FicWad

Disclaimer: All characters and settings in this piece are based upon and are the property of Square Enix unless otherwise stated. No profit has been made from this piece of fiction.

Reno took another swig of his beer, all the while eyeing up his target over the rim of the scummy glass. It tasted like the bar smelled, stale and pungent.

Or shit.

"Yeah, definitely shit." He muttered, setting the glass down on the table and observing the few little bubbles that still floated to the head of the murky brown liquid. His lips pulled apart into a thin grimace and he shook his head and turned back to observe the rest of the pub, momentarily glancing at his target, seated at the centre table. He himself sat at the middle of a long table nearest the door, parallel to his target's position. The bar filled most of the left side of the room, a grey haired woman with wizened, wrinkled skin bustled about behind the countertop, pouring drinks and shouting to some person unseen beyond the paint-flecked kitchen door. A few more tables were scattered around the right hand side of the room, all bathed in the dim blue glow of a large television, set into the wall in the corner opposite him. One or two drunkards slumped across the chipboard tabletops, caught somewhere between consciousness and the coma of the demon drink. He turned back to his objective, watching his target. The card game had paused, all eyes now facing towards the grey-haired man as he regaled them with some tale.

"Well…" The man said, "Did not I look like a complete idiot standing there with my saw in hand, branches scattered about me and my mouth hanging open wide as the Crater?!" He touched his fingers against his brow and giving his head the slightest shake of exasperation. The listeners chuckled and Reno noted how the man's lips twitched in the most minuscule way into a pleased smile.

"And from that day to this, each and every time I visit Mideel the locals give me such looks that I feel about as a welcome as a drop of water in the devil's whiskey!" His eyes crinkled with mirth. He grinned at his audience as they roared with laughter and slapped their hands against the table. Reno watched the man take a theatrical bow and hop down from his stool before he sauntered over to the bar, receiving a few appreciative slaps on the back as he went. Seeing his opportunity, Reno made to follow him, but just as he rose from his seat another man plopped down next to him and peered up at him with drunken, bloodshot eyes. His cheeks drooped down over lips set in a long, cartoon frown and his face played host to a messy, untrimmed beard. Reno glanced down at the rest of him and raised his eyebrows at the sight of an immaculately kept suit adorning the man's torso, with clean pressed black dress pants and fresh polished shoes on his feet. The whole ensemble had the effect of making the man appear like a well-dressed basset hound.

"Something wrong?" Reno asked, one eyebrow still quirked upwards.

The man looked him up and down, expression unchanging before he again settled his gaze upon Reno's face and with a low, slurred grumble spoke out.

"What, in the name of all that is holy, are you wearing boy?"

Reno furrowed his brow and looked down at his clothing. He wore a faded red zip-up hoody, stained and with a small hole in the left breast and a pair of baggy blue jeans, or at least what was left of them with the numerous tears along their length. He looked back to the man and shrugged. He hadn't thought it possible, but the man's frown grew even longer.

"You look like crap." He said. For a moment Reno said nothing, just stared down at the man until his lips curled into an amused smirk and a huffed laugh escaped him.

"It's the slums, old man." He said, flicking his hand out as though he spoke of the most obvious thing in the world. The man blinked once.

"So?"

Reno gave a derisive snort, "Who the hell looks nice in the slums?"

The old man took this as his turn to snort, "Well, me, for one. And look at everyone else in here." He said, waving his arm towards the other patrons. Maybe he just didn't know enough about fashion, but all in all they collectively struck Reno as a decent guide of what not to wear. Every individual wore a mash of colours and fabrics, bright reds and oranges and blues and browns, jackets that were too big, shirts that were too small. He turned back to the old man, a quizzical expression on his face. The old man's frown remained unchanged.

"They look nice, you moron." He growled. "You're traipsing around in stuff that's all stained and torn!"

Reno simply stared at him, wide-eyed and weakly muttered "What?"

"What….what…" The man replied, nodding his head, his voice despairing.

"Now you listen here boy, just because it's the slums doesn't mean you can waltz in here thinking you're above it all! Have a little respect, ya jerk! Jerk! Jerk! Jerk!" The man sobbed, prodding at Reno's chest with each repetition of the word. Then, without another word the old man swivelled on his stool and promptly threw himself down onto the table. Reno stared at his inanimate form, eyes wide and mouth opened in a small, surprised 'o'. An unpleasant, prickling sensation tingled through his stomach and the faintest hint of blushing warmth throbbed under his cheeks. He glanced around at the other patrons, none looked back. Indeed none appeared to notice the old man's tangent at all.

"Fuckin' drunks…" He murmured.

Before he could spare it any further thought, his storytelling target strolled by him and out the door. He reached for his drink, sank it in a single gulp, ignored the pungent after taste and without a word pulled the hood of his jacket over his head and followed after his objective.

He emerged into the muggy heat of Wall Market's dusty dirt streets. Neon lights coloured the town and innumerable characters filled the pathways, shouting to each other, hollering prices at passers by. A few people lumbered around supporting the near unconscious drunken forms of their compatriots and several scantily clad men and women alike stood at various corners, winking suggestively at any who would meet their eye. The sight of them brought a frown to his face, tempered by the return of that damned prickling guilt in his gut. He ignored it and glanced around for his target, catching a glimpse of his thick greying hair amidst the throngs of night time revellers. He pulled the hood further down over his face and set off after him, weaving his way through the crowds, always keeping a few bodies between him and his objective. He noted, despite himself, the general cleanliness of the masses, so contrasted to the destitution of their surroundings. The old man's reprimanding resounded through his head again. He shut it out as his target meandered into a ramshackle building made of wood and corrugated metal. A luminous yellow and green sign shone over the door, spelling out the word 'Inn' in intermittent flashes. He slunk in after him, silent and unnoticed by any. It had been muggy outside under the suffocating blanket of the Upper Plate, but in here it felt as though he stood inside a furnace. Heat enveloped his skin from the moment he crossed the threshold of the door. His target walked up the hallway in front of him. A quick glance to the desk at his right confirmed that no receptionist had seen him enter, for it was at present unmanned, and so he tiptoed up the hall, watching the grey haired man fish inside his pocket for a key.

With slow, deliberate and silent pace he reached around his back, skimming his fingers across the hem of the worn fabric of his jacket with the most feather-light of touches. He curled his fingers, hooking them under the hoody, and raised it up the stooped curve of his spine, feeling the cool sensation of the metal weapon concealed in his waistband spread through his fingertips. Edging his fingers just a little further apart, he caught the hilt of the weapon between the middle two and began dragging it up and out of its makeshift holster, movement seamless with the raising of his jacket. He tightened his grip as the weapon came free of his jeans, wrapping all his fingers around the hilt before bringing his arm back around. His hoody fell back into place with a soft rustle.

He approached the man, one careful footstep after the other, brushing the ball of each foot lightly on the floor before pressing it to the wood. His target stood oblivious, all of two feet ahead of him. With a swoop of his arm he swung his nightstick, extending it to its full size with a satisfying series of clicks, and with a low hum that signalled the surge of electricity at the weapon's tip, placed it at the small of the man's back.

Nothing happened.

Reno furrowed his brow, shifting between looking down at where the electrified nightstick touched the man's torso, and looking up at the rest of the man, seeking some sort of reaction, but the man simply continued fishing around for his key, unaware even of the sensation of the nightstick pressing into his back.

What ever was happening, electrocution wasn't.

Ignoring the apprehension in his gut, Reno reared back the nightstick and struck the back of the man's head with an almighty thwack. The man's hands shot to cradle his battered skull, but he did not crumple to the floor as Reno expected. Instead, a period of complete and total silence followed, broken only by the pained hiss from his target as he gingerly touched the rising lump on his head. Reno stood frozen, with his weapon-wielding arm arced across his chest, staring wide eyed at the hunched form of his victim. He noticed then the brown and gold trimmed bangle on the man's wrist, in which there sat nestled two materia, a green and a blue, connected by a dual-slot. It dawned on him why his electric shock proved so woefully ineffective. An inhalation of breath from his target interrupted his deductions, as at last the man spoke.

"Ahhhhh…fuck!" He hissed in a pained whisper. He turned to face Reno, peering at him through wincing eyes.

"What the fuck did you do that for!?"

Reno stared at him; eyes still wide as the man looked him up and down, all the while massaging the back of his head. He paused, brow furrowing in confusion and spoke again.

"And what the fuck are you wearing?"

Without a word, Reno swung his arm back in the opposite direction, driving the tip of the nightstick into the man's temple and sending him crashing to the floor, unconscious. He took a breath and glanced over his shoulder.

"The hell is the owner?" He muttered before shaking his head and turning back to the prone form of his victim. With a heavy sigh he retracted the nightstick and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans once more. He stooped down, lifting the inanimate body from the floor and heaved him onto his shoulder with a grunt. He turned, careful not to knock the man's head against the wall and with brisk footfalls exited the inn, submerging himself into the hordes of Wall Market's populace.