They've been hunting for Sephiroth for months. Turk and Tsviets, side by side, monsters by any definition you could give them. There is very little in their journey that has given Nero pause, even less that has made him bleed.
But he is only a young man. An untested, unrealized WEAPON set against an entity he was not built to fight. This latest encounter left him close enough to dying it would be a mercy to finish the job. Stabbed through and twisted up like he was nothing, a fly to be battered and batted aside.
Hojo hadn't seemed particularly concerned. Almost annoyed to be bothered by the memory of the creature he'd sent to hunt Sephiroth down, like Nero was a waste of energy to even consider. The med-evacuation did not sound like it would come any time soon, the only help given had been authorization to strip the restraints and let nature take its course.
Now here he is, pale body exposed for an audience of one. A patchwork of scars blanketed by prophetic tattoos that seem to grow and twist as the day goes on, his pretty face revealed wrecked by blood and bruised and utterly ruined by the haunted expression. He'd been more lucid earlier. Yet had been in and out of consciousness since the reports of the WEAPONs rising had begun to filter in, blood smearing from a nosebleed that nothing seemed to stem.
Pale fingers catch Reno's wrist, but when they squeeze they lack their customary strength. There is little doubt that he will be dead by dawn's light, the fading lucidity in his eyes the most damning sign.
"Can you hear it?" Nero's voice wavers, tight and breathless in a mixture of fear and awe. "The song. I have never heard it so clearly... like a mother's lullaby, sung too soon. Centuries too soon... make it stop..."
He trails off into a pained moan, still holding the Turk's hand. Unguarded, like a beat seeking comfort under a hand it's known to be cruel, hoping for affection but expecting to be struck all the same.
( By dawn he will be dead, gone in fitful sleep. Shattered ribs shredding his lungs, internal bleeding going beyond what even a TSVIET can survive.
And yet he will awaken all the same, healed by the planet's refusal to grant him rest. )
There was something about injury ( more accurately defeat ) that was, frankly, a major turn off— and it wasn't even remotely sexual, however defeat turning rigidity into flaccidity had occurred. It was more like pity. More like disappointment. No. It was more like he was facing his own mortality, staring at an image of scrawny, twelve year old Reno beaten to a pulp. Reno wasn't scared of death. In fact, he looked forward when he would blow up in a glorious heroic feat ( heroic for ShinRa ) and left to be mourned by everyone. . Rude especially. Death and defeat were two very different things, so while the former was a matter of fact worth grinning off, defeat was the sick taste of blood pooling inside his mouth.
All of that hot iron-tang never tasted good, and it was almost as bad seeing someone looked like a gutted boar. Did anyone expect an outcome that did not end up with impalement, scorched flesh, or a quick death? Reno had played it over and over in his head. Frankly, he had been stressed about the mission, but orders were orders. No way would he with an electro mag-rod go up against the fucking strongest human being of all time. A human was a joke of a term when it came to the infamous Sephiroth, who Reno had not wanted to cross paths with even before he lost his bolts and nuts. Stick-in-the-mud genetic super freak Sephiroth, oh yeah, let's just send a Turk and some basement lab monkey.
Both his self preservation and having an IQ that wasn't abysmal told him, naturally, Reno wouldn't be the one to go toe-to-toe against the feared Silver General. As careful as the Turk could've been, it didn't negate the very real possibility Sephiroth would scorch the earth, or hunt down Nero's accomplice for the sake of sadistic fun. Who knew how the lunatic thought! EVEN in the best scenario possible where Reno was totally clear of danger, that still left the basement lab monkey to fail. Fail he did. Part of him expected something . . more, considering ShinRa and Hojo were placing eggs in that basket. However Reno also harbored tremendous doubts considering Sephiroth was Sephiroth. All powerful, apparently.
So what was ShinRa's real goal here? It left the inside of his cheeks raw, and th expression on the redhead's face might have looked like one born of sadness. Did he expect something more or had he, simply, just wished it? Sephiroth was god, thank ifrit's cock, so Reno's due diligence sat upon calling HQ and then— waiting. Fuck. Every bit of this he loathed. He had seen plenty of people hurt horribly and had seen plenty die. There were very few instances where those people were ones he felt bad about. As a child running around, fighting for survival, he was often the one dealing the killing blow. Not since joining the Turks was he faced with a fallen ally, and the feeling of helplessness.
Nero only made matters worse when he babbled through broken teeth like a loon about to be embraced by the lifestream, allegedly. It made Reno wince, yet he did not retract his hand. It was difficult keeping it there in the grip of a dying man, but the hand remained. When he forced himself out of whatever he was feeling, the redhead sighed as he sat beside Nero, wrist still in weak grip. Shit, what did he want? What did people want as they were dying? He mustered the part of him that wasn't utter chocobo shit and slooowly extended his other hand out. To the outsider, it looked like it was the blood that disgusted him, but that was the furthest from the truth. He would do this and a hundred times more for his fellow Turks, but this was different. Complicated. Fingertips scratched and dirtied moved past the mess of hair to brush against Nero's forehead.
( ❛ Just shaddup and. . . go to sleep. Dream of stranglin' me . . ❜ )
