him for whatever slight they believe the company was responsible for-even though the worst of it happened either before he was born or while he was too young to do anything about it.
He wishes he could get that kind of brand loyalty from actual customers instead of people who want to kill him. He might still have a viable business instead of gradually depleting fail-safe investments.
His thoughts are interrupted by a hand in his hair as it tilts his face up to view one of his captors. It isn’t anyone he recognizes, but that’s typical. He’s never been good with faces, but he is very good at making connections and people who do this kind of thing always have a story. -Sometimes it’s even a good one; one that makes him feel vaguely guilty when he’s identifying their corpses later.
“Hello Mr. President. Do you know who I am?”
Rufus does not roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. It’s like he is somehow supposed to be omniscient in the field of domestic terrorism. He takes in the age, the sex, the clothes, the overall mien and his muddled brain churns out: Eco-terrorist. Probably some remnant of AVALANCHE. All of the other tree-huggers joined up with the WRO.
So it’s to be revenge. For things he either didn’t do, or didn’t stop doing. The man is calmly looking down at him, the silence stretching on and he realizes: Oh. He actually wants an answer.
Well, if death is going to be the endgame here, then Rufus has even less incentive than usual to pull his punches.
“No. But that doesn’t matter does it? Are you going to tell me your sad little story before you do whatever it is you brought me here to do or are we just going to get on with it?”
The man’s face goes from patient to ugly and the blow is so predictable that he’s able to move his face slightly so that it’s a bruise, not a concussion. His hair is grabbed again and this time the intention is to pull him into an upright position. It should probably hurt more than it does, but he is still properly buzzing from whatever they gave him and so doesn’t move an inch to help with this goal. Eventually hands grab at his arms and heave him up. The hand in his hair tightens and holds his head perfectly still. It takes him a moment to realize that no further violence is coming and he focuses instead on the surroundings.
He blinks at the fact that they are in Midgar. And not just at the edges either. Burnt and twisted metal surrounds them on all sides. Rufus can feel the tang of Mako at the back of his throat-the real reason behind the city’s desertion. Mako seepage had made the place unlivable-even those who came for the healing spring kept their visit short. It was originally believed that this was the cause of the Geostigma epidemic, but as people across the continent became infected with no reactor in sight, the idea was eventually forgotten.
The voice returns, right at his ear and he blames the disorientation of the drugs for his brief struggle to get away from it.
“A sad little story? Mr. President, your debt to the Planet could fill volumes. The abridged version, since you seem to be in such a hurry, is that this place should have been your grave. We are rectifying that mistake. Fitting since it was once your palace, yes?”
There are two others beyond the speaker. One of them is holding him up. The other is standing a little away from them. He can’t tell for sure, but it looks like she has a knife. She’s wearing the same piece-meal clothing as the spokesperson and carries signs of Stage 3 infection: her hair is a dark pewter that had probably once been brown.
“You may have convinced the general public that Geostigma was caused by poisoning of the Lifestream, but we know it for what it truly is. Even your feeble scientists could find no better name. Geostigma: wrath of the Planet.”
The woman comes closer and it is a knife she has. His hair is finally released and he’s lowered to the ground again. In his mind’s eye he can see them slitting his throat and leaving him here to bleed out. Probably after intoning some sort of prayer to an entity that neither knows nor cares what they are doing. If the Planet did nothing while his company bled it dry, then obviously it’s going to take something bigger than his own death to get its attention.
“Whatever you’re doing, you’re wasting your time. The Planet only reacts when in imminent danger. It did nothing when we built the reactors. It isn’t even responsible for Geostigma, despite what everyone thinks. If you want to blame me for the actions of Shin-Ra Electric, then fine. But don’t dress it up as some kind of appeasement. The Planet doesn’t care. It doesn’t even know we exist.”
He had been kneeling, but the Speaker’s boot catches him in the chest and he hits the ground coughing.
“Do not speak of the Planet as if you know it. The only beings that knew the Planet are the Ancients, and they are extinct because of you! We know of the girl in the slums. We know why you wanted her. She is dead because of your actions! Our last link to the Planet, gone!”
Grabbed by the hair again and he is so, so tired of this bullshit. He kicks out and hears a grunt. It’s from the one who’d been holding him earlier. The one he hasn’t seen. The Speaker is surprised enough by his sudden viciousness that he lets go of his head and steps back. He registers the man’s retreat and realizes he’s not a fighter. He’s too angry to read much into it, but still finds it odd behavior for a fanatic.
The woman steps up and has the point of her knife under his chin so fast he doesn’t register it against his throat until he feels the slide of blood down his neck. This one is a fighter. In more ways than one, it seems.
“With the wisdom of the Ancients lost to us, we have no choice but to go back to the old ways. Our plea may go unheard, but at the very least we will have stopped-“
Rufus doesn’t understand what makes the Speaker cut his diatribe short, focused as he is on the woman. Until it happens again.
Movement. All around them. Groaning metal and the ping of debris track a slow progression and he wants to think it’s his TURKs but he knows they’re better than that. Whatever is moving is being cautious but not quiet. And besides, there’s too many individuals from the sound of things.
The woman backs away from him, head darting around to track the noise. He can hear the one he kicked slowly doing the same. The Speaker stands frozen, his face white with fear. As interested as he is in the interruption, Rufus spares a thought as to where the two more able of the group picked up such an obvious coward. A leader who can only keep it together when things are going to plan is no leader at all.
“What is it? What is it?”
He sees the woman’s head whip around, probably to silence the man before he can draw more attention to himself. She doesn’t get a chance though, because as soon as Rufus sees what steps out from the shadows, he starts to laugh.
“Shhh! Shut up! Shut up! -Shut him up!”
He’s hauled up from behind and a gloved hand put over his mouth. It smells overwhelmingly like dirt, but he still gasps with laughter. The adrenaline must finally be kicking in because he’s shaking with it and can’t seem to stop.
One of the figures leaps down, all sleek muscle and padded feet and the two that aren’t holding him immediately give it room. He knew Hojo had made more of them, and he should probably be more concerned about them running around feral, but as another dark shape emerges, and another and another all he can feel is an odd sort of elation.
He didn’t know what Hojo ended up calling them. Probably something boorish and scientific. He only knows what his was called. A name worthy of the legacy for which it was created.
Dark Nation.
A whole pack of them. Their unique genetic makeup was obviously not affected by the toxic Mako levels because they had been… breeding. They were probably going to attack and kill them all, but at least he had the satisfaction that his erstwhile kidnappers would be going along for the ride. And they were magnificent creatures. There were worst ways to die.
Like the true predators they were, they singled out the weakest prey first. The mouthpiece squeals as the boldest of the pack makes a lunge for him that is barely checked by the woman’s brandished knife. The creature merely retreats a few paces before stopping, tail lashing. It seems she has the only real weapon, not counting materia, which he’s sure at least one of them has. She angles her head in his direction, eyes assessing, but when she speaks she’s addressing her cohort.
“We can’t hold them off. -He’s already bleeding. I say throw him to the pack. It may buy us some time.”
She turns back to their so-called leader, who has regained a bit of color at the prospect of escape.
“I know it’s not the way we wanted, but he’ll be just as dead. A sacrifice to the Planet. Food for Her creatures. It is a good end for him.”
Rufus wants to mention that they are technically creatures of science, but he is beyond speech still. In any case, he knows she’ll get no argument. The Leader’s eyes are still wide with fear, and the one holding him is rigid with tension. In the end, most Fanatics inevitably choose themselves over the Cause. One way or another.
The muted thumps of multiple paws hitting the dirt puts everyone in agreement.
“On my word...”
His captor changes his grip, no longer caring for the hiccupping chuckles still coming from his mouth. Large hands fist in his clothes, and he realizes the type of throw they’re going to use just seconds before it happens.
“NOW!”
He registers being choked by his own clothing before he is airborne. Even though he anticipates the action, his muzzy state makes his reaction too slow and he hits the ground on his stomach, air leaving him in a painful whoosh. Dazed, he can only gasp as the sound of scuffling feet gets further and further away. Harsh cracks of impacted metal follow as the pack gives chase.
Moments pass and the air is punctuated with a scream. At least one of the beasts found their mark.
Once he catches his breath, he slowly attempts to right himself, which is much more difficult bound as he is. He gets as far as rolling on his back before a paw on his chest presses him down. His spasmodic laughter left him with most of his air when he hit the ground, so when the beast leans close to his unprotected neck there is only barely-checked breathing.
Moments pass where his heartbeat is his entire awareness. He barely feels the wet puffs against his skin, but the broad wet swipe that follows has him surging up with a gasp.
A second paw subdues him and the tongue continues its trek, following the trail of blood as it disappeared in his clothes. Dazed, helpless, and with nearly the full weight of the creature on his chest, breathing quickly becomes a losing battle. Darkness creeps into his vision as his lungs fight the compression.
As he slowly fades out of consciousness, he can’t help but be glad that he won’t be awake when the teeth finally come out.
It’s the last coherent though he has for a long time.
END
|Chapter 2|
His PHS is going off again.
He eyes it with disdain as he scrubs at his wet hair with a towel. He should turn it off, but that would require caring enough-and it’s already on mute. He watches it vibrate across the table with a detached sort of amusement.
It’s his day off. He’s not sure who’s calling and he doesn’t care, but if it’s anyone who knows him personally, then they should know better.
On his day off, Reno doesn’t take calls. He sometimes makes them, but he’s not interested in anyone else’s plans unless it’s possibly getting drunk and lately he’s been doing that in his apartment more often than not, since they can’t spare more than one TURK off at a time.
This fact does not deter the caller. If it continues like this, it’ll probably end up on the floor. Maybe even broken. Boss might jump his ass about it, since they’re technically not made of money anymore but he’s heard the spiel and even if it’s true he just doesn’t care.
He drapes the towel over his shoulders and does a quick area check. His apartment is a standard shoe-box less than a stone’s throw from the office, but he’s lived in the Slums too long. Long enough to know that shit can go down anywhere. Even in a shiny new town like Edge.
So, he does a quick perimeter check as he walks to the bedroom.
Bathroom: Check.
Living area: Check.
Kitchen: Check.
Front Hall: Check.
Figure on Balcony: Che-
Reno puts his ratty sofa between him and whoever is perched on the railing of what is structurally considered his balcony but, in reality, is a fire escape with lofty aspirations. He’s not armed, but his mag rod is a short distance away in the kitchen and there’s a gun or two…somewhere. One in the bedroom (again, somewhere) and another… um. Actually the other one might be a knife. Shit. -Here’s hoping the cushions are as hard as they feel.
The bathroom door is still open and the steam is clearing enough so that he can kinda make out the vaguely human-shaped blob of the intruder in the mirror-the bathroom is across from the sliding door separated only by the tiny living area, which is a great floor-plan if you don’t mind giving the unit across from you a show every now and then but a terrible one for home invasions.
Above his pulse pounding in his ears, he hears a low buzzing and realizes his PHS is still ringing.
It’s on the coffee table, which is in front of the couch which is facing the balcony access and windows but if it’s Tseng or even Rufus they can have back up here in minutes. Whoever is out there has had ample opportunity to do whatever it is they’re here to do but they haven’t. Obviously they’re waiting. But for what?
He stares hard at the fuzzy, dripping reflection and decides the PHS is his best weapon at the moment.
In a move that would have done a SOLDIER proud he flips over the back of the couch, rolls on top of the table; snagging the vibrating device on his way off. He then dives back behind the couch with his prize and punches the accept button before whoever is calling finally gives up.
“This is Reno, I need back-“
“-Let me in, dumbass!”
His brain stutters at the distressed whisper. It’s not anyone he can readily identify but the voice is female and familiar in a way that he can’t quite put his finger on. The fact that he was casually insulted is noted, but he’s in a potentially violent situation and-wait. What did she say?
“Who is this, and what do you mean let you…”
Oh. Oh.
Slowly, putting his belly to the ground, he peeks past the edge of the couch. The intruder, who still hasn’t moved, does indeed have a PHS next to her ear. As he watches, she sways a bit.
“It’s Yuffie. -Look, I’m sorry if I startled you, but can you please, please let me inside?”
With the identity of his would-be assassin confirmed, he collapses face down into the pile of his questionably clean carpet; the tension leaving his body as quickly as it came. That was why it was familiar. Reeve had been actively using the ninja for WRO work, and that inevitably lead to their paths crossing more often (and less violently) than they had before.
He ends the connection and rights himself with a grunt. Finally getting a good look, he notices that the normally perky girl looks wrecked. There’s obvious fatigue and a leanness that suggests a lack of provisions for an extended period of time. The device is gone from her ear but the sway has only gotten worse. He’d better do something. If a gust of wind takes her out, it’ll probably be war. Again.
He opens the sliding door, and reaches for an unsteady arm. The Princess has grown a bit, but she’s still all leg and the way she gingerly unfolds herself makes it clear that while she’s not bleeding anywhere he can see, she’s not in perfect working order either. The way she lists into the apartment pretty much confirms it.
She makes for the sofa and oozes into it in such a way that suggests she won’t be moving for some time.
Now a good host would offer some form of refreshment to this weary traveler, but he’s just spent the last few minutes on high alert for no real reason and isn’t feeling very charitable about it.
In fact, he’s actually kinda pissed off.
“Since you’re in no condition for me to march down to the nearest WRO office, I guess you’re stuck in Chez Reno.”
He makes a grand sweeping gesture that encompasses his sad little abode that is totally wasted on his guest who looks like she might have slipped into unconscious in the two seconds he wasn’t paying attention. He nudges her with his foot until he she focuses again. The glare is weak, but wary.
“-Listen up. Your five-star amenities include: this ergonomic sofa, guaranteed to improve your posture or your ass can sleep on the floor. A luke warm shower with about 10 minutes of warm left-I’d take advantage of that pretty quick if I were you. All the tap water you can drink and maybe, if I feel like going out to get it, some food later. -It’s my day off, though. I might just decide to sleep all day and pick up something on the way to work tomorrow.”
Yuffie doesn’t answer beyond a groan-like his questionable hospitality is the best. Thing. Ever. He has to wonder about the sort of peace-time mission that does this to an elite ninja. Definitely not something he’d want to sign up for. -Who knew Reeve was such a slave driver?
“I have… nothing on me right now. But if you let me use your shower you can name your price. On my honor as Princess and Premier Shinobi of Wutai…”
Invoking the Royal Family for a chance at his tiny bathroom might be a sign that he should be taking her pitiable state a little more seriously. Which means food in the near future. And not whatever junk he’s got rattling around here.
“I already said you could use it, but since you’re offering how about some Quid Pro Quo? You want a shower, I want answers. Let’s make a deal.”
This time the groan is a bit more like the one he was going for.
“Oh man, I hate you. -But ok.”
She tries some slick ninja move to get into the bathroom first. He grabs for her ankle and connects. It’s all too easy since a half-hearted flop was all that came of it. She glares at him balefully. It fails to impress.
“Aw, I hate you too, honey. -Now, how did you get my number?”
“Grrah! I can’t believe it! Not again!”
The outburst was one of many amidst a cacophony of cheers and groans as the Winners are announced. The man in question tears his ticket up into tiny pieces and throws them in the air like cheap confetti before stalking away from the announcement board. Vincent eyes the trash left behind with distaste.
It’s only a petty act of childishness, but the fact that it mildly offends only serves to remind him just how far removed his is from the here and now. He tugs the sleeve of his turtleneck over his claw and continues his reconnaissance, mentally going over the Intel while he scans the area.
“Gold Saucer?”
Rufus merely raises an eyebrow, seamlessly taking control as Tseng remains silent beside him.
“You seem surprised. You realize that the most popular and viable outlet for the less clandestine branches of genetic science have to do with livestock, and breeding superior racing birds is pretty much the highest-grossing form of that.”
He skims down until he sees a name.
“Leighton Labs. I’m not familiar with that name. You’re certain he’s an employee?”
If the former president is irked by the second-guessing of his intel, he shows no indication. Once again in his element, the perfect mask of confidence is firmly in place.
“Yes. -Under an assumed name, of course. Leighton is well-known in their respective field. At least they were, until our mutual blond friend changed the whole dynamic by introducing Natural Golds into the racing circuit.”
There was a page indicating the company’s current financial status. Leighton had shrunk considerably just before Meteorfall and had recently consolidated their assets into their new main office at Gold Saucer. He recognized Dio’s flamboyant scrawl at the bottom of their 10-year lease.
There.
A hint of pink. Making a casual trek around the lobby, he makes visual contact. People may find it odd, but Ester’s seemingly outlandish style of dress is actually a uniform based on the old docent costumes from Gold Saucer’s early days. It speaks of a deep connection to the park and it’s not the first time he’s wondered if she is actually a Partner or relation to one. The fact that she controls one of the most lucrative areas in Gold Saucer is a good indication, but Dio is notoriously eccentric. She could be an excellent kick-boxer or something equally ridiculous.
Taking up her usual spot, Gold Saucer’s Chocobo Racing Manager has changed little since the last time he saw her. If anyone can get him into the Saucer’s hidden Commercial District, it’s her. He can only hope she recalls his association with Cloud. The diminutive ex-SOLDIER might be famous in certain circles, but he handed the rights to his birds over to Chocobo Bill some time ago and he hasn’t raced since then.
Ester sees hundreds of faces a day. If she doesn’t remember Cloud, then she likely won’t remember him. That will make things difficult.
“Pardon me.”
Ester looked up at him with a smile; chocobo feather waving as she bobs in greeting.
“Hello! What can I do for you?”
Vincent had once made a career out of terrorizing others. Certainly the changes made to his body were intended to be a more physical manifestation of that career, but he’d learned that anything could be overlooked with the right affectation.
So with turtleneck and slacks, heavy rimmed glasses and a marginally tamed ponytail, the former TURK sincerely hopes that he’s reining back the intimidation factor. -It’s difficult to determine when you can kill someone with everyday household items, just exactly what ‘harmless’ is.
“Hello. I was hoping you could help me. Do you happen to know an acquaintance of mine? Cloud Strife?”
She makes a show if thinking it over, but she knows exactly who he’s asking about.
“Hmm. About yea tall, blue eyes, hair like a chicobo’s butt? I might know who you’re talking about. -You said you were a friend?”
She looks skeptical. No doubt he’s not the first one to inquire about the reclusive man and likely not the only one to pose as a ‘friend’. He briefly considers using a cover, but thinks better of it. If he can convince Ester to help him using the real story, any action he takes will be viewed as being in the park’s best interest. Besides, thanks to his part-time WRO work he has a laundry list of references, besides Cloud and his group.
He bows slightly, arm across his chest and her eyes go round at the sight of his claw.
“My name is Vincent Valentine. I don’t suppose you remember me; I only mention Cloud because it was in his company that I first heard of you. I accompanied him on a few of his visits here during the Meteor Incident. -You’ll find my name in your logs, as a Guest on his Gold Ticket Pass.”
At his established paper trail, Ester looks a little less combative. He had struggled with whether to use his real name during his visits to the Saucer, but he’s glad he did so now. Wary of the patrons wandering about, he leans in a bit, not enough to crowd but enough so that the general noise of the area covers what he’s about to say.
“A situation has recently been brought to my attention which could put many in danger, elements of which have been found right here in Gold Saucer. Though the danger is not immediate, it is imperative that the matter be addressed as soon as possible. -Of course, I don’t want to cast any doubt as to the safety of the park, especially where others might hear. Is there a time where we can speak privately?”
Shuffling behind him causes him to turn and notice the sizeable crowd forming behind him, waiting for their chance at Ester. He’s a little surprised. It’s not the weekend, so he assumed the jockeys would mostly be staffers on standard rotation. It seems he greatly overestimated his window of opportunity.
She frowns at the unsettling news.
“Mister… -Valentine, was it? If this is as serious as you say then I need to bring the Owner in. I’m afraid I can’t do anything without his consent, and if it’s a matter of security he’ll need to know anyway. -He’s the head of that.”
It’s a complication, but an inevitable one. He had considered going straight to Dio with his information, but was afraid the man’s own eccentricity would prevent him from taking the matter seriously. He had initially hoped to bypass him entirely but as this was no longer an option, it was better to have the situation presented by a trusted member of staff who is well aware of the man’s foibles.
“I expected as much. -Dio is a very difficult man to track down or I would have gone to him directly. I apologize for having to approach you this way.”
With Ester mollified, he is promised a meeting and given a time and place. Since Gold Saucer’s owner is every bit as elusive to his staff as he is to guests, the meeting is scheduled for later in the week, giving him time to check in with Tseng and to make what will likely be a very awkward call to Cloud.
He gives another short bow and takes his leave, allowing the flow of people to move him along. He had hoped it was a mistake, and maintained that hope still. But Cloud would have to be told sooner or later and as a former experiment of the man in question, he believes himself to be the best candidate to do so.
As he takes the chute back to the hotel, he tries to gauge Cloud’s reaction to the news using what he knows about the younger man. None of his hypothetical situations end particularly well. The question remains.
How exactly is he going to tell him that Hojo is alive?
He shakes off the unnatural lethargy with some effort. It costs him in that his vision swims and doesn’t quite settle but he is considerably more aware that he is not where he ought to be at the moment. Which is in the office, working. With Tseng. -Or Rude.
He’s too addled to remember the rotation, but he knows he usually works with someone capable of stopping something like this from happening. The gap between waking up this morning and waking up now is depressingly blank. Whoever’s shift it was is getting their pay docked-assuming he survives of course.
“He’s waking up.”
The voice helps hold his focus a little but his body is still comfortably heavy; like an old quilt. He blinks blearily down at himself and realizes he’s tied and that the person who did it has some skill. It will take more faculties than he has at the moment to get loose.
That doesn’t stop him from flexing some life into his stiff hands and feet.
Even with the very likely odds that he will not come out of this unscathed, Rufus feels more annoyance than anything else. When you’ve been abducted as many times as he has, it eventually becomes rote. Either they’ll have demands or they’ll try to kill him for whatever slight they believe the company was responsible for-even though the worst of it happened either before he was born or while he was too young to do anything about it.
He wishes he could get that kind of brand loyalty from actual customers instead of people who want to kill him. He might still have a viable business instead of gradually depleting fail-safe investments.
His thoughts are interrupted by a hand in his hair as it tilts his face up to view one of his captors. It isn’t anyone he recognizes, but that’s typical. He’s never been good with faces, but he is very good at making connections and people who do this kind of thing always have a story. -Sometimes it’s even a good one; one that makes him feel vaguely guilty when he’s identifying their corpses later.
“Hello Mr. President. Do you know who I am?”
Rufus does not roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. It’s like he is somehow supposed to be omniscient in the field of domestic terrorism. He takes in the age, the sex, the clothes, the overall mien and his muddled brain churns out: Eco-terrorist. Probably some remnant of AVALANCHE. All of the other tree-huggers joined up with the WRO.
So it’s to be revenge. For things he either didn’t do, or didn’t stop doing. The man is calmly looking down at him, the silence stretching on and he realizes: Oh. He actually wants an answer.
Well, if death is going to be the endgame here, then Rufus has even less incentive than usual to pull his punches.
“No. But that doesn’t matter does it? Are you going to tell me your sad little story before you do whatever it is you brought me here to do or are we just going to get on with it?”
The man’s face goes from patient to ugly and the blow is so predictable that he’s able to move his face slightly so that it’s a bruise, not a concussion. His hair is grabbed again and this time the intention is to pull him into an upright position. It should probably hurt more than it does, but he is still properly buzzing from whatever they gave him and so doesn’t move an inch to help with this goal. Eventually hands grab at his arms and heave him up. The hand in his hair tightens and holds his head perfectly still. It takes him a moment to realize that no further violence is coming and he focuses instead on the surroundings.
He blinks at the fact that they are in Midgar. And not just at the edges either. Burnt and twisted metal surrounds them on all sides. Rufus can feel the tang of Mako at the back of his throat-the real reason behind the city’s desertion. Mako seepage had made the place unlivable-even those who came for the healing spring kept their visit short. It was originally believed that this was the cause of the Geostigma epidemic, but as people across the continent became infected with no reactor in sight, the idea was eventually forgotten.
The voice returns, right at his ear and he blames the disorientation of the drugs for his brief struggle to get away from it.
“A sad little story? Mr. President, your debt to the Planet could fill volumes. The abridged version, since you seem to be in such a hurry, is that this place should have been your grave. We are rectifying that mistake. Fitting since it was once your palace, yes?”
There are two others beyond the speaker. One of them is holding him up. The other is standing a little away from them. He can’t tell for sure, but it looks like she has a knife. She’s wearing the same piece-meal clothing as the spokesperson and carries signs of Stage 3 infection: her hair is a dark pewter that had probably once been brown.
“You may have convinced the general public that Geostigma was caused by poisoning of the Lifestream, but we know it for what it truly is. Even your feeble scientists could find no better name. Geostigma: wrath of the Planet.”
The woman comes closer and it is a knife she has. His hair is finally released and he’s lowered to the ground again. In his mind’s eye he can see them slitting his throat and leaving him here to bleed out. Probably after intoning some sort of prayer to an entity that neither knows nor cares what they are doing. If the Planet did nothing while his company bled it dry, then obviously it’s going to take something bigger than his own death to get its attention.
“Whatever you’re doing, you’re wasting your time. The Planet only reacts when in imminent danger. It did nothing when we built the reactors. It isn’t even responsible for Geostigma, despite what everyone thinks. If you want to blame me for the actions of Shin-Ra Electric, then fine. But don’t dress it up as some kind of appeasement. The Planet doesn’t care. It doesn’t even know we exist.”
He had been kneeling, but the Speaker’s boot catches him in the chest and he hits the ground coughing.
“Do not speak of the Planet as if you know it. The only beings that knew the Planet are the Ancients, and they are extinct because of you! We know of the girl in the slums. We know why you wanted her. She is dead because of your actions! Our last link to the Planet, gone!”
Grabbed by the hair again and he is so, so tired of this bullshit. He kicks out and hears a grunt. It’s from the one who’d been holding him earlier. The one he hasn’t seen. The Speaker is surprised enough by his sudden viciousness that he lets go of his head and steps back. He registers the man’s retreat and realizes he’s not a fighter. He’s too angry to read much into it, but still finds it odd behavior for a fanatic.
The woman steps up and has the point of her knife under his chin so fast he doesn’t register it against his throat until he feels the slide of blood down his neck. This one is a fighter. In more ways than one, it seems.
“With the wisdom of the Ancients lost to us, we have no choice but to go back to the old ways. Our plea may go unheard, but at the very least we will have stopped-“
Rufus doesn’t understand what makes the Speaker cut his diatribe short, focused as he is on the woman. Until it happens again.
Movement. All around them. Groaning metal and the ping of debris track a slow progression and he wants to think it’s his TURKs but he knows they’re better than that. Whatever is moving is being cautious but not quiet. And besides, there’s too many individuals from the sound of things.
The woman backs away from him, head darting around to track the noise. He can hear the one he kicked slowly doing the same. The Speaker stands frozen, his face white with fear. As interested as he is in the interruption, Rufus spares a thought as to where the two more able of the group picked up such an obvious coward. A leader who can only keep it together when things are going to plan is no leader at all.
“What is it? What is it?”
He sees the woman’s head whip around, probably to silence the man before he can draw more attention to himself. She doesn’t get a chance though, because as soon as Rufus sees what steps out from the shadows, he starts to laugh.
“Shhh! Shut up! Shut up! -Shut him up!”
He’s hauled up from behind and a gloved hand put over his mouth. It smells overwhelmingly like dirt, but he still gasps with laughter. The adrenaline must finally be kicking in because he’s shaking with it and can’t seem to stop.
One of the figures leaps down, all sleek muscle and padded feet and the two that aren’t holding him immediately give it room. He knew Hojo had made more of them, and he should probably be more concerned about them running around feral, but as another dark shape emerges, and another and another all he can feel is an odd sort of elation.
He didn’t know what Hojo ended up calling them. Probably something boorish and scientific. He only knows what his was called. A name worthy of the legacy for which it was created.
Dark Nation.
A whole pack of them. Their unique genetic makeup was obviously not affected by the toxic Mako levels because they had been… breeding. They were probably going to attack and kill them all, but at least he had the satisfaction that his erstwhile kidnappers would be going along for the ride. And they were magnificent creatures. There were worst ways to die.
Like the true predators they were, they singled out the weakest prey first. The mouthpiece squeals as the boldest of the pack makes a lunge for him that is barely checked by the woman’s brandished knife. The creature merely retreats a few paces before stopping, tail lashing. It seems she has the only real weapon, not counting materia, which he’s sure at least one of them has. She angles her head in his direction, eyes assessing, but when she speaks she’s addressing her cohort.
“We can’t hold them off. -He’s already bleeding. I say throw him to the pack. It may buy us some time.”
She turns back to their so-called leader, who has regained a bit of color at the prospect of escape.
“I know it’s not the way we wanted, but he’ll be just as dead. A sacrifice to the Planet. Food for Her creatures. It is a good end for him.”
Rufus wants to mention that they are technically creatures of science, but he is beyond speech still. In any case, he knows she’ll get no argument. The Leader’s eyes are still wide with fear, and the one holding him is rigid with tension. In the end, most Fanatics inevitably choose themselves over the Cause. One way or another.
The muted thumps of multiple paws hitting the dirt puts everyone in agreement.
“On my word...”
His captor changes his grip, no longer caring for the hiccupping chuckles still coming from his mouth. Large hands fist in his clothes, and he realizes the type of throw they’re going to use just seconds before it happens.
“NOW!”
He registers being choked by his own clothing before he is airborne. Even though he anticipates the action, his muzzy state makes his reaction too slow and he hits the ground on his stomach, air leaving him in a painful whoosh. Dazed, he can only gasp as the sound of scuffling feet gets further and further away. Harsh cracks of impacted metal follow as the pack gives chase.
Moments pass and the air is punctuated with a scream. At least one of the beasts found their mark.
Once he catches his breath, he slowly attempts to right himself, which is much more difficult bound as he is. He gets as far as rolling on his back before a paw on his chest presses him down. His spasmodic laughter left him with most of his air when he hit the ground, so when the beast leans close to his unprotected neck there is only barely-checked breathing.
Moments pass where his heartbeat is his entire awareness. He barely feels the wet puffs against his skin, but the broad wet swipe that follows has him surging up with a gasp.
A second paw subdues him and the tongue continues its trek, following the trail of blood as it disappeared in his clothes. Dazed, helpless, and with nearly the full weight of the creature on his chest, breathing quickly becomes a losing battle. Darkness creeps into his vision as his lungs fight the compression.
As he slowly fades out of consciousness, he can’t help but be glad that he won’t be awake when the teeth finally come out.
It’s the last coherent though he has for a long time.
END