@ofdeference asked:
The rain falls so thick it becomes a wall before him, it's white noise echoes in empty streets and dulls the senses. The metallic stench of the metal city rises like a miasma from the torrential downpour. Nothing can quell the unease in his stomach save for that of the waiting limo beyond.
The crack of thunder is loud even in the din. Shoulder aches with the weight of the storm's atmosphere and as he reaches to readjust bone into place he staggers under the agony that tears through him.
Warmth spills down non-responsive arm, the silver street beneath him turns red.
Fuck.
Cover is the first thing he seeks, his gun the second. A flash of a muzzle and a bullet whizzes by his head. Another flash, another bullet whines. He takes aim, fires, a bullet between the brow. Good fucking riddance. He won't go down easy. No one will have that privilege. Another shot hisses feet from him, he fires back. The rain follows a steady stream down angular features into his eyes and he blinks it back, unsuccessful, dripping wet. His umbrella drifts unforgotten in the middle of the street, it's Shinra logo tumbling over and over itself as the top spins.
An image of Rufus surfaces, hazy, water logged, glimmering and distant. He takes another shot and-
There's a sound to his left, curiosity pulls his attention but the bite of another bullet tearing through his side chastises him for hoping.
That's what you get.
Veld...
You're sloppy, tighten it up. Don't ever let them surround you.
Tseng doesn't need to see to know where to shoot, their footsteps are rushed and loud. They're children thinking they know the game. He plays it better.
Muzzle raised, the shot echoes out and the sick wet pop of skull separating from brain breaks the dull noise of the rain. He can hear whoever is left standing retreating. Angry hurried splashes in gathering puddles. He fishes in his pockets for his PHS, feels the hole burned through it and curses. Limps to the toll booth illuminated by the first street light to come on this evening. Change...he needs- gil.
Other pocket...wallet- fuck. His fingers feel like they're frozen, slow to react they feel...heavy...swollen...they won't bend the way he needs but he's almost there.
The coins plop in and ring metallic when they hit their fellow gil, the woman's automated voice is a blur. He can't understand her. His eyes feel heavy everything....everything....feels...
The other line picks up.
Pedantic little fucks with their superiority complex, their small dicks and their fat fucking wallets. He tolerates them because he must. This company will be his one day and so will their money. For now he will laugh at terrible jokes, humor what-ifs and promises he never intends to keep.
Just when he's about ready to put his own shotgun in his mouth and pull the trigger, his phone vibrates. A little early, but he'll take it. Tseng's always had this uncanny knack of knowing him, body and soul, despite having only known one another for so little time in comparison.
A smile curls his lips in spite of himself when he answers, bringing the phone to his ear.
"Just in time I was about to die of boredom. Are you waiting for me downstairs?"
There is nothing but what sounds like static on the other end. He frowns and waits for the Turk's confirmation a whole of two seconds.
Static. Is that- a breath? Rattling, like he's breathing in water.
"Tseng." It isn't a question this time. It's a demand. Answer, you bastard. Quit playing games with him. Why is his heart pounding? Why is it louder than the fucking band playing twenty feet away in the god damn grand hall?
