[FF7] Across Distant Shores - 11
[FF7] Across Distant Shores
Point XI - Beyond the Looking Glass
FF7 - Rating: PG-13 - Part 11/? - Warnings: Violence
Pairings: Rufus/Reno (established) - Status: In progress, incomplete.
For codename_scar
Summary: "You're stuck on the shores of Hell, and the only way out...is through." Shinra moves against its own, the President against the Vice President, with the Turks caught in between. All loyalties and motivesare called into question, and as the Company comes under attack by enemies, the Turks are forced to question just who and what they are fighting for.
Chapter Summary: Reno blows out of Shinra tower in a hurry, and Rufus dreams, or does not.
Chapter count - 2, 446
Fic count - 24, 224
“Shape without form, shade without colour / paralysed force, gesture without motion…“
He stares out over the grey, into the depth of shifting fog, the words falling easily, unconsciously from his lips.
“Those who have crossed / with direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom…”
He doesn’t quite know where he is, or why he’s here, but somehow he’s slow to question. It is easier to drift, afloat, in this place where thought is sluggish, slow, like a dreary winter’s day.
“Remember us - if at all…”
He pauses, frowning, suddenly lost. “If at all… not as…”
There’s a sudden thunderclap and he starts upright, squinting as if he can see through the fog surrounding him. And suddenly he’s falling, the world awash with light-and-motion-and-colour. He pulls away instinctively, blinded, deafened, trying to curl in on himself. The movement makes his skin burn, like it’s been rubbed raw and he’s rolling on salt, and his muscles are watery, useless. Something drops like a lead weight over his eyes, cutting out the light, and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s his own arm, and in the same instance he realises that he can’t breathe, gasping at air like a drowning man.
“Rufus. Rufus.”
The sounds are a discordant crash on his senses, meaningless noise, and he strikes out blindly, wanting them to shut up go away.
“Whoa, easy there...” and his wrist is caught in grip that feels like ice.
Red. Red? His thoughts are scattered, slow, but he remembers a flash of red green, and some deep-set instinct struggles towards it. He can’t remember what it means or why it’s important, but his mind swings towards it, a wavering but determined compass needle tracking its marker. He pulls the arm away from his face, cracking his eyes open, and the light that assaults him is vicious, clawing right through his skull. Moisture leaks, involuntarily, splintering his vision, but something moves, and he sees at last, the break in the clouds, the break in the fog. Red. Red and green.
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams... There, the eyes are / sunlight on a broken column...
He shuts his eyes on the sight, unable to stand the glare any longer. There is a name, flickering through his consciousness. It falls away as he reaches for it, hovering elusively out of his grip, as do so many other thoughts. But for the first time in days he frowns and tries again. It almost hurts to think, demands an effort he hadn’t thought possible. He gasps, and can’t breathe again, even though he can feel the air now, burning and freezing all the way into his lungs. “Re..”
“Ssh. Just hold on. Gotta get you out of here.”
Fabric settles over him, chafing and making his sensitised skin scream. And there’s motion now, although he can’t fathom why. It all makes his head spin, stomach clenching and knotting. There are voices raised, so loud that it makes his ears hurt. His hands clench uselessly at fabric, seeking a lifeline, or a handhold on reality. “Where...”
The word is broken, lost. There is the sound of shattering glass, the beat of running footsteps. The assault on his senses is overwhelming, and he seeks the darkness, searching for a respite.
Thought slips away again, accompanied by a sense of frustrated urgency of important things forgotten.
Between the potency
and the existence
between the essence
and the descent
Falls the Shadow...
*
“Where do you think you’re-“
Reno kicks the door shut in the guard’s face, the heavy metal clang of it barely drowning out the guy’s yell. He smirks: broken noses are such fun, especially when they aren’t yours. A flick of his wrist and the lock clicks shut.
“You got off lightly, asshole,” he adds, as a parting shot, adjusting his arms to get a better grip on the deadweight in his arms that is Rufus. A stab of pain wings itself up the side of arm as he muscles his way through the fire escapes of the Shinra building, almost tripping over the garbage that’s liberally strewn in the corridor. A trickling warmth stains his sleeve, making fabric stick to skin, and he wishes he had stopped to take another potion for that papercut from the terrorists.
He grits his teeth instead, setting them against the pain, cursing Avalanche to the hell that it deserves. Meanwhile, the rest of the grunts are pounding on the door behind, and it’s only a matter of time before they break through, or get someone with half a brain to blow it open or pick the lock. He doesn’t have much time, and the corridor stretches out into infinity.
And damn, but he hurts.
But there’s nothing for it. He squares his shoulders, clutches Rufus to him, and sets off into the gloom.
He’s almost out of the building when the gunshots go off.
The bang resounds like an explosion through the enclosed space, making him duck instinctively. Which is why the first bullet ploughs into the door ahead with a screech, instead of into his head. The next one catches him in the shoulder, the dull impact making him stumble, balance thrown, before the wash of pain hits.
He nearly drops Rufus, wanting to reach for his EMR and deal out some punishment in return. He hesitates instead, torn between running and fighting, and the next shot takes out his knee.
The smell of blood assaults his senses as he hits the floor with a strangled noise clawing up the back of his throat. It takes every inch of his training to force himself not to curl up and claw at the wound. As it is, he drops Rufus apologising silently in the back of his mind at the thud. For a moment, he almost fancies that he sees the other’s eyelids move, but he doesn’t have time to wonder as he hears footsteps closing in on him. Right behind him, in fact.
He spins, and his knuckles meet the attacker’s face with satisfying crunch. The explosion of pain as the shock hits the sword wound isn’t so satisfying, but what’s important is that the bastard goes down, and Reno has his EMR in his hand in the next moment.
The bolt materia on it flares into life. The corridor’s too damn dark to make out the snipers, but he aims lazily at the crates and other nonsense stacked up on the floor. There’s a crackle, and a small explosion as the lightning hits a pile, and seconds later, the walls are painted in red as fire sweeps through the trash. Screams paint the air.
The Shinra grunt whose teeth he just smashed glances backwards at the carnage - his last mistake as the EMR hits the side of his head, already charged to full blast.
Reno spares only a handful more seconds after that, digging in the dregs of his rapidly failing strength to trigger the cure materia in the second slot of the EMR. The tingle across his knee numbs it just enough for him to put his weight on it, and he gets an arm around Rufus’ shoulders, staggering unsteadily to his feet.
Behind him, the corridor burns.
*
The car ride passes in a haze, his knee screaming like a banshee every time he hits the pedals. As the streets of Midgar fly past in a blur of light and the blare of horns as he ruthlessly cuts traffic and lights. In the passenger seat, Rufus is dead to the world.
It’s raining, hard enough that swipe of his wipers across the windscreen does almost nothing to improve visibility. Someone skids, trying to avoid him, and promptly slams into a barrier. Reno doesn’t even give him a glance. Overhead, lightning splits the sky overhead, illuminating the Shinra tower in the mirror, and he thinks for a moment that it’s almost like a claw stretching out across the sky towards him. The wrath of Shinra, etched clear cross the sky.
He wonders what Sector 7 looks like right now - huge freaking hole in the plate, where the rain must be pelting down into the Slums. There’s a tingle of regret as he thinks of that BBQ place on the corner, right next to that awesome donut store. And that expensive café that Rufus always drags him to, where they serve the coffee in those tiny cups that cost more than a Shinra employee’s yearly salary.
Then there’s the city park, with its fountains and stupid sculpted trees, where...
“...We made out like teenagers on their first date, remember?”
There’s no response from Rufus, not that he expects one.
He pulls up beside a non-descript looking clinic with a screech of brakes that throws him forward, snapping the seatbelt taut. He spares a moment to slump over the wheel, ducking his head and letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Then he’s out of the car in a flash, limping and cursing his way over to the passenger’s side. The rain soaks right through his jacket.
“...We’re here,” he says softly, reaching up to brush fine strands of hair away from Rufus’ eyes. When the other still doesn’t stir, he sighs, unclipping the belt and hoisting him out. The weight tugs again on the injured arm, and the solid stream of swearing that precedes him into the clinic belies the gentleness with which he cradles his Vice President.
The reception smells of safety. He sucks in a lungful of the sharp stink of disinfectant and alcohol - not even the good kind of alcohol - feeling the strength just draining out of his body as adrenaline ebbs. There is no need for words here, no need for identification and standing in line, and he actually stumbles when someone rushes forward to relieve him of his burden.
“Back again?” a voice inquires, and he looks up into the face of the Turks’ personal physician.
“Missed you too much, Stan,” he drawls, swinging his uninjured arm around the other’s shoulders, and promptly resting his weight on him.
“It’s always bad news when you lot turn up here,” the doctor says, giving him a critical look over.
“Checking me out already?” It’s an old joke, worn to death a long time ago.
“With your very jealous boyfriend right here?” Stanley gives him a dry look. “Quite an important package you’ve brought today. I take it there’s trouble.”
Stanley’s a good chap. Would-be Turk, except that he failed the selection on account of a few medical conditions, including, of all things, an allergy to materia. But the guy’s a first rate surgeon, and more importantly, they all trust him with their life. Sometimes quite literally. Everything here screams safe at last at him, and he can feel his nerves unwinding, senses shutting down. If he doesn’t move, he’s going to pass out straight away.
But he can’t sleep just yet. Fishing in his pocket, he drags out his PHS, hitting the speed dial. It takes almost a dozen rings before it clicks through.
“Yo, Tseng? I got him. We’re at the save point.”
“Which?” Tseng sounds busy, distracted, and Reno wonders what’s up.
“Upper plate, sector 3.”
“Very well.” There’s a pause, and he can hear the clicking of keys in the background. “What about Rufus?”
“Don’t know.” His eyes track the medics as they load Rufus onto a stretcher, wheeling him off towards one of the rooms. “Doesn’t seem to be hurt, but he’s out like a light.” He pauses, as the medics disappear out of sight. “We’re in deep shit, aren’t we?”
“Aren’t we always?” Tseng’s tone is dry. “Get yourself patched up and stay low. Don’t call me again unless there’s an emergency. I’ll send Rude around if we can.”
“Trouble over there?”
“The dropping of the plate caused quite a ... stir, as might be expected. As did your break-in. I’d advise you not to go near anyone in the Shinra uniform for a bit. You’re quite the wanted criminal right now.”
“Awesome.” His voice is tired, as Tseng signs off, and he clicks the phone shut glancing back at Stan.
“Well.” Doc’s quite the veteran where it comes to dealing with their sordid bunch. He’s over twenty years in the industry, after all, and doesn’t even raise an eyebrow as he guides Reno off towards the nearest room. “Let’s see how badly they roughed you up this time.”
*
In dreams, he’s cradled close, warmth seeping into his chilled body for what feels like the first time in a small eternity. Someone is gasping, footsteps ringing against metal as they flee through the dark.
In dreams, a gun sounds, shattering the world. He sees black and red and Shinra blue, military police bearing down on them, then there’s a jolt that sends nausea cramping through his gut, and the world fades again, leaving only the sound of scuffling and yells.
In dreams, a familiar voice speaks to him, talking about a life he feels that he does not know. There is a hand against his forehead, but leaden eyelids refuse to open this time, and he falls forward as the strap across his chest is released.
Shinra is after him, just as he thought they were, and he walks corridors where gunshots chase him. In the corner of his vision, the world is on fire, and he searches the Shinra tower, looking for someone important.
He sees red, and he moves instinctively towards it, only to find his father sprawled on the floor, a bullet hole right through his eyes. Blood pools, seeping around the body to match the Shinra logo on the floor.
He dips a finger into the puddle, watching the red seep under his nail, working its way up around the sides, and winding up its way up, up, up, tracing veins in red across the back of his hand, winding around his wrist before racing up his arms.
Blood runs thicker than water.
In dreams, he turns, eyes narrowed. His hand clenches, as he regards the impassive shimmering lights below the windows of the tower. He does not care who did this; as far as he is concerned, it is everyone - the ones who pulled the trigger for the murder itself, and the others for not stopping it. His hand upon the glass leaves red streaks in its wake.
His shoes splash as he wades through the growing tide of blood, fingers brushing the hilt of his shotgun.
They have taken what was his, and he will make them pay.
To be continued
--
- Lines quoted from T.S. Eliot's 'The Hollow Men'.
Point XI - Beyond the Looking Glass
FF7 - Rating: PG-13 - Part 11/? - Warnings: Violence
Pairings: Rufus/Reno (established) - Status: In progress, incomplete.
For codename_scar
Summary: "You're stuck on the shores of Hell, and the only way out...is through." Shinra moves against its own, the President against the Vice President, with the Turks caught in between. All loyalties and motivesare called into question, and as the Company comes under attack by enemies, the Turks are forced to question just who and what they are fighting for.
Chapter Summary: Reno blows out of Shinra tower in a hurry, and Rufus dreams, or does not.
Chapter count - 2, 446
Fic count - 24, 224
“Shape without form, shade without colour / paralysed force, gesture without motion…“
He stares out over the grey, into the depth of shifting fog, the words falling easily, unconsciously from his lips.
“Those who have crossed / with direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom…”
He doesn’t quite know where he is, or why he’s here, but somehow he’s slow to question. It is easier to drift, afloat, in this place where thought is sluggish, slow, like a dreary winter’s day.
“Remember us - if at all…”
He pauses, frowning, suddenly lost. “If at all… not as…”
There’s a sudden thunderclap and he starts upright, squinting as if he can see through the fog surrounding him. And suddenly he’s falling, the world awash with light-and-motion-and-colour. He pulls away instinctively, blinded, deafened, trying to curl in on himself. The movement makes his skin burn, like it’s been rubbed raw and he’s rolling on salt, and his muscles are watery, useless. Something drops like a lead weight over his eyes, cutting out the light, and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s his own arm, and in the same instance he realises that he can’t breathe, gasping at air like a drowning man.
“Rufus. Rufus.”
The sounds are a discordant crash on his senses, meaningless noise, and he strikes out blindly, wanting them to shut up go away.
“Whoa, easy there...” and his wrist is caught in grip that feels like ice.
Red. Red? His thoughts are scattered, slow, but he remembers a flash of red green, and some deep-set instinct struggles towards it. He can’t remember what it means or why it’s important, but his mind swings towards it, a wavering but determined compass needle tracking its marker. He pulls the arm away from his face, cracking his eyes open, and the light that assaults him is vicious, clawing right through his skull. Moisture leaks, involuntarily, splintering his vision, but something moves, and he sees at last, the break in the clouds, the break in the fog. Red. Red and green.
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams... There, the eyes are / sunlight on a broken column...
He shuts his eyes on the sight, unable to stand the glare any longer. There is a name, flickering through his consciousness. It falls away as he reaches for it, hovering elusively out of his grip, as do so many other thoughts. But for the first time in days he frowns and tries again. It almost hurts to think, demands an effort he hadn’t thought possible. He gasps, and can’t breathe again, even though he can feel the air now, burning and freezing all the way into his lungs. “Re..”
“Ssh. Just hold on. Gotta get you out of here.”
Fabric settles over him, chafing and making his sensitised skin scream. And there’s motion now, although he can’t fathom why. It all makes his head spin, stomach clenching and knotting. There are voices raised, so loud that it makes his ears hurt. His hands clench uselessly at fabric, seeking a lifeline, or a handhold on reality. “Where...”
The word is broken, lost. There is the sound of shattering glass, the beat of running footsteps. The assault on his senses is overwhelming, and he seeks the darkness, searching for a respite.
Thought slips away again, accompanied by a sense of frustrated urgency of important things forgotten.
Between the potency
and the existence
between the essence
and the descent
Falls the Shadow...
*
“Where do you think you’re-“
Reno kicks the door shut in the guard’s face, the heavy metal clang of it barely drowning out the guy’s yell. He smirks: broken noses are such fun, especially when they aren’t yours. A flick of his wrist and the lock clicks shut.
“You got off lightly, asshole,” he adds, as a parting shot, adjusting his arms to get a better grip on the deadweight in his arms that is Rufus. A stab of pain wings itself up the side of arm as he muscles his way through the fire escapes of the Shinra building, almost tripping over the garbage that’s liberally strewn in the corridor. A trickling warmth stains his sleeve, making fabric stick to skin, and he wishes he had stopped to take another potion for that papercut from the terrorists.
He grits his teeth instead, setting them against the pain, cursing Avalanche to the hell that it deserves. Meanwhile, the rest of the grunts are pounding on the door behind, and it’s only a matter of time before they break through, or get someone with half a brain to blow it open or pick the lock. He doesn’t have much time, and the corridor stretches out into infinity.
And damn, but he hurts.
But there’s nothing for it. He squares his shoulders, clutches Rufus to him, and sets off into the gloom.
He’s almost out of the building when the gunshots go off.
The bang resounds like an explosion through the enclosed space, making him duck instinctively. Which is why the first bullet ploughs into the door ahead with a screech, instead of into his head. The next one catches him in the shoulder, the dull impact making him stumble, balance thrown, before the wash of pain hits.
He nearly drops Rufus, wanting to reach for his EMR and deal out some punishment in return. He hesitates instead, torn between running and fighting, and the next shot takes out his knee.
The smell of blood assaults his senses as he hits the floor with a strangled noise clawing up the back of his throat. It takes every inch of his training to force himself not to curl up and claw at the wound. As it is, he drops Rufus apologising silently in the back of his mind at the thud. For a moment, he almost fancies that he sees the other’s eyelids move, but he doesn’t have time to wonder as he hears footsteps closing in on him. Right behind him, in fact.
He spins, and his knuckles meet the attacker’s face with satisfying crunch. The explosion of pain as the shock hits the sword wound isn’t so satisfying, but what’s important is that the bastard goes down, and Reno has his EMR in his hand in the next moment.
The bolt materia on it flares into life. The corridor’s too damn dark to make out the snipers, but he aims lazily at the crates and other nonsense stacked up on the floor. There’s a crackle, and a small explosion as the lightning hits a pile, and seconds later, the walls are painted in red as fire sweeps through the trash. Screams paint the air.
The Shinra grunt whose teeth he just smashed glances backwards at the carnage - his last mistake as the EMR hits the side of his head, already charged to full blast.
Reno spares only a handful more seconds after that, digging in the dregs of his rapidly failing strength to trigger the cure materia in the second slot of the EMR. The tingle across his knee numbs it just enough for him to put his weight on it, and he gets an arm around Rufus’ shoulders, staggering unsteadily to his feet.
Behind him, the corridor burns.
*
The car ride passes in a haze, his knee screaming like a banshee every time he hits the pedals. As the streets of Midgar fly past in a blur of light and the blare of horns as he ruthlessly cuts traffic and lights. In the passenger seat, Rufus is dead to the world.
It’s raining, hard enough that swipe of his wipers across the windscreen does almost nothing to improve visibility. Someone skids, trying to avoid him, and promptly slams into a barrier. Reno doesn’t even give him a glance. Overhead, lightning splits the sky overhead, illuminating the Shinra tower in the mirror, and he thinks for a moment that it’s almost like a claw stretching out across the sky towards him. The wrath of Shinra, etched clear cross the sky.
He wonders what Sector 7 looks like right now - huge freaking hole in the plate, where the rain must be pelting down into the Slums. There’s a tingle of regret as he thinks of that BBQ place on the corner, right next to that awesome donut store. And that expensive café that Rufus always drags him to, where they serve the coffee in those tiny cups that cost more than a Shinra employee’s yearly salary.
Then there’s the city park, with its fountains and stupid sculpted trees, where...
“...We made out like teenagers on their first date, remember?”
There’s no response from Rufus, not that he expects one.
He pulls up beside a non-descript looking clinic with a screech of brakes that throws him forward, snapping the seatbelt taut. He spares a moment to slump over the wheel, ducking his head and letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Then he’s out of the car in a flash, limping and cursing his way over to the passenger’s side. The rain soaks right through his jacket.
“...We’re here,” he says softly, reaching up to brush fine strands of hair away from Rufus’ eyes. When the other still doesn’t stir, he sighs, unclipping the belt and hoisting him out. The weight tugs again on the injured arm, and the solid stream of swearing that precedes him into the clinic belies the gentleness with which he cradles his Vice President.
The reception smells of safety. He sucks in a lungful of the sharp stink of disinfectant and alcohol - not even the good kind of alcohol - feeling the strength just draining out of his body as adrenaline ebbs. There is no need for words here, no need for identification and standing in line, and he actually stumbles when someone rushes forward to relieve him of his burden.
“Back again?” a voice inquires, and he looks up into the face of the Turks’ personal physician.
“Missed you too much, Stan,” he drawls, swinging his uninjured arm around the other’s shoulders, and promptly resting his weight on him.
“It’s always bad news when you lot turn up here,” the doctor says, giving him a critical look over.
“Checking me out already?” It’s an old joke, worn to death a long time ago.
“With your very jealous boyfriend right here?” Stanley gives him a dry look. “Quite an important package you’ve brought today. I take it there’s trouble.”
Stanley’s a good chap. Would-be Turk, except that he failed the selection on account of a few medical conditions, including, of all things, an allergy to materia. But the guy’s a first rate surgeon, and more importantly, they all trust him with their life. Sometimes quite literally. Everything here screams safe at last at him, and he can feel his nerves unwinding, senses shutting down. If he doesn’t move, he’s going to pass out straight away.
But he can’t sleep just yet. Fishing in his pocket, he drags out his PHS, hitting the speed dial. It takes almost a dozen rings before it clicks through.
“Yo, Tseng? I got him. We’re at the save point.”
“Which?” Tseng sounds busy, distracted, and Reno wonders what’s up.
“Upper plate, sector 3.”
“Very well.” There’s a pause, and he can hear the clicking of keys in the background. “What about Rufus?”
“Don’t know.” His eyes track the medics as they load Rufus onto a stretcher, wheeling him off towards one of the rooms. “Doesn’t seem to be hurt, but he’s out like a light.” He pauses, as the medics disappear out of sight. “We’re in deep shit, aren’t we?”
“Aren’t we always?” Tseng’s tone is dry. “Get yourself patched up and stay low. Don’t call me again unless there’s an emergency. I’ll send Rude around if we can.”
“Trouble over there?”
“The dropping of the plate caused quite a ... stir, as might be expected. As did your break-in. I’d advise you not to go near anyone in the Shinra uniform for a bit. You’re quite the wanted criminal right now.”
“Awesome.” His voice is tired, as Tseng signs off, and he clicks the phone shut glancing back at Stan.
“Well.” Doc’s quite the veteran where it comes to dealing with their sordid bunch. He’s over twenty years in the industry, after all, and doesn’t even raise an eyebrow as he guides Reno off towards the nearest room. “Let’s see how badly they roughed you up this time.”
*
In dreams, he’s cradled close, warmth seeping into his chilled body for what feels like the first time in a small eternity. Someone is gasping, footsteps ringing against metal as they flee through the dark.
In dreams, a gun sounds, shattering the world. He sees black and red and Shinra blue, military police bearing down on them, then there’s a jolt that sends nausea cramping through his gut, and the world fades again, leaving only the sound of scuffling and yells.
In dreams, a familiar voice speaks to him, talking about a life he feels that he does not know. There is a hand against his forehead, but leaden eyelids refuse to open this time, and he falls forward as the strap across his chest is released.
Shinra is after him, just as he thought they were, and he walks corridors where gunshots chase him. In the corner of his vision, the world is on fire, and he searches the Shinra tower, looking for someone important.
He sees red, and he moves instinctively towards it, only to find his father sprawled on the floor, a bullet hole right through his eyes. Blood pools, seeping around the body to match the Shinra logo on the floor.
He dips a finger into the puddle, watching the red seep under his nail, working its way up around the sides, and winding up its way up, up, up, tracing veins in red across the back of his hand, winding around his wrist before racing up his arms.
Blood runs thicker than water.
In dreams, he turns, eyes narrowed. His hand clenches, as he regards the impassive shimmering lights below the windows of the tower. He does not care who did this; as far as he is concerned, it is everyone - the ones who pulled the trigger for the murder itself, and the others for not stopping it. His hand upon the glass leaves red streaks in its wake.
His shoes splash as he wades through the growing tide of blood, fingers brushing the hilt of his shotgun.
They have taken what was his, and he will make them pay.
To be continued
--
- Lines quoted from T.S. Eliot's 'The Hollow Men'.