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I went straight to bed when we got home. I was exhausted. Well, I didn’t go quite straight to bed. First I had to help Rosalind find her apartment. Then I told her good night, went back to my apartment, and went to bed.
The Shinra building is pretty incredible. Floors forty-five to sixty are pretty much our territory. The Turks, I mean. Stuff related to us goes on there. We live on the forty-seventh and forty-eighth floors, have a hospital on the forty-ninth, train on the fiftieth and fifty-first, have our offices on the fifty-second and fifty-third, and then all sorts of stuff related to our operations goes on the other ten floors. We live and work in the same building, day in and day out.
That’s not to say the accommodations are crappy. They’re not, not by any stretch of the imagination. I love my apartment. Before I started with the Turks, I lived at the Academy, which isn’t anything more than a hard bunk at night, and prior to that I was on the streets of Midgar, which is anywhere you hope you’ll be safe for a few hours worth of sleep. Compared to that, my apartment is paradise.
I’m not going to go into much detail, other than to say it’s very comfortable. I’ve lived there for going on three years now. Tseng says it’s a hellhole. I think it’s got a “lived in” sort of look to it. I don’t like it when a place looks sterile, like no one’s ever set foot inside. My office looks like that. Yes, it’s true, I have an office. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do with it. I’ve only actually seen it once. When I started with the company, Tseng was showing me around and he took me up to a room on the fifty-fourth floor and showed me my office. I said it was very nice and then never went in it again.
Anyway, I went to bed. I like my bed. Someone who’s slept on the ground for most of their life develops a real appreciation for a big, king sized mattress, a down filled quilt, six pillows, and imported satin sheets. I’m very picky about my bed. And I also dislike being removed from it too early in the morning. However, this was precisely what happened at the crack of freaking dawn the next morning.
I’m not a morning person. It took Commander Veld ten minutes of pounding on my door before I woke up, crawled out of bed, and went to get the door. “What the hell d’you want?” I asked him sleepily, when I opened the door. “Oh. Commander. What the hell d’you want, sir?”
He handed me a rather hefty envelope. “Rosalind’s promotion notice. It’s your responsibility to deliver it to her.”
“Now?”
Veld shrugged. “At your discretion.”
“Well, then why the hell wake me now?”
“In my day, a Turk got out of bed at dawn, trained for three hours, then went straight to work and wouldn’t be done until at least nine at night. Believe me, you’ve got it easy.”
I laughed at that. “Fat chance. That’s what soldiers are for. You call me if you need something delicate done, other than that, forget it.”
Veld rolled his eyes. “You people really are slipping.”
He was just teasing. The best thing about a Turk is versatility. We don’t’ keep normal hours. And that’s okay. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a civilian nine-to-fiver. Some weeks I’ll get fifty hours of sleep; some weeks I’ll get sixty. Some weeks I’ll get forty, others I’ll get thirty. You adapt. It kind of has to do with the fact that we’re traveling all the time. When you jump from time zone to time zone to time zone, sometimes covering three continents in the space of a week, it gets to be impossible to run on world time. It would be like existing in a constant state of jet lag. We run on our own personal clocks, which are only kind of in tune with Shinra time. We sleep when we need to; we eat when we need to. “Well, thanks, Commander. I’ll just get dressed and bring it to her.”
Commander Veld arched an eyebrow. “Get dressed? I thought you were dressed. You look dressed. You’re in uniform.”
I glanced down at my clothes. I’d kind of slept in my uniform. It wasn’t really much different from usual, but it was starting to smell just a little ripe, so it was probably time for a change of clothes. “Nah…I just fell out of bed. I’m gonna get into civvies, I think. I’ve been in these same clothes for the past three days. They could probably stand up on their own.”
“That was entirely more than I needed to know, agent. Do get changed. I’ll send someone by to pick up your laundry.”
“Appreciate it, sir.”
He wrinkled his nose slightly. “I’d better make it a hazmat crew.”
“Very funny, Commander.”
“Should I send a maid up?”
“I’m probably okay, sir.”
“I suggest you shower, too.”
“Thanks, Commander.”
“And brush your teeth.”
“I know, sir.”
“A haircut wouldn’t hurt, either.”
“All right already, Commander.”
Veld smiled briefly. “Very well, agent. I’ll see you later, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” And then he left. I like Commander Veld. He’s a tough old Turk. One of the best this Company ever saw. He knew some of the greatest Turks ever to be in the organization. He knew the people behind the names of Salvoleo, Takacs, and Valentine. Big, big names. There are still stories about them floating around the Academy. It’s stuff you don’t forget. Mind, there are stories about him too. Veld’s the product of the generation those stories came from (Turks back then were crazy). Very serious, very proper, but he’s a Turk before he’s a Shinran. If it came down to it, and I had conflicting orders from the President and the Commander, I don’t know who I’d obey. Probably Veld. Most Turks would, I think. He’s smart like that.
In any case, I showered and changed. It felt much better to be in jeans and a t-shirt. The uniform is relatively comfortable, and lord knows, mine’s more comfortable than most, but there’s nothing better than regular clothes. Except being naked, but society hasn’t quite come around to the idea that we all start in the buff, so that’s how we should stay. But then, I’m a pretty forward thinker. Ideas like that, put into practice, offend some people’s sensibilities.
And then I went to have something to eat. I was kinda hungry. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, and that usually means its time to have something. So I headed into my kitchen and began the rather arduous task of preparing breakfast.
The Turk diet is pretty basic. Essentially, we can eat whatever we want, so long as it’s moderately healthy stuff. Like, none of that processed junk. Then that’s supplemented by vitamins and things like that. The average Turk breakfast is usually some sort of power shake, with all these supplements in it. I don’t know what half the things I’m taking are. A whole shitload of vitamins, I know that much, then things like iron and calcium and protein, then a couple different drugs for other stuff. And that’s peanuts compared to what some of the Turks who really bulk up take. But I guess it must work, because I’m pretty damned healthy.
Of course, I’m also pretty damn lean. I don’t think I could gain much weight if I tried. I eat like a proverbial horse, but it just doesn’t do much. When I started with the Turks, the doctors all took one look at me and decided I was emaciated, malnourished, and possibly anorexic. So they all set about trying to fatten me up. It helped a bit I guess, because I was skin and bones when I started and I’m not anymore, but since then I’ve only gained about twenty pounds, most of it muscle.
Anyway, I ate something, then grabbed Rosalind’s promotion notice from the kitchen table and headed out to give it to her. I crossed the lounge, which was empty at this time. I like our lounge. It’s got a bunch of stuff to keep us occupied, like a big TV and a couple bookcases and a pool table. Typically we’ll all kinda congregate in the lounge. Well, whoever’s home. It was empty at the time. But then, it was pretty damn early and no sane Turk is up at this time.
In spite of my outrage at being dragged out of bed, I was kind of excited to be giving Rosalind her promotion notice. She was going to be thrilled, I was sure. I mean, it’s one thing to be told you’re getting a promotion, but I guess it’s entirely another to actually get the promotion. I thought it must be, at least. I’ve never actually been promoted. I started at third class and I can’t move up. I imagine it’s a nice thing.
Rank in the Turks is demonstrated by cufflinks. Nothing flashy. Cloth for the sixth classes, obsidian for fifth (for Rosalind), bronze for fourth, silver for third, gold for second and platinum for first. Commander Veld’s cufflinks are two big diamonds. That’s kind of flashy, but I guess he’s earned it. Mine are silver and have been ever since I started with the company. They’re getting a little bashed up, but they’ll do, I guess. Anyway, Rosalind was going to be happy about her promotion. Maybe I’d get to give her a proper hug this time.
I went over to Rosalind’s apartment and started to knock on the door, but then I caught sight of my watch. It was six-thirty. We’d gotten in around three. There was no point in me waking her if she’d only had three and a half hours of sleep. So I fished around in my pocket and found a pen. I scribbled a quick note on the back of the envelope, then slipped it under her door and went back to my apartment. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing out of bed anyway.
*
A few days later, Saturday probably, in the early afternoon, I was up on the training floor, doing a bit of a workout. Nothing strenuous or too extreme, just a bit of running and some strength training. We all work out on a regular basis. We all have personal trainers who’ve tailored programs to keep us in peak condition. And we all be damned if it’s not irritating as all hell.
Rude was in the weight room, doing bench presses. Cyr was spotting for him. Rude’s my partner. I’ve known him for about five years now, since I was in the Academy. Him and Loretta are probably my two best friends. Rude’s a big guy. He’s about six foot five, egg bald, and weighs about an eighth of a ton. Built like a brick wall. You don’t wanna mess with Rude. He’s like Rosalind, kind of, in that he’s a by-the-book kind of Turk. Tseng used to say it was strange that we got along so well, because we’re so damn different. Where I’m always shooting my mouth off, Rude’s usually pretty quiet. I’m liable to go running into trouble without a second thought, while Rude’s cautious. I guess we kind of balance each other out.
Cyr is a fourth class Turk. I like to think that me and Cyr get along pretty well. She’s a native of the island of Mideel, with the whole big dark eyes and long dark hair thing going, and the body of a goddess. She’s actually a half-breed, as it were. Her mother’s a native; her father’s a fisherman from the mainland who got shipwrecked or something. Cyr’s a very interesting person. She’s been a mercenary since she was sixteen. I think she’s something just shy of thirty now. I’ll be damned if she’s not one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. She just genuinely cares about those around her. If I ever had a big sister, I would’ve wanted her to be something like Cyr.
“Good afternoon, Reno,” she called when I came into the weight room. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Just trying to kill some time. Are we in a lull, Cyr?”
Cyr shrugged, keeping her eyes on Rude as he benched about four hundred pounds. “I think it’s a bit of a lull, yes.”
“I’m bored.”
“We’re all bored. It’s our nature to be bored. The Company’s all backed up with this incident in Junon and they don’t need us doing anything. Inaction doesn’t suit us.”
I sat down on one of the benches. “I wanna do something. You’re free, Cyr, right? And Rude’s free. St. Andrew’s free…hell, we’re all free. I wanna go somewhere.”
It’s weird, given how much we travel; you’d think the lot of us would be content to spend our time off at home. But, like I said, we do get bored. Pretty quickly. Midgar’s nice, but it’s just Midgar. And when you work for a company that gives you the resources to travel wherever you want, whenever you want, it’s kinda hard not to take advantage of that Besides, there’s only so much fun you can have in Midgar.
Cyr reached down and helped Rude settle the barbell he was lifting back on its cradle. “To one of our places, you mean?”
In addition to private, chartered jets wherever we want, the Turks also own residences in almost every city in the world. We have a beach house in Mideel, a villa in Costa del Sol, a ranch outside of Kalm, a cabin by Nibelheim, a lodge up near Gongaga, a chalet in Icicle, and permanent reservations at the Gold Saucer. Besides that, we also used to own a pagoda in Wutai, but since the war things have been a little tense. Our pagoda kinda got burned down, actually. So lately we’ve avoided Wutai.
“Yeah. You and St. Andrew have been around a bit, but Rod and Samantha and Rosalind haven’t. We should go somewhere.”
Rude sat up and stretched. “You have anywhere in mind?”
I didn’t, actually. “Hell, I don’t know. Icicle leaps to mind. I like Icicle.”
Cyr nodded. “I do too. It’s a good place to start. I know St. Andrew and Rosalind are up at the shooting range, and perhaps Samantha is too. Run it by them and see if we can get some kind of a consensus. I’ll go talk to a pilot, how’s that?”
“Hey, great. Yeah, sure I’ll go round up everybody else. I can’t imagine them saying no. Should I bother asking Tseng?”
Cyr shook her head. “No. His daughter has a piano recital, remember? He won’t want to miss it. Besides, lulls are something different for Tseng.”
That was true enough. Tseng’s the only one of us who has a family. He was married when he started with the company, and back then he was a field agent, but when his daughter was born (Dakota. Sweetest little girl you ever saw), he figured he owed it to her not to risk his life in the field. So he looks forward to the lulls, when he gets to spend time with his wife and daughter. That’s kind of nice for him, I think.
I headed down to the fifty-first floor (I’d been on the fifty-second) and ducked into the shooting range. I don’t go there often, I don’t really need to. This was probably actually the second time since Tseng had first shown me around the place. A lot of Turks carry guns as secondary weapons and I’m no exception, but I know well enough that when it comes to using a firearm, relying on luck serves me better than any attempt at aiming would. In short, I may as well just throw the damn thing.
Rosalind and St. Andrew were both on the range, St. Andrew at the far end, Rosalind practicing from a booth near the door. I watched her shoot, waiting for her to finish so I could talk to her. She’s an incredible shot. She had a full magazine when I got in and had taken her stance, aiming at a human shaped target on the far wall. She aimed carefully and emptied her magazine, leaving an unmistakable heart pattern in the target. God, she’s cute.
I tapped her on the shoulder when she’d finished and she turned around, taking off her earphones. She was wearing a gray Academy t-shirt and jeans, but she had a black nylon holster around her waist. She holstered her weapon and took off the safety glasses she’d been wearing. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said politely, smiling a little. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
“Nah, not long. I was just watching a bit of your shooting. Man, you’re a good shot. I couldn’t do that if my life depended on it. Which is kind of a sad thing, because maybe one of these days it will.”
Rosalind stared at me. “You aren’t good with a handgun, sir?” she questioned, sounding concerned.
I laughed. “I hope you don’t think any less of me for it, but no. I’m not. I couldn’t hit the broad side of General Heidegger.” That’s a bit of an in-joke among the Turks. The head of the Shinran military is a fairly hefty target. He’d be rather hard to miss.
“That’s unfortunate, sir. May I see you shoot, sir? I’d be interested to see how you do. You can’t be too bad.”
It’s a bit of a worrisome thing that I can’t say “no” to Rosalind. You try staring in those big green eyes and saying something that’d disappoint her. “Sure, rookie, if you’d like.”
“I would, sir. Just out of curiosity. You’re probably not as bad as you say.”
“Well, all right.”
Rosalind nodded brusquely and took out her handgun again, reloading it and pressing it into my hands. “Here, sir. This is one of my Marakovs. It’s a very good handgun, even if I usually favor something a bit lighter, like my GLOCK. My hands aren’t strong enough to handle much recoil, but this one isn’t too bad.”
“Ah. Gotcha.” I didn’t really understand that, but then, she wouldn’t have understood how I like a low voltage and high amperage on my nightstick, rather than the opposite, so I suppose we had the same footing. “So…you just want me to shoot, then?”
Rosalind nodded again, fiddling with some controls in the booth and getting a new target set up at the other end of the range. They’re just hanging paper silhouettes with people shapes on them, but I guess that’s what a person practices on. “There you are, sir. Just try a standard shot to the chest.”
I was suddenly a bit embarrassed. I’m really, honestly, and truly a terrible shot. Rosalind could probably put six bullets through the same hole in a target. I kind of doubted I could even hit the paper. “Well…okay, but prepare to be very badly disappointed if you think I’m any good. At all.”
“I won’t know until I see you try, sir,” she encouraged patiently. “Come now. Let’s have four shots, how about?”
“All right…here goes.” I fired four times. As expected, the results were suitably depressing. “Hey, look at that! I think one of them nicked the paper! Granted, it’s the next target over, but I still nicked it. That’s better than usual.” I glanced over at Rosalind. She’d wrapped her arms around her stomach and was biting her lip. “Well?”
Rosalind shrugged. “I’m trying to think of a nice way to tell you you’re terrible, sir. I’m not sure that there is one,” she answered doubtfully.
“Aww, rookie,” I laughed. “That’s okay. I know I’m pretty damn bad. You don’t need to be nice about it.”
“You’re the worst shot I’ve ever seen in my life. Well, no. That isn’t fair. I’m only used to working with sharpshooters. It’s just that most Turks seem to have at least a marginal amount of natural aptitude with a gun and you…well…you don’t.”
I winced. “Well…er…I guess it’s just that it wasn’t ever something I tried to learn.”
“That’s obvious, sir. Your technique is horrendous. I could teach you a few basic things, sir, if you’ve got time…”
“Time?” For Rosalind? Hell, yeah. “Sure, I’ve got time.”
She smiled at that and then nodded. “Good. It wouldn’t take much. You’re just sort of generally awful, so we can probably fix a few of the bigger things and you might be halfway decent.”
“If you say so. What am I doing wrong, exactly? And don’t say ‘everything’.”
“Well, you are holding the right end of it and you are pulling the trigger. Those are two very important concepts. But your grip is all wrong. Here.” She took the hand I was holding the gun in and manipulated my fingers until they held the weapon correctly. I’d been way off. “Try that, sir. I need another look at your stance anyway.”
I took aim and fired again. The paper target at the end of the range fluttered as the bullet whipped past. “Hey! I almost hit it! Well, how ‘bout that?”
Rosalind smiled. “See, sir? Now…your stance isn’t quite right, either. It’s not bad, but it could be better. Lift your arm a bit…good, just like that…no, don’t lock your elbows…that’s better…now, I like to have both hands on the weapon to make sure it stays steady, but you’re stronger than I am, so it might not be necessary…align your body…”
She circled around and proceeded to make adjustments to my posture, pressing her hand against my lower back. “Straighten up, sir, that’s it…” Her fingers roamed across my shoulders and I felt her push herself up onto her tiptoes and look over my shoulder. “You’re very tall, sir,” she observed, squinting down my right arm. “I can’t quite sight this…does it look okay to you?”
“How the hell should I know? Point and shoot, right?”
“Point, aim, and shoot, sir.”
“Oh.”
She backed off and observed me critically. “That’s not bad, sir. You could almost pass for a gunslinger, if no one looked too close. Try taking a shot. And aim. At the tip of the barrel is a sight. Use that to aim.”
So that’s what that little thing is. I’d always wondered. “I’ll try.” And so, for the first time in my entire life, I actually managed to hit a target. I suppose that isn’t really the biggest or most phenomenal accomplishment in the world, but hey. It was a first and that was good.
“There, sir!” Rosalind exclaimed. “That was an excellent shot! And it wasn’t so hard, was it? It just takes practice to get it right. Why didn’t you ever learn before?”
That was a good question. I didn’t really have a good answer. “Well…er…I guess I just never took the time to. I didn’t figure it would be easy.”
Rosalind laughed and took her handgun back. “I don’t mean to diminish your accomplishment, sir, but until you can do it without thinking and in less than half a second, it can’t really be called ‘easy.’”
So then she emptied the rest of the magazine through the target’s head in under two seconds. But I didn’t mind. Hell, I was just pleased to know I wasn’t a completely lost cause.
“Did you come up here for any particular reason, sir? Or did you just want to practice?” she questioned, re-holstering her weapon.
“Practice? Him? Don’t try to teach him, Rosalind. It’s not worth the effort and the end result will likely involve you blowing his brains out.”
I turned around and grinned at St. Andrew, who’d finished his target practice and wanted to know what I was doing in here. “Ah, shut up. I’m learning.”
St. Andrew’s an interesting person. He’s about Cyr’s age, and he’s spent most of his life in Wall Market, one of the nastiest parts of Lower Midgar, working for the Don Corneo. Corneo runs the prostitution market beneath the plate. He’s involved in a lot of other things, too. He’s a big figure in the criminal world. St. Andrew, to the best of my understanding, used to be his bodyguard. Or one of them, at least. But one way or another, he’s a Turk now. St. Andrew and I get along pretty well. Him and I are more similar in manner than Rude and I are, so we’ve got a basic appreciation for each other.
Rosalind shrugged. “He was only doing a few things wrong.”
“What the hell are you doing up here, Reno?” he pressed amiably, leaning against the wall. “I really doubt you came to practice.”
“I didn’t. Cyr wanted me to ask if the two of you would want to go up to Icicle for a few days.”
St. Andrew grinned. “Oh, absolutely! Icicle’s prime territory. There isn’t a woman up there who isn’t a busty blonde, ripe for the…”
“So you wanna go get packed, Rosalind?” I cut in, a little offended for Rosalind’s sake. A career of working around hookers has made St. Andrew a little coarse around women.
She nodded slowly. “I suppose so, sir…I’ve never been to Icicle. What’s the assignment, sir?”
“No assignment. We’re just going for fun.”
“For…fun?” Rosalind blinked. “Where would we stay? What are we supposed to do?”
“At the chalet. It’s nice there. C’mon, everyone’s gonna be going. We’ll ski and skate and stuff. It’ll be just like Christmas came a few months early.”
“I’ve never been skiing, sir. Or skating,” Rosalind confessed.
“Well, I’ll teach you! Hey, it’s the least I could do, you taught me some stuff. Are you in?”
Rosalind shrugged. “I suppose so, sir. How long would we go for?”
“A day, maybe two…it’ll be loads of fun, rookie, honest. We’ll probably leave this evening.”
“This evening?” Rosalind echoed. “I’d best go get packed, then. Will you come get me when it’s time to go, sir?”
“Sure, I’ll come get you. If you see Samantha and Rodney, pass the word along.”
She nodded obediently. “Yes, sir. I’ll see you later then, sir.”
“Right. Make sure you pack warm stuff, rookie. They don’t call it Icicle for nothing!” I called as she left the room.
St. Andrew watched her go, leaning back against the wall of one of the booths. “You know…” he began slowly, then trailed off and grinned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what to make of his tone. “No, what?” I pressed.
St. Andrew shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s a sweet little piece of work.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked defensively.
“Well, you know.” He wove his hands through the air, outlining a curvy figure. “She’s got a gorgeous little body. I mean, really. You’ve noticed, right?”
“I can’t honestly say that I have,” I answered shortly. I hoped he would drop it. I definitely didn’t like how he was talking.
St. Andrew blinked at me. “Oh…well, I guess you’ve only seen her in uniform. That wouldn’t really do it for me, I don’t think.” He grinned. “But, you know, when she moved in next door, she hadn’t gotten dressed yet. Hoo boy. Just her underwear and a dress shirt, but damn sexy all the same. And she doesn’t even mean to be.”
“Listen, Andrew…”
“That ass of hers. God, I’d like a piece of that. She’s a virgin. I’d bet anything she’s a virgin. But…well…hmm. D’you know if she is or not? I think she probably is. Working for the Don, you learn to spot ‘em. There’s only one way to really be sure, though. And you hadn’t noticed what a body she’s got? Not in uniform, maybe, but even just today…those jeans are pretty flattering, and I think the t-shirt is about a size too small. She probably held onto it for sentimental value, or something. I’d like to peel her out of it and show her a thing or two.”
That was just too much. I like St. Andrew, and if he’d been talking about anyone else, maybe I’d have laughed it off. But not about someone I was in charge of, not about Rosalind. Hell, Tseng was right. That’s not the sort of thing you say about recruits. “St. Andrew. Listen. When we…me and Rosalind…were in Junon, the President was saying much less shit with far more tact, and I felt like gutting him. The only reason I didn’t was probably because I’d be court marshaled for it. You don’t enjoy the same status. If you make me feel like kicking your ass across the room, I’ll goddamn do it, to hell with the consequences. So don’t talk about my rookie like that.”
He stared at me. I think he’d been waiting for me to laugh it off. “Whoa. Uh…well, shit. Sorry. I didn’t know…I didn’t figure you were moving in on her. Sorry. It’s a hell of a thing to steal another guy’s woman, and damned if I’m gonna…hey, if she’s yours, you can count on my hands off.”
“She’s not mine,” I answered evenly. “She’s not anybody’s. And it’s going to stay that way. I just…I don’t want you going in and doing something stupid and getting her upset or anything. Just leave her alone.”
“Gotcha. Sorry. If it were me, I’d be movin’ in on her, but I guess if she doesn’t do it for you…”
“Just shut up.”
St. Andrew paused. “Well, shit. What about Cyr? Are you all over-protective about Cyr? Because Cyr I’d like to pin up against a wall and…”
“And have her kick you in the…”
“Hey!” St. Andrew objected. “I’m fantasizing here. Don’t you go and screw it up.”
I laughed at that. St. Andrew’s not so bad. He just needs to leave Rosalind the hell alone. He can go after Cyr all he wants, because she’ll beat the tar out of him if he steps outta line, but Rosalind needs someone keeping an eye on her. And I guess that’s kind of my job.
*
So that night we went to Icicle. There’s not really much of anything interesting to say about a nine-hour plane ride, especially because I slept most of the way. Well, half the way. I spent the latter half playing cards. None of us really wanted to sleep, because it was going to be very late when we got in, and it would be best just to go to bed.
Samantha Hartigan and Rodney had both agreed to come along. Samantha’s a nice enough person, I guess, but she’s a bit of a snot. Her father owns the steel industry and he’s a big trading partner with Shinra. I’m not sure exactly why Samantha got into the Turks. All evidence suggests she would do a heck of a lot better as a debutante. Well…a debutante with a shotgun. I don’t know that high society would really appreciate that, so maybe she’s better off with us. I don’t think she gets along with Rosalind very well, but I guess that’s understandable. Rosalind doesn’t seem like the sort of person who’d be able to put up with Samantha’s snottiness, though she does try to be polite.
Rodney is entirely another matter. Rodney and I have a rather peculiar relationship. Well, I suppose it’s not so peculiar. Put simply, he hates my guts. Despises me. Loathes me. Detests me. In point of fact, wants me dead. I recruited (drafted) Rodney a while back, and he’s resented me ever since. Now, resentment is one thing and I totally understand that, but his wanting to stick a knife in me is quite another, even if I can rationalize it just as well.
Rodney’s a former gang member. A former gang leader actually, from under the plate. I don’t really like gangs. They’re comprised of some of society’s nastiest members, for the most part. I avoided them carefully, myself. No point in making life down there any more dangerous than it needed to be. In any case, I ran into him when he was in the middle of some sort of gang thing and screwed it up for him. Hugely. He didn’t take that well. So he tried to kill me.
Now, the leader of some piddly little street gang shouldn’t be a match for a third-class Turk. Not by a long shot. Rodney, however, proved rather difficult. Enough so that I had a moderate amount of trouble holding my own against him. And all he had at the time was a knife. In my defense, he caught me rather off-guard with his first blow and everything just kind of went downhill from there.
I have two scars on my cheeks, just beneath my eye sockets, courtesy of Rodney. I rather like them. They make me stand out. They’re also unique, because I’m the only living person on the planet who has anything like them. You’ll find a lot of dead people with the same. But no live ones. See, gangs like Rodney’s have all these peculiar little rituals, most of which have something to do with territory. One of these is marking their kills. Different gangs have different marks, and the mark of Rodney’s gang just happened to be the scars beneath the eyes. Except I’m not dead. He marked me before he killed me, and, while you kinda have to respect his confidence, I remain a living testament to the fact that he screwed up royal. And that just drives him up the wall.
But anyway. Enough about my homicidal colleagues. We landed at the airport at Icicle. It’s not really much of an airport, just a few strips of cleared away tundra where a plane can taxi to a halt, and a few hangars for bush planes and such. They don’t really get much traffic.
Rosalind came down the steps of the plane after me, a neatly packed backpack over her shoulder and looked around at the deserted snowfields around the airstrip. “So…this is Icicle?”
“This is Icicle,” I confirmed, hefting my own bag over my shoulder. “Whaddaya think?”
“It’s very…” she paused, fishing for a word. “It’s very…empty, sir.”
I laughed. “This is Icicle. It’s not Icicle Inn. We’ve gotta take snowmobiles overland for about five miles before we get to the town of Icicle Inn.” I gestured towards the west, where the terrain became rougher and more mountainous. “It’s backed by cliffs over there. We had to land on the tundra. By plane, this is the closest you can safely get to Icicle. Don’t worry, rookie. It’s not far.”
There was a shriek as Samantha came out of the plane, then dove back inside again. “Oh, how horrible and cold! I’m not coming out.”
St. Andrew and Rude had gone to unlock the hangar where our snowmobiles were kept, so Cyr stomped up the stairway and stuck her head in the plane. “Come now, Samantha. The plane can’t leave until we’re all off. You get used to the cold. Maybe if you’d worn a warmer parka, you’d have an easier time of things, but that was your own foolish choice. Come on.”
Rosalind rolled her eyes and sighed, her breath clouding the night air. The lights of the airstrip were glowing brightly through the snow at our feet and the stars were gleaming overhead. It was a beautiful night.
Cyr reappeared in the doorway and beckoned to Rodney, who nodded briefly and jogged up the stairs.
“She’s being foolish, sir,” Rosalind remarked under her breath, as Samantha started protesting again. I’m sure she was quite warm in her parka. Most of us had worn the outerwear the company provides. It’s lightweight and incredibly warm, without being bulky. Rosalind looked absolutely adorable in hers, with mittens and a little headband. Samantha had opted for a better looking, if slightly less insulated jacket, with a fur collar and hood and the rest of the whole nine yards.
“Yeah, well. She’ll learn. Vanity gets all of us, in the end. C’mon, rookie. St. Andrew and Rude have probably unlocked the hangar by now.”
There was another shriek from Samantha as Rodney heaved her over his shoulder and carried her down the steps of the plane. She probably didn’t appreciate that. Oh well. It’s one of the mantras of the Turks that when all else fails, resort to force.
We headed over to the hangar to get our little snowmobile convoy organized. Samantha stalked ahead, giving Rodney the cold shoulder.
The big door of the hangar opened and St. Andrew stood inside, wiping his hands off on a greasy rag. “We’ve only got four. The other two have bad engines,” he reported. “So some people are going to have to double up.”
“Sir?” Rosalind tapped my shoulder lightly and blushed when I glanced at her. “I’ve never driven one of those things, sir. May I ride with you?”
“Sure, rookie. Hey, me and Rosalind are going together,” I called to Rude, going over to one of the snowmobiles and climbing on. It’s kind of a handy thing, in the Turks, to know how to drive all kinds of vehicles. Just so you can commandeer anything you need to. “I’ll teach you how to drive one when it’s daylight, okay, rookie? It’s not hard.”
Rosalind nodded and set her backpack securely on the little baggage carrier at the back of the sled. “Thank you, sir,” she acknowledged, sitting down behind me.
“No problem. Hey, Rude? You gonna lead?”
Rude grunted and gunned the engine of his sled. Samantha scampered over and climbed on behind him, shooting another dark glare at Rodney, who had a sled to himself.
I glanced over at Cyr and St. Andrew. Cyr was driving and St. Andrew was sitting behind her, arms around her waist, grinning like a complete idiot. I had a distinct feeling that the ride wasn’t going to go quite as he planned.
“What’s he so happy about, I wonder?” Rosalind mused.
“I dunno, rookie. Hang on now, we’ll bring up the back of the pack.”
If Rosalind answered, I didn’t hear it over the roar of the engines, but she wrapped her arms snugly around my torso and squeezed a little to indicate she was ready. So I gunned the engines and followed the red taillights of Cyr’s sled out of the hangar and across the snowfields.
I like Icicle. A lot. It’s a beautiful place. I seriously believe it’s the only place in the world where the sky is perfectly clear. The air’s clear, too, but maybe it just seems like that to me because I’ve lived in Midgar all my life. There’s nothing quite like going across the snowfields after midnight, on a night like that.
About two miles from Icicle, however, the trip got sort of interrupted as St. Andrew yelped and fell off the back of his snowmobile. We hadn’t been going very fast, but he bounced and rolled a few times anyway.
“Hey, what the hell!” I yelled, swerving and braking as Cyr swung her sled around and skidded to a halt. “What’s the big idea?”
Rosalind climbed off and jogged over to St. Andrew, who was sprawled in a snow bank. “St. Andrew? Are you all right?” she asked, sounding concerned.
“Aww, hell,” I grumbled, turning off my engine and going over. “Andrew, if you’ve gone and hurt yourself and ruined our trip, I’m gonna kick the shit outta you.”
Clambering over the snowbank, Rosalind reached down and grabbed St. Andrew’s arm, struggling to pull him up. “Could you give me a hand, sir?” she gasped, bracing her boots in the snow.
“Yeah, yeah…” I climbed up and gave St. Andrew a tug, sitting him up. “Asshole. What’ve you gone and done?”
It wasn’t hard to see, the stars and the moon gave off more than enough light, he had his hands clamped over his nose and there was blood dripping through his fingers onto the snow. “I think she broke my nose!” he moaned, though it came out closer to “I thig she broge bi node!”
The engine of Cyr’s snowmobile cut out and her boots crunched on the snow as she came over and folded her arms across her chest. A bit of blood glistened on the elbow of her jacket. “The next time, St. Andrew, that you attempt to cop a feel, I’ll break more than that,” she threatened. “Keep your hands to yourself.”
Rosalind crouched down in the snow and gently pulled his hands away. “Hold still…let me see…” She tugged her gloves off and handed them to me, gently touching the bridge of St. Andrew’s nose. He made a noise halfway between a yell and a whimper. “Sorry,” Rosalind apologized. “I don’t think she broke it, though…”
“More’s the pity,” Cyr grumbled, scowling. She’s very pretty when she’s dangerous.
“Well, it hurts!” (id hurds!) St. Andrew wiped his sleeve under his nose. “And I’m bleeding! God damn it, Cyr!”
Cyr tossed her head. “You deserved it,” she answered shortly. “I’m not a piece of meat, St. Andrew. I don’t appreciate being groped. Now get back on that sled.”
“No! Hell, no! Not with you, psycho. Lemme ride with Rosalind.”
“Over my dead body,” I answered, returning Rosalind’s gloves and helping her to her feet.
Cyr took Rosalind by the elbow and drew her over. “Or over yours, St. Andrew, if so the need should be,” she added coldly. “Rosalind is riding with me. No offense to you, Reno. I know you wouldn’t do anything. I just don’t particularly want to have to hit him again.”
I wasn’t precisely as happy with this arrangement, but I knew better than to argue with Cyr, so I hauled St. Andrew to his feet. “I can’t say I share the reservation. Hands to yourself, Andrew.”
We resumed our trip with these slightly different seating arrangements. “I told you not to mess with Cyr, didn’t I?” I called over my shoulder, once we were back under way.
“I didn’t think she was gonna hit me! I’ve never had a woman hit me!”
“Yeah well, get used to it. Cyr’s a Turk, not a hooker, and she’ll hurt you if you look at her funny. You better straighten up and fly right, Andrew.”
“Hmph. Gad, I’m gonna have a black eye now, I bet. I almost wish she’d hit me somewhere else.”
“I’ll tell her that, when we get to the chalet. I’m sure she’ll be glad to oblige.” I didn’t honestly have much sympathy for St. Andrew. After all, he does have to learn, and if Cyr’s the one who’s gonna teach him, all the better.
St. Andrew groaned. “Shit. Just drop it, all right? I didn’t figure she’d take it like that.”
“Well, how the hell did you figure she’d take it?”
“I don’t know. Like the girls back home used to. They didn’t mind.”
“That’s because they’re whores, Andrew. Cyr’s not like that. She’s high-strung and hot blooded.”
“Yeah, that’s true enough,” he agreed ruefully, but I could hear the grin in his voice. “Though…hell, I bet she’d be good. Not just good, but good. Like, really, really good.”
He never learns. Trust him to take it as a challenge, not a warning. Cyr’s really got her work cut out for her. “Yeah. You try and propose that to her. We’ll have an ambulance on call.”
He might’ve answered, but we’d arrived in Icicle Inn. The town is pretty much a perpetual Christmas card. Little houses covered with snow, evergreen trees everywhere, lights glowing from the windows, smoke coming from the chimneys, icicles…the whole deal. It’s a nice place.
Our chalet is near the edge of town. It’s a big place, and everyone else had pulled their sleds up in front of the door. Rude had unlocked the shed next to the building and was going about getting the gas turned on and the generator started. I climbed off my snowmobile and went over to the door, fishing in my pocket for my key. I dug it out and unlocked the door. “C’mon, let’s get inside before we all freeze to death.”
It was dark inside. Everybody crowded into the main entrance, stamping their feet and tugging off their jackets and stuff. Then someone reached out and turned a light on. It’s a big place, like I said. The front door opens into a living room, with a vaulted ceiling and a bunch of over-stuffed couches and thick rugs, all around a stone fireplace with a stuffed dragon’s head mounted on it. Dragons are pretty common on the Northern Continent, but you’ve gotta be crazy to mess with one. It’s been there for as long as I can remember, and probably even before that. How it got there is actually one of the stories floating around the Academy.
Behind the living room is a dining room, with a door into the kitchen. Then down the hall to the left are four bedrooms and a bathroom, and a staircase up to the second floor, where there are four more bedrooms. The second floor looks over the first. And, of course, the whole place is done in wood. Very rustic, very comfortable, and, at the moment, very cold.
“C-could we start a fire?” Rosalind questioned, her teeth chattering a little. “It’s v-very nice, sir, but it’s also very c-cold.”
“Sure, rookie. Keep your jacket on until the place warms up. It’ll take maybe an hour.”
“Right, sir.”
It’s funny. Rosalind knows everybody, Cyr and Rodney and them, but she’s still shy. She’ll probably get over it, but for the most part, when we do anything as a group, she’ll tag along after me. I don’t mind it, not at all; I just can’t help wondering when she’ll adjust.
Rude had come in and gone over to the fireplace. He reached into a small hollow beneath the matches and pulled out a box of matches. There were already logs stacked on the hearth, so it didn’t take much to get a fire going.
St. Andrew and Rodney had been bringing the luggage in, and Samantha was standing in the doorway, trying to look like she was actually doing something. “My god, St. Andrew! What happened to your nose?” she exclaimed.
I glanced up and suppressed a laugh. I hadn’t gotten a good look, in the half-light outside, but his nose was pretty messed up. It would probably look better once he cleaned it up, but now it was all bloodied and swelling a bit. “Whew. She really nailed him, didn’t she?”
Rosalind looked over at St. Andrew and winced. “Yes, sir. Cyr said she didn’t mean to hurt him badly, though, and she hopes she hasn’t. She says that he isn’t a bad person; he’s just picked up some bad habits. Other than that, she quite likes him.”
That was reassuring. I had been a little surprised that Cyr had been driven to violence so quickly, but then, I guess she was probably justified. And on the whole, it had probably just been a reaction. If she’d thought about it, it probably would’ve happened differently. “Well, that’s good. C’mon, rookie, I’ll show you your room. You wanna be upstairs, or downstairs?”
“Downstairs please, sir.” She hefted her bag over her shoulder and followed me down the hall. It was dark, so I turned another light on. Rosalind shivered again and rubbed her fingers together.
“It’ll warm up, rookie, don’t worry. C’mon, let’s give you this room on the end. There’s another fireplace in here, I’ll light it if you like.”
“That would be good, sir. It’s just that it never gets this cold in Midgar.”
I nodded and pushed open the door to her room. It’s the warmest one. I usually take it, when we come up here, but she was pretty cold. I could have the one above it, which has the chimney running through it, and would be almost as warm. There was a big double bed in the corner adjacent the fireplace, and a wardrobe at the foot of the bed. In front of the fireplace, across from the door, was a thick, woven rug over the hardwood floor, and a narrow bookcase, stuffed full of all kinds of things. “Here, rookie, how’s that? You should be warm enough in here.”
“Oh, this will be wonderful, sir!” she exclaimed, eyeing the bed, piled high with at least three quilts and four big pillows.
“I figured you’d like it. Here, I’ll light the fire for you.”
Rosalind nodded absently as I went over to the hearth, and brought her backpack over to the wardrobe, opening the doors and unzipping her bag, laying clothing neatly on the shelves.
I busied myself with the fire. It wasn’t hard to get it going. I made sure I opened the flue. I forgot to do that once and nearly died of smoke inhalation. Well, no. I didn’t “nearly die”, but I did get damn sick and that did sort of put a damper (no pun intended) on the rest of the trip. There was a small, well-stocked box of wood beside the fireplace, and even if I might’ve cheated a bit with a Fire materia, pretty soon I had it blazing. I pulled the wire grate closed in front of it and watched it for a few minutes.
“Uh, sir?” Rosalind tapped my shoulder again. “Thank you, sir, but I’d like to get dressed for bed now.”
“Huh? Oh…sure, rookie. Sorry.”
“Not at all, sir.”
I hung around in the doorway for a minute. “You gonna be warm enough, rookie? There’s extra blankets in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, if you need them…”
She nodded. “Thank you, sir. The fire will probably be a great help.”
“Yeah…that’ll burn down to embers pretty quick and then it’ll smolder for a while. It should be okay, though.”
“I’ll put it out if it gets to be a problem, sir.”
“Right. Well…g’night, rookie. See you in the morning.”
“Yes, sir. You too. Sleep well, sir.”
I don’t know why, but saying good night is always kind of awkward. I’m never sure who’s supposed to have the last word. I glanced down at my watch. It was past one in the morning and I was kinda tired. It’s actually kind of a moot point for a Turk to carry any kind of timepiece. Like I mentioned before, we change time zones so often that keeping up is pretty much impossible. Well, for me it is, at least.
I went to the front door and retrieved my bag. Everyone else had headed to bed. That hadn’t taken very long, but then, it was late. And I was maybe more tired than I thought. Trudging down the hallway and up the stairs, I turned the handle of the door at the top, only to find it locked. A little puzzled by this, I knocked on the door.
A few moments later, Rodney opened it and gave me a flat stare. “What?”
“Oh. Sorry, Rod. Wasn’t sure if this room was occupied or not. Have yourself a good sleep, then.”
He slammed the door in my face and I moved on down the hallway. I paused in front of the next door, only to hear Samantha puttering about inside. And then the next room was Rude’s room. I checked at the end, but that room was full too…of Cyr and St. Andrew. This made me curious at the outset, but then it became evident that she was just scolding him and cleaning his face up a bit, so I headed back downstairs and took the room next to Rosalind’s.
It was dark and cold and felt sort of empty, but I’d kinda forsaken my own room, so I suppose I didn’t really have any excuse to complain. The chalet would heat up in time and until then there were enough blankets on the bed to keep me moderately warm. I changed into my pajamas—sweats and a t-shirt—and crawled in bed. The sheets were absolutely freezing. Oh well. If nothing else, at least Rosalind was going to be warm.
*
I woke up around nine the next day and then stayed curled up, dozing, under the blankets for another half hour. I know from experience that getting out of bed in Icicle is a very unpleasant experience. The chalet is always cold in the morning. So I didn’t even attempt it until there was a tentative knock on my door.
“Sir?” Rosalind called through the oak door. “Cyr told me to go get you for breakfast, sir…are you up?”
I pushed the blankets back and got out of bed. “Yeah, I’m up. I’ll be just a minute, rookie, lemme get some clothes on…”
“Right, sir. Cyr made waffles.”
She headed down the hallway and I changed into jeans and a sweater. That’s sort of standard fare when you’re up in Icicle. It’s easiest to dress in layers to stay warm. Before we got outside I’d have another sweater, a polar fleece and my anorak on. It’s pretty damn cold in Icicle.
There was another fire blazing in the living room and the place was warm. Not as warm as it is under a heap of quilts after eight hours, but still. Not as cold as it was outside. Almost everyone else had clustered around the dining table and Cyr was handing out plates of waffles. “G’morning, all.”
Samantha glanced up from delicately picking at her waffles and nodded regally to me from the head of the table. She’s a strange one. “Good morning, Reno. Sleep well?”
“Excellently, thanks.” I pulled out a chair beside Rosalind and she handed me a plate Cyr had passed her. “Thanks, rookie.”
“No problem, sir. Syrup?”
“Yeah, thanks. Hey, is Rude up yet?”
Cyr took off the apron she’d been wearing and hung it on a peg in the wall, sitting down next to Rodney, who was hunched over his plate. “He’s been up since very early. So have I. There’s only so much training to be done here, but it does well to warm up before a day like we’ll have.”
“Where’s he gotten to, then?” I asked. “And good waffles, Cyr.” She’s an incredible cook. I don’t know how she does it. I can’t even go into my kitchen without something spontaneously bursting into flame. I can manage a few, basic things (cold cereal is about the extent of my capacities), but mostly I just order out. Or sometimes people make me stuff. That’s nice of them. I think it all started when one of the company secretaries stopped by to drop of something or other and heard noises coming from my fridge. She thought it might be something with the compressor so she opened it up to check. Then when I got home from wherever I was at the time, there were about a dozen casseroles on my counters and a padlock on my fridge door. So I’m not supposed to cook anymore.
“I don’t know, and thank you,” Cyr acknowledged.
Rosalind fidgeted next to me and tugged on my sleeve. “Do we have an agenda for today, sir?” she questioned.
Samantha laughed. “Rosalind, darling. You really must learn that there’s something alluring about spontaneity. You don’t have to plan every single detail of your day,” she said, waving a hand. “It’s called a ‘vacation’, dear. I suppose you haven’t taken many of those?”
Rosalind flushed, embarrassed. I glanced at Samantha. A person has a right to a certain amount of self-importance, but she didn’t have any right to be talking down to my rookie like that. I picked up a folded napkin from the table and passed it to her. “Samantha, honey. You’ve got a bit of strawberry jam on your face. This is called a ‘napkin.’ Get acquainted.”
Samantha snatched it and pressed it to her lips, glaring daggers at me. Whoops. Made a bit of an enemy there. Oh well. It was just a petty little insult. She’d get over it. I winked at Rosalind and she smiled back shyly.
St. Andrew cleared his throat loudly and kicked me under the table. I kicked him back, naturally, then pulled my legs aside when he winced. He shifted and aimed another kick. Next to me, Rosalind yelped. “Ow!”
“That’s enough,” Cyr cut in, laying a hand on St. Andrew’s knee. He stiffened immediately and paled, except for around his nose, where his face was a bit black and blue.
I stuck out my tongue at him and glanced over my shoulder as the door swung open. Rude came in, stamping the snow from his boots. “Hey, Rude! Where’ve ya been? There’s waffles!”
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