Chapter Text
The image is a little rough around the edges, a little jerky in places, and the sound seems to be on a fraction of a second delay. Tseng doesn't mind particularly. He'd asked for surveillance equipment that was cheap, discrete, and disposable, not top of the line. This would suit his purposes well enough.
Ernie Vizzini is holding court.
This in itself is of no particular interest to Tseng. He knows all the players on Vizzini's board, and while his, to be fair, exceptionally virulent gang has been a thorn in Shinra's side for some time now, the problem is about to be solved. If all goes according to plan. And it will. This is a test after all. There are backups in place should the youth back out, or fail. Tseng is just beginning to get impatient when finally, the actual object of his observation appears: Mess of impossibly red hair, patched jacket marking him as high ranking member of Vizzini's small army; three years of careful observation hopefully not wasted. The youth beams at the rooms occupants, slouches to his usual place, behind the bosses desk, at his shoulder to the right, hands folded behind his back. An impressive position for a teenager.
“Hey bossman, I need a word.”
“Whatever about?” But Vizzini is smiling, almost fondly, waving overly ringed fingers at his room of guards, informants, and sycophants.
“Bohai, Armond, Stella. Take a break. Everyone else listen up.” The youth waits, while the three exit the room. An interesting choice. Tseng wonders at the logic in sparing them. Seven people besides Vezzini and the youth remain. The boss looks questioningly at his head of security and enforcement, but shows no tension yet. Reno just shoots him a disarming grin, and shrugs.
“Alright, boy, what is this about?”
“Gotta apologize, yo. Got a better offer.”
Tseng isn't sure whether it's the limitations of the surveillance system, or if the recruit is simply that fast, but he cannot for the life of him say where the knife comes from. Not as important as that though, is the speed at which that knife is slicing through Vizzini's jugular, then flying through the air and into the throat of another of his courtiers.
Six targets remain.
Two start for the door, yelling alarms; they're brought down with shots from a gun produced as mysteriously as the knife, blood and gray matter spattering the walls.
Four targets.
The first man to reach the youth is greeted with a pistol butt to the face, then slammed down into Vizzini's desk. He collapses with fountain pen in his eye, clearly custom made.
Three.
Gun shoved into the mouth of the woman, Smith, rushing the youth, more brain matter. Vizzini surely inspired loyalty, but Tseng suspects it was mostly through fear.
Two.
The youth wrests the knife away from his next assailant, swiping it through the mans gut like so much useless lard, then his throat, to finish the job.
One.
This one seems personal, to Tseng. He barrels into the readhead making use of his considerable mass advantage. Another high ranked member, by the large blue patches on his brown jacket sleeves. The recruit fights dirty though, teeth and nails tearing into flesh. Tseng has never understood that turn of phrase, sees no dishonor in using the tools available. The fight is over the instant the kid gets a grip on him, knee's pressing the mans wrists to the floor, fingers clamped around his throat. The man, thrashing, turns red, then purple, then blue, then at last ceasing, even the convulsion of frantically firing nerves finally still.
The youth lets out a tremendous sigh, that shakes his whole being, and Tseng worries, for just a moment, that he is too afraid. That he will surrender himself. He rolls of the corpse and tries to stand, but stumbles, catches himself on Vizzinis desk, swallows dry heaves for fifteen seconds. But now he straightens himself, strips off his blood soaked outer layers and dumps them unceremoniously on the desk. He launches himself easily out the window, landing on the dumpster outside what was until just now Vizzini's headquarters. Tseng sighs his own relief into the bustle of the train station, puts the small monitor away, and straightens himself for the meeting. Reno, he thinks, glad to finally have you aboard.
He can forgive the lack of emotional control, for now. It isn't supposed to be easy to slaughter one's comrades.
It's not twenty minutes before Reno walks into the under-seven station, in spite of the cold clad simply in old boots, dirty jeans and a clean wife-beater.
“Oh man!” He exclaims, making no attempt to hide his relief. “I wasn't sure you'd really be here, yo!” Tseng merely smirks, and extends a hand, which after hesitating a breath he takes with unnecessary bravado.
“That's good. We like a man who's willing to take risks.” He gestures onto the train, “After you.”
It isn't a long ride up to the plate, about half an hour, and the car is mostly empty. Still, to Tsengs amusement five minutes in and the youth is having some trouble keeping still. Adrenaline, maybe nerves. He taps a foot against a standing rail, get's up to hang from the hand rail attached to it, spinning vaguely, sits back down, taps some more, runs a hand through his hair. Tseng is looking over his file once more: No last name recorded. Several outstanding warrants. Born in under-two. Stayed in school long enough to receive all standard vaccinations and supplements. Turns seventeen today.
Tseng doubts Reno knows that himself. It's no surprise, planned that way even, but Tseng can't keep the smile from his face. A brand new life. Now that's a birthday present. They arrive on the upper plate, before Shinra Headquarters, and Reno follows him into the light.
The day is bright, sky a brilliant ocean blue, sun and moon both hanging in its noontide depths. The recruit blinks frantically, rubbing his wide eyes. It's an exceptionally chilly February, and Tseng zips up his own jacket, realizes, slowly, when the recruit falls a few steps behind that this is the first time he's seen a sky not made of metal, the first time the sun has touched his skin.
So he waits.
There is no wind under the plate, but up here in front of the Shinra tower it's whipping their clothes and hair wildly. Reno stands for a long while, just wide-eyed, feeling, overcome with a feral joy that Tseng will never be used to. Tseng remembers when he first came to Midgar, how oppressive just the concrete and steel and stark, minimal architecture of the upper plates had seemed then, after the forests surrounding Wutai.
Humans were never built to live below ground.