Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Shattered Boundaries ❯ Part II: Evanescent Encounters ( Chapter 2 )

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Shattered Boundaries: Part II

Evanescent Encounter

 

He shivered at the flash of cold that tugged at his clothing but never once took his eyes off his prey. Here, in the dead center of the slums, there was little rain, if any at all, and the air was heavy and foul, polluted with every dreg that the people above the plate no longer wanted. Ichi had lived there so long that he didn't notice it any more. Beside him, Korcha sucked in a deep breath of nervousness and excitement, unable to keep his teeth from chattering in the distinct chill.

 

“Ther' two, the Wutaiian inna taller blond nex' t'him,” Ichi explained from the corner of his mouth, careful not to make it too obvious. “Watch me close, but don' get seen, kay?”

 

Korcha nodded enthusiastically and stepped back into the shadows, eyes still mako bright and visible. As a new member of the rapidly expanding Razors, he already regarded Ichi with the same awe and slight fear as the rest of the others, extremely happy that he was being taught by the best. Much like his late older brother, Ichi worked on the rule that if they didn't work they didn't eat. It was as simple as that.

 

Convinced that Korcha would do as told, Ichi squared his shoulders and melded into the crowd of the seventh district main road, unconsciously hunching against the chill that seemed more mental than physical. His gaze never left his mark however, and along the way, his hand unconsciously dipped into the pockets of those surrounding him, scoring at least twenty gil. He was certain that the men he was following were from above the plate and would have at least ten times that.

 

He slipped behind them, silent as a shadow and watching their movements carefully, eyes quickly scanning their forms. The blond on the right carried his wallet in his right back pocket, he could tell that at a glance. The Wutaiian, however, was proving to be a bit more difficult. Ichi scrutinized the somewhat taller man for several more steps before mentally crowing in triumph. A flash of wind against a dark suit, which on second though almost appeared to be just like that of ShinRa's Turk's, and the location was revealed.

 

It was only a matter now of slipping in and out, quiet as a shadow.

 

He pilfered the blond easily, obviously blondie knew nothing of wandering around in the slums otherwise he wouldn't have chosen the most popular place to keep his wallet. He was also satisfied to find another pack of cigarettes, which he promptly stuck in his back pocket. It was bargaining material with Van for later.

 

Thumbing through the brown leather quickly, snickering briefly at the horrible picture on the identification card, he was pleased to note at least two-hundred gil. Wherever this guy worked, he sure was loaded. Ichi stuck the wallet deep down into his pocket and narrowed his gaze, prepared to take on the far more difficult of the two.

 

The best method for a frontal steal would be to push between them without apology, much like the other random people in the street bumped into others quite rudely. A single slide of a slim hand, and he would be on his way, considering it a plan well done. He smirked to himself, heartbeat picking up rapidly within his chest as the adrenaline rush began to hit him. He always did love a challenge.

 

He quickened his pace, shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to look as unassuming as possible, ducking his head and watching them out of the top of his eyes. He gauged their step patterns, step, sway, a gap, step, sway, gap… there. He pushed forward, half-angling his body so that he was facing the Wutaiian and shoved between them. His hand slid out of his body, hidden by the movement of his rough jostle, and eased its way quickly into the Wutaiian's pocket, withdrawing what immediately felt like a rather thick wallet.

 

Inwardly, he leapt with glee before stumbling forward without an apology, hand disappearing into his pocket. It had only taken the span of a few seconds. He felt twin glares of irritation burning into the back of his head but paid them little mind, knowing both men would only attribute his rudeness to the same callous disregard that all slum residents tended to display.

 

He cackled inside his mind, willing to wait for a better location to delve into this particular wallet, when suddenly it all went so terribly wrong. He hadn't expected it and chalked it up to Murphy's Law when suddenly, two burly men ran past him at an angle, shoving him backwards as they passed. Ichi's arm flailed to regain his balance as he took a step, ankle turning in a deep pothole and sending him tumbling backwards, directly into the two men he had just stolen from.

 

Large hands clapped down on his shoulder, stopping him mid-fall. Ichi twisted his neck around, finding Blondie staring down at him as the Wutaiian on the other side of him grimaced with distaste at the mud splattered on his somewhat expensive looking dark slacks. Blondie shoved Ichigo to an upright position, a scowl etched into his face as he turned towards his companion, pretty much ignoring Ichi altogether. This was fine with him.

 

“Fuckin' slum rats,” Blondie muttered, beginning to pat down his pockets. Ichi took that moment to speed up his pace, putting as much distance between the two and him. “Fuck! My cigs are gone!”

 

Ichi felt eyes boring into the back of his head, and that was the last straw. No longer caring for subtleties, he took off running, pushing through a small crowd of men in front of him with his holey sneakers slapping on the pavement in front of him. He didn't dare look back, though a string of curses in Blondie's nasally tone followed after him.

 

He didn't get as far as he would have hoped, however. Fingers, clamping down on his flailing wrist like iron steel, jerked him backwards as his feet slid through a mud slosh. He completely lost his balance before sprawling on his ass, arm still locked in a firm grip. Ichi didn't even think or look, reacting purely on instinct as he struggled to fight back, lashing out with a fist and striking the man across his wrist, hoping he'd be released as he attempted to scramble into a standing position.

 

Then, pain arced through his entire shoulder as his assailant easily flowed with his motion, flipping him forward on his face and twisting his arm behind his back to the point of nearly breaking it. What felt like a knee pressed itself to the center of his back, directly on his spine as another hand shoved his head into the ground beneath them, a mixture of cement remnants and mud. Ichi spat and spluttered but couldn't breathe thanks to the knee in his back.

“Ow! Fuck! Lemme go!” he demanded, wriggling about beneath the restraining hold and waving his free arm rather uselessly. That was until a thick-soled boot came out of nowhere, pinning his other wrist to the ground, applying pressure but not breaking.

 

“I ain't dun nuthin'!” He clamped down on a shiver, chill gripping him as his mid-torso was pushed down into the freezing cold water of a puddle. He could feel mud squishing beneath him and he scowled, cursing his own ineptitude.

 

They ignored his protests however, as the one gripping his arm began to grope about in his pockets, producing their stolen wallets and cigarettes, as well as the wallet he had pilfered earlier, taking every last gil Ichi had worked hard to steal. “I found dat, yo!” he protested, lying through his teeth like any good street rat would do.

 

The boot ground down on his wrist, forcing the pale, thin limb abrasively against the rough stone. “Yeah! In my pocket!” Blondie's voice growled to his right, face twisted into a sneer. “I can't believe he got us, boss. We supposed to be Turks.”

 

“WHA?” Ichi's eyes widened in shock as the outraged cry escaped his lips before he could stop it. “Fuck! I thot sumthin's off!” he cursed, wriggling under the other man's knee, even more determined to escape now. ShinRa's Turks were well known beneath the slums. He couldn't believe that he had been so careless.

 

Ichigo twisted his body again in a desperate attempt to break free, but then, the knee ground down into his spine and he swore he heard something crack. His breath whooshed out of his body as his arm was twisted even further than he thought possible, sending sharp stabs of agony through him.

 

“Ow!”

 

Blondie snickered. “Whatcha going to do with him, Tseng?” he questioned, idly crushing Ichi's wrist with the heel of his boot.

 

The Wutaiian, whom Ichigo now knew to be Tseng, mused thoughtfully, his voice incredibly monotone and deadpan. “He resembles one of the Don's boys.” He paused, and Ichi could practically feel the penetrating gaze in the back of his head. “Perhaps we can use him.”

 

“Wha? Hell no!” Ichi snarled, wriggling again as he kicked his legs up in a vain attempt to break free. “Ain't got nuthin ta do with `hat perverted fucker, yo!” he cursed as he spat, having gotten an unfortunate taste of the mud beneath him.

 

“Then, I suppose we have no use for him,” Blondie muttered, finally removing his foot from Ichi's wrist, though not without one last parting grind downwards. Ichi could feel the blood seeping from the many cuts as the sharp stones beneath had punctured his skin. “Just kill him, and get it over with.”

 

Aquamarine eyes widened in horror as his heart leapt into his chest. “I ain't dun nuthin'!” he reiterated to ears that were no longer listening. A sudden surge of adrenaline coupled with his desire to not end up at the wrong end of a Turk handgun hit him then, not that there was a good end, and he bucked his body, surging upwards with a strength that surprised him. He ignored the painful pop of his shoulder and the agony that seared through him as it went limp at his side.

 

Above him, Tseng was momentarily knocked off balance, and it was all the time that Ichi needed. He twisted over to his side, gritting his teeth against the fiery pain that raced through his shoulder, and swiped Blondie's legs out from under him. He jabbed his working hand into the pavement, quickly shifting his weight and kicking up and out, managing to perfectly catch the heel of his foot on Tseng's chin, snapping the Wutaiian's head backwards.

 

As Blondie tumbled to the ground, Ichi scrambled to his feet, throwing one more kick for good measure to the blond man's groin. He didn't waste any time on Tseng, one hand clutching onto his limp arm as he sprinted forward, pushing through the crowd of onlookers. He gasped for breath, one wrist bleeding and aching, one shoulder essentially useless. He was determined to find his freedom, however. The arm he could fix; death was slightly more difficult.

Behind Ichi, from his half-sitting position Tseng rose to his feet, wiping the blood from his lip with a slightly bemused expression on his face, while his companion struggled to find his voice that had been lost with the none-too-gentle kick to his groin. He swore he saw birds dancing over his head as pain shot through his entire body. A few muttered curses had escaped his clenched teeth, including slurs on the boy who had been so rude as to kick him when he was down.

 

“I can't believe I was fuckin' one-upped by a scrawny slum rat. I'm going to kill that fucker,” Blondie seethed.

 

Tseng shot him a look but otherwise ignored his companion, one gloved hand slipping into his pocket to pull out his cell phone. “I think I may have found a use for him after all,” he commented as he quickly depressed a button and held it up to his ear, frowning as he brushed a few flecks of mud from his clothes. “Ken. There's a slum rat with red hair heading your way. Tattoos on his face. Grab him. Watch it though. He's slippery.”

 

After the other man grunted out a response, Tseng snapped the phone shut and slid it back into his pocket. He turned annoyed silver eyes down towards his companion, who had yet to rise.

 

“Get up, Maki. We have work to do.”

 

A fair distance ahead of them but not far enough for his desperate brain, considering the huge mass of sheer people he was trying to get through, Ichi ran as if his life depended on it. And perhaps it did. He wasn't certain that the Turks wouldn't waste their time to simply snuff out one more slum rat, and he wasn't going to take a chance and find out. He pushed and shoved his way through the people, heart pounding wildly in his chest and ignoring their angry glares and curses. Inwardly, he thoroughly chided himself for failing to notice their obvious Turkness and being such a dumbass.

 

He twisted his body as he ran, turning to check behind him with a quick scan when suddenly he ran into something big and unmovable. He nearly bounced backwards from the greater bulk, but before he could dart around the incredible size, arms clamped down on him. He was lifted over a shoulder with a heave, unceremoniously tossed and left to stare at a built, dark-suited back.

 

He had the sinking feeling that it was another Turk.

 

“Hey!” he protested, immediately beginning to squirm as he ignored the pain in his shoulder from being tossed around like a rag doll. “Lemme go! Pumme down ya bastard!” he cursed, kicking his legs out in an effort to put his assailant off balance. But the man was built like a brick house and refused to even budge. Something vaguely rod-like rapped him on the head, and he momentarily saw stars before the struggles began again.

 

He kicked his legs again, beating his one fist against the man's back. “Pumme down, yo. I ain't dun nuthin', dammit! Fuckin-- Ow!” Birds and swirls danced in his vision as an elbow rammed into the side of his head, an elbow that seemed too large to be human. He went somewhat limp, brain spinning fuzzily as he groaned. “Fuck `hat `urt, yo.”

 

The man grunted. “Shut up,” he ordered, shifting Ichi's weight as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a phone. “Boss, I've got your slum rat.”

 

Ichigo didn't bother to listen to the rest of the conversation, ignoring it as he thoroughly berated himself for his current predicament. His head spun, his shoulder ached, and his stomach churned with every audible crunch and grind of the bones in his broken and/or dislocated arm. He couldn't be sure which.

 

He raised his head slightly, aquamarine eyes catching sight of other slum residents steadfastly ignoring his plights. Fuckers. He scowled at them all, even though he knew his reaction would have been much the same. If one wanted to survive in the slums, he learned to keep his nose to his own business. The law didn't care, ShinRa didn't care, so why should anyone else? It was kill or be killed, a brutal existence but simply a fact of life. ShinRa had built that plate for a reason.

 

Ichi gave one last token wriggle, a desperate attempt to break free, but the elbow to his side and the arm like an iron band around his legs let him know there was no escape. He was fucking doomed.

 

It was only a minute more before Tseng and Blondie strolled up, Ichi could tell by the cheerful whistling and the twin crunches of their boots approaching. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, but he resolved to show them no fear, no matter how much agony he was in.

 

“Boss.” Big and Burly tipped his head in greeting, deep voice rumbling in his chest.

 

“You can put him down, Ken. Just don't let him go,” he heard the smooth tones of Tseng order. He quickly deduced that the Wutaiian was the boss of these Turks. And he had kicked him in the chin.

 

Good going, Ichi.

 

He highly doubted there was any chance of him escaping now.

 

The world tilted as he was hefted from the wide shoulder and planted on the ground with little grace, one hand clamping down on his uninjured arm, the other tangling gloved fingers in his hair and gripping tightly. He was left standing, or wobbling rather, on the ground, face to face with the Wutaiian. He was impassive, and the dark spot of blood on the corner of his mouth made Ichi secretly proud, even if it meant he wouldn't get to live for much longer.

 

Tseng was attractive, delicate even, with feminine features. Were it not for the determined set to his chin that implied his “take no shit” attitude, Ichi might have dared to call him pretty. He was attractive enough to make his blood stir, but at the present moment, lust was the last thing on the redhead's mind.

 

The Turk rubbed his chin with one hand as Ichi glared defiantly. Fingers tightened in his hair, but he didn't flinch, even though his scalp felt like it was trying to tear itself from his skull. To the side, Blondie was scowling as he puffed madly on a cigarette, the desire to kill burning in his blue eyes. He, on the other hand, was not attractive in the slightest, and Ichi didn't even want to contemplate Mr. Brickhouse Ken behind him. The man would crush him.

 

“You got guts, kid, trying to get away from us,” Blondie sneered, cracking the knuckles of his hands as he left his cigarette dangling between his lips. He jerked a thumb towards Big and Bulky. “Too bad you didn't know about Ken here.”

 

“Maki.” Tseng was expressionless.

 

Blue eyes flickered to the Wutaiian as Maki scrunched his forehead. “Yeah, boss?”

 

Tseng didn't even bat an eye or glance at him. “Shut up,” he ordered as he took a step forward, silver gaze roaming over Ichi, gauging him. His eyes were cold as they fell on the redhead's shoulder, arm lying limply at his side. “That must hurt,” he commented needlessly, idly reaching behind him for the small of his back and pulling out a handgun that Ichi cursed himself for not realizing was there. He thumbed the safety off, examining the gun as if he wasn't sure what he planned to do with it.

 

Ichi paled and swallowed thickly but refused to show any fear. If he was going to go down, he wasn't going to beg for his life like some bitch.

 

“Don' feel a'thing, yo,” he boasted, attempting to stand up straight from his perpetual slouch. It irritated him that every man surrounding him was taller, even Tseng.

 

The Wutaiian raised a brow as his gaze rose to glowing aquamarine eyes. “Is that so?” he questioned, elevating the handgun to a higher level and almost carelessly pointing the barrel towards Ichi. “How would you like to be a Turk?”

 

Blondie nearly choked on his cigarette, but he was no more surprised than Ichi, who managed to hide his shock underneath a face twisted with suspicion. “Wut games ya playin' wit me?” he demanded, certain there was some trick.

 

Just two minutes ago, the man wanted to shoot him; Ichi was right to be wary. The Wutaiian was making little sense if any, and he could tell that neither of the Turk's companions were expecting this.

 

“You are not just some idle slum rat,” Tseng commented, still in that same monotone as he slowly began a short pace in front of Ichi, occasionally looking towards him. “I was careless before, but I realize who you are now, Ichigo.” Eyes as harsh as steel burned into Ichi's own.

 

And aquamarine ones narrowed to thin slits in return. “How d'you know who'm?” he growled, twitching slightly under that probing stare. He fidgeted for a moment in Ken's hold and then went still when Big and Bulky gave a pull on his hair.

 

“I am second commander of the Turks. It is my business to be aware of the rising thugs and their leaders in the slums.” His lips curled into a smirk, which was just as threatening, if not more, than the blank face. “And you are a very dangerous boy.”

 

Blondie laughed mockingly at this, clearly disbelieving. “You can't be serious, boss. This scrawny runt is that Ichigo? The head boss of the Razors?”

 

“You have a choice,” Tseng inserted smoothly, shooting his subordinate an annoyed stare before returning his gaze to Ichi with an almost lazy motion. “You can become a bitch for ShinRa on our terms… or yours. Either way, I'm sure Corneo's spies have already seen you talking to us. And word on the street spreads fast.”

 

Ichi glared, although he knew that the Wutaiian was right. That didn't mean he was going to either confirm or deny Tseng's accusations either. This was his chance to break free of the slums, to actually make something of himself. Though he held no love for ShinRa, it would be a better life. He felt some remorse in leaving the Razors behind but knew they'd want him to go. He imagined Ryu would have hit him if he didn't. Besides, Van was more than capable of taking over.

 

In truth, he didn't even have to think about his decision. He had always dreamed of escape from the slums; he had just never expected it to come in the form of a steely-eyed Turk. Not that he was going to pass that chance. He might not have had any schooling, but he wasn't stupid.

 

“Aight,” Ichigo conceded with a nod of his head, as much as he was capable of anyway with sausage like fingers gripping his hair. “I'll be a Turk, yo.” Hell, he'd be the best Turk there ever was if it meant a warm place to sleep, food in his belly, and sleeping without having to worry about a knife in his gut or a random dick up his ass.

 

Tseng merely inclined his head in understanding, flipping on the safety of his gun and slipping it back into his pants. Ichi still couldn't believe he had missed it.

 

“Very well then.” His gaze flickered to the man standing behind Ichi. “Ken, fix his arm then occupy him at the car. Maki and I still have some business.” He gestured towards Blondie, and the two headed off, disappearing into the crowd of onlookers that had gathered, none too subtly expecting bloodshed and quite disappointed when there was none.

 

He scanned their faces, scowling when he did note two of Corneo's dogs, watching him with pleased smirks before they also melted back into the throng. Ken, who had grunted in response, released his hold on spiky, red hair and started probing at Ichi's bruised shoulder with all the gentleness of an sledgehammer.

 

“Hey!” the younger man snapped, twisting in Ken's hold. “Don' jes go touchin' broke shit, yo,” he growled as suddenly Ken spun him around to face him, his movements rough and jerky.

 

Ken, whom Ichi could finally see was a brunet, put both of his meaty hands on Ichi's shoulder, nearly engulfing his slimmer frame. “It's not broken,” he explained. “Just popped out of place.”

 

Ichi scowled. “Well, that's jes-- Fuckin' ow!”

 

Pop! At that moment, Ken yanked on Ichi's arm, neatly and quite painfully sliding it into place.

 

“How bout a lil warnin' nex' time, ya bastard?” Ichi snarled, yanking himself free from Ken's grip as he vigorously rubbed on his shoulder.

 

The Turk smirked. “It is more entertaining this way,” he responded, incredibly amused by the scrawny boy's scowl. He jerked a thumb towards a side alley, which was short enough to actually dump passerbies out on the other side. “Car's this way.”

 

He kept rubbing his shoulder, though the pain had faded to a dull throb, and followed after Ken, feeling incredibly dwarfed by the man's huge bulk. He felt strange, almost like he was having some odd nightmare since everything seemed so surreal. Less than an hour ago, he was watching the crowds for a good mark; now, he was going to work for ShinRa and above the plate for that matter, which seemed like an entirely different world.

 

It was almost as if he had been given a second chance, a second life, and the thought was… exciting, for lack of a better word. He had the feeling that nothing was going to be the same again.

 

* * *

 

Ichigo coughed as he stepped out of the sleek Turk vehicle, his lungs choking on the fresh air as a breeze, a breeze, ruffled his hair and teased his bare skin. He blinked in the absurdly bright light of the sun, another cough wracking his thin frame. It was so fresh, sweet… almost too pure, and although he wanted to, he couldn't breathe deeply of it. The lack of smog and pollution clenched his lungs. It was ironic, but he was suffocating on the clean air.

 

There was only one option to him, and though he thought they were revolting, the constant coughing was a nuisance. Patting himself down quickly, he extracted Van's cheap cigarettes from his pockets. Giving them a distasteful look, he smacked one stick into his hand before shoving the rest of the pack down into his pocket. As the other Turks exited the vehicle, he leaned against the door, checking his pockets for a lighter and placing the cigarette between his lips. A shadow fell over him as Blondie slapped one into his palm before turning back towards Tseng and Ken, Reno tilting his head in thanks before lighting up.

 

He relaxed against the black metal, crossing one ankle over the other and letting the nicotine ease the tightness in his throat. He scowled at the unwelcome taste of menthol, which he loathed, but was grateful for finally being able to breathe. Looked like he would be adopting a new habit if he wanted to breathe normally. At least the cigarette helped calm the somewhat nervous flutter that attacked him at just the sight of the huge ShinRa building.

 

Behind him, Tseng was giving wrap-up orders to the others. Ichigo couldn't really hear what they were saying and didn't particularly care, his mind so busy that he found it easier just to let it go blank. Instead, he concentrated on the menial task of simply smoking Van's cigarettes. He would eventually have to buy his own.

 

Thick-soled boots against concrete not cracked or littered with garbage alerted him to Tseng's approach. Ichi took one last drag of his Woodard's Lights and flicked it to the ground, grinding the butt beneath his heel. He moved off the car as Ken and Maki stepped inside it, slamming the doors behind them.

 

“There is no backing out now,” Tseng informed him, gesturing that Ichi follow as the other two Turks drove away.

 

Ichi raised a brow as they headed towards the massive ShinRa tower with what had to be at least ten glass doors marking the entryway, sun shining brightly off them.

 

“Ya think I wanna return to t'slums?” he questioned, wondering if Tseng had lost his damn mind somewhere along the way. Who actually chose to live in the slums?

 

“You would be surprised how many people would prefer to return,” the Wutaiian answered as he stepped forward, hand smoothly pulling a keycard from his pocket and swiping it in front of a dark box. There was a quiet beep before one of the doors popped, allowing Tseng to pull it open as he gestured Ichi inside. “Sometimes, they do not want to let go.”

 

Ichi snorted as he entered in ahead of the Wutaiian, tugging almost self-consciously on his too-short shirt to cover his exposed belly. “I ain't like those…” His words trailed off as he got his first glimpse of the inside of ShinRa headquarters.

 

It's ceiling stretched high above him, lit with bright flourescent lights. The lobby was expansive, with plenty of space for the many people to mill about without even having to worry about bumping into one another. A pair of stairs curved around either side of a massive front desk, leading up to another floor and to either side, glass-walled elevators rose up and down.

 

He couldn't help his awe, hating how much he felt like the slum rat he was. While he wasn't self-conscious, it was somewhat overwhelming. Tseng didn't seem to notice his reaction, instead brushing past him with determination and heading straight for the large desk, which was obviously the central hub of business in the lobby. Ichi trailed after him, hands shoved in his pockets and internally wishing for another cigarette. He let his own eyes rake over the people.

 

He saw little Turks and a few SOLDIERs or simply army grunts in uniform. Most of those in the lobby wore suits and serious expressions; there were even a few scientists in white lab coats and thick glasses, looking every part the nerd. Ichi slinked next to Tseng, scarcely paying any attention to the Wutaiian as his over-stimulated brain struggled to absorb all of this new information.

 

There was so much bright, open space. He wasn't certain how to deal with it, used to the cramped quarters of the slums and hiding in the shadows.

 

“What name will you wish to be called?” Tseng questioned from his side, dragging Ichi's attention back to the Wutaiian. “Will Ichigo suffice? Or would you prefer Renaurd?”

 

Immediately, the redhead responded in the negative, his voice actually quite loud in the almost reverent quiet. “Hell no! Gimme a nick or sumthin', yo.” He tried not to wonder why the Wutaiian had known his last name.

 

Tseng raised a brow before turning back towards the document in front of him. “Reno, it is then.” The pen scratched across the paper as he ignored the appreciative stares from the secretary in front of him. Ichi took that moment to continue with his perusal of the lobby, sliding interested aquamarine eyes around those gathered at the front desk.

 

There was some greasy-haired scientist looking as if he hadn't bathed in a week, and two men in nearly matching brown suits argued with a flustered secretary, security heading their way. A dark-skinned man with a bald head nodded as another, shorter man described something to him, and Ichi's thoughts abruptly derailed as his gaze fell on the second man. He raked his eyes over a well-fitted suit covering a trim body, dark hair perfectly cut.

 

Something inside of Ichi grinded to a halt until he was left staring like a moron. His heart began to beat at a rapid pace, though he didn't understand why, and in his mind, he was chanting for this man to turn around. He had to see his face with a determination so strong that Ichi hadn't even realized he was staring.

Then suddenly, as if hearing his unvoiced thought, the man did turn only to stare straight at Ichi. Amber eyes met aquamarine, and his breath caught in his throat, raking his gaze over this stranger's appearance. Dark hair, somewhat clean-shaven, soft lines with a masculine set to his jaw, and vivid eyes that were the most amazing shade that Ichi had ever seen. He couldn't look away, feeling a shiver race down his spine.

 

Unconsciously, he licked his lips, fighting down an urge to simply stalk over there and introduce himself, to find out this man's name, to know him.

 

“Reno, if you would prefer to be Corneo's whipping boy, I would be most happy to arrange it,” Tseng declared tersely, his voice cutting through the fog that had settled over Ichi. His breath came back to him in a whoosh that he hadn't even realized he had been holding.

 

He blinked as a strange feeling coiled in Ichi's belly. It wasn't unsettling, merely significant, as if something important had just happened, something that he should always remember. That man, those amber eyes… He couldn't understand it, but he knew without knowing why that there was something there, something he had been looking for.

 

“What are you looking at?” Tseng demanded impatiently, beginning to feel a tic forming in his left eyebrow.

 

Ichi swallowed thickly, gradually feeling the warmth in his cheeks fade. “Who… who be `dat?” Although the man had finally turned around, he still couldn't look away, as if he would be missing something vitally important. A notion began to burn in his mind then, a strong desire unlike anything he had ever felt before. Even stronger than his yearning to be free from the slums.

 

The Turk followed the line of Ichi's stare with his own gaze, trying to discern what had captivated his attention. He smirked when he recognized the other man.

 

“That,” he explained with some amusement, “is Reeve Tuesti, the architect who designed Midgar and head of Urban Development.” He tugged on the younger man's arm, using enough strength to pull him away. “And if you actually succeed in the Turks, you might get to meet him some day.”

 

“I'll make it,” Ichi, who was now to be known as Reno, mumbled under his breath. He couldn't ignore them, even if he didn't understand the strange emotions flittering through his body and fluttering in his chest. He didn't really believe in love at first sight, but he knew immediately that it was at least lust. That man, Reeve, was simply gorgeous.

 

The Wutaiian blinked as he shot his newest recruit a strange look, almost knowing. “Pardon?”

 

“I'm going to meet him,” the redhead reiterated a bit louder, sucking in a deep breath as he allowed the Turk second-in-command to lead him away. “I'll make it.” There was no doubt in his mind, from that point, one hand idly clenched at his side. He cast one final look at the back of a dark head, silently vowing to himself.

 

He was going to meet that man.

 

On the other side of the room, Reeve fumbled through his words as he attempted to explain to Rude, the Turk he had recruited for this particular mission, exactly what he needed. But he kept drawing a blank, mind inexplicably stunted by that one event, that strange connection with the boy across the lobby. His eyes were so bright, incredibly so, and he had held Reeve's gaze with heat smoldering behind those aquamarine irises.

 

Reeve had felt his pulse quicken at just the sight, unable to help the lingering thought that he was the prettiest male that Reeve had ever seen. His brain derailed then as his eyes widened, not even realizing that Rude was watching him with slight confusion. He had NOT just thought that. Reeve was straight, heterosexual; he liked women. He had never looked twice at another man, and yet… there was this fascination with the boy. He wanted to take another look, not that the face wasn't going to be forever burned in his mind.

 

A flush spread across his cheeks as he unconsciously clutched tighter to the documents in his hand, wondering why that one glance had him completely undone.

 

“--ir? Mr. Tuesti?” Rude's voice broke through his thoughts.

 

Reeve blinked, realizing that he had been staring off into space like an idiot, crumpling the documents in his hand. He flushed brighter, working to straighten out the papers as he took several deep, steadying breaths, trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing. But all his mind could recall was bright red hair and aquamarine eyes filled with yearning.

 

“Is everything all right?” Rude questioned, concern in his voice.

 

Reeve nodded distractedly, sifting through the documents and scanning them with faint confusion. “Yes. It is… uh…” he trailed off, frantically trying to recall their conversation and drawing a blank. What was wrong with him?

 

“How soon do you need the report?” The Turk was being surprisingly patient, and Reeve thought he almost detected a hint of amusement in the bald man's words. As for the report, he frenetically sifted through his memories, skirting past recent shots of bright red hair and finally settling on the right words. Right! The Report!

 

He nodded. “By the end of the week, if possible,” he managed to get out, hurriedly thrusting the documents into Rude's hands, the Turk taking them immediately. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I have a meeting.”

 

Reeve didn't wait for Rude's response, simply too flustered to form a coherent thought. Instead, he turned and headed for the elevator, pulling out his keycard and swiping it quickly. He brushed a hand over his face, able to feel the burning heat from the flush as he did so, and groaned in embarrassment.

 

What the hell had come over him? And over a male, a boy at that, no less! He clearly must have been losing his mind. Still, that didn't stop the thought from circuitously skating through his brain. Just who was that boy?

 

He very nearly made a mental note to ask Tseng before his eyes widened in shock, almost causing him to stumble into the elevator. He pressed the correct button with an unconscious movement, and as the doors slid shut, Reeve rubbed his palm over his face, unable to believe his own insane behavior. The way that boy had looked at him and how he had returned the stare, the strange shiver that had raced up his spine, it was all so surreal, like it had happened to another person. Still, it was something that he needed to forget, and he resolved to push it to the back of his mind. Of all things, Reeve was not gay.

 

So when the elevator dinged, depositing him on the 47th floor, a composed and collected Reeve stepped out, smoothing down the ruffles in his suit. He smiled like he didn't have a care in the world.

 

After all, chances were he would never see that boy again.

 

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