[FF7] Pathfinder - 5
[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.
02 Jan 2010 - The original chapters 3 through 5 have been struck off. Please refer to the new Chapter 3 onwards for the rewritten story. Alternatively, please refer to the Pathfinder journal tag for a chapter listing.
“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
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.
02 Jan 2010 - The original chapters 3 through 5 have been struck off. Please refer to the new Chapter 3 onwards for the rewritten story. Alternatively, please refer to the Pathfinder journal tag for a chapter listing.
“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