Bonus File
(Basically, Pip and I did one of those story exchange deals, where you get to ask for a bunch of incredibly weird objects to be placed into a story. The result was this, which just seemed to ring so incredibly with the same tone as the rest of File This I figured Id add this on. Think of it as happening somewhere before the last two chapters)
Click, click, click, click, click...
The crisp sound of suede on linoleum rang out time and time again as the lone figure made its way across the crowded room. There's something about parties that drives people insane, some strange and unknown X-factor that replaces common sense with an extreme feeling of masochism. In normal, every day life, we all know certain things. They are called facts of life. Things like 'don't like the floor', and 'for the love of God stop having a staring contest with the sun'. Those are just two of thousands. A third is that while walking, flat surfaces are best. You do not walk on rocks when you can avoid it. You especially do not walk on knives.
So why, pray tell, do parties cause people to add spikes right to the bottom of their feet?
Click, click, click...
"Ow, ow, ow..." with each step the figure hurt just a little bit more, its toes grinding further down into the pointed tips of the red high heels, its ankles rolling a little bit to either side with every wavering strut. For a brief second it stumbled, but the nearest single man in a business suit was all to happy to step in and stop the fall, somehow accomplishing that feat without ever looking away from the figures amply bulging chest. Before he can glance up past the throat and to the eyes- an act, to be fair, which would have taken him hours- the figure has scurried off with a small wave of thanks, cursing under its breath about the subtle but firm grope that had been placed on its thigh.
This was hell, or at least a very accurate representation. The figure glanced around with tearing eyes, looking for some ally, some bastion of sanity in this sea of pretense and presentation. Instead, it found Yuffie Kisaragi.
Though her mood was currently thousand times better than that of the figure, you would never be able to tell from her expression. The princess heir of Wutai had decided a long time ago that the only expression she would ever wear at a party would simply be varying levels of scowls, and she had managed to stick to that decision since she had been drug to her first celebration ball at six. The fact of the matter was, she actually found this particular party rather pleasant, since coming from the influential position of having thrown it she had all her favorite foods and music around to keep her in good spirits.
Nothing cheered her as much, however, as the limping form heading towards her. Its earrings hung loosely, its makeup looking like it had been applied by several hookers at once, its dress was about two sizes too small and its ankles... well, they were swelling rapidly to the size of grape fruits. The incredible amount of leg that was showing revealed several cuts ranging from nicks to chainsaw attacks, the product of the latest shaving attempt. Over all, a truly withering display.
"Hey Turkey," Yuffie said with a grin so wide it should be in toothpaste commercials, "looking
good."
From behind blood colored lipstick, the red head snarled at her like a wild animal. It was bad enough that he had to suffer the general indignity of going into public dressed this way, but to do it in front of his greatest rival just added poisoned icing to the hell cake. "Shove it, bitch," he snapped, gesturing towards the plastic nails that had been glued onto his real ones, "or I'll scratch your damn eyes out."
***
It had been almost a week ago when a man who looked almost entirely, but not quite, unlike Rufus Shinra had marched into the Turk offices like he owned the place. Only after the intrusion had been answered with the usual hail of bullets that the man had, surprisingly, survived was Tseng willing to talk with him, and even so it had been terse at first. That was before the man produced a briefcase that he laid confidently on the nearest desk, flipping it open with the air of someone turning over a poker card.
One hundred thousand dollars in Gil.
All he wanted, he said, was for the Turks to catch the husband of his girlfriend trying to cheat on her. It seems that she had lately decided that violating the very soul of marriage vows was slightly immoral, and had stopped letting the man touch the only parts of her he had any interest in. Hoping to remedy this by providing proof that her husband was doing the exact same thing as she, granted in different positions and with varying levels of enjoyment, the man had come to the Turks.
After all, he said, they said they would do anything for a price.
Rude had flat out insisted that Elena stay out of it, partially out of the typical possessive fiancee way of acting but mostly because the man and woman involved in this case happened to be her parents, a fact that he knew would both distress her terribly and make it impossible for her to seduce the male- at least in any sort of kind and decent world. Yuffie had reluctantly volunteered, even agreeing to set up the alcohol laden event that would trigger the act of infidelity, but the man with the briefcase had shaken her off.
It seemed that the staying man had a bit of a racist street. Wutains got him about as hot as an accountants love life.
In fact, the man had said, reflecting on his mistress for a moment, he seemed to have a thing for red heads.
Of course, Reno hadn't known any of this at the time. He had stumbled into the room about thirty seconds later, clutching a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a completely empty of carton of cigarettes, promising in slurs that he would do anything to make up for being late again.
***
"You're pretty," Yuffie commented, giving him a once over with an appraising eye. She went to circle around, only to have Reno spin around like he had been burnt, keeping his other side fully out of the ninjas view. She thought about asking about it- after all, he handed out snapshots of his ass as Christmas gifts- but decided that when you tried to cram something like that into a sequined dress it was a whole different ball park.
"Screw you," Reno muttered in response.
"Oh, please do," the princess continued to gush, "I promise I wont tell any of my friends about it. Ill let everyone think you were untouchable, really. I just wanna get close to some of that hot-"
"-don't make me kill you," was the hissing cut off.
"Hmpf," she tried to sound a lot snippier than she felt, "ice queen. Tease. Your tits are fake anyway."
The assassin glanced irritably down at the two silicon sacs that had been wedged into the almost non-existent space between the front of his dress and his pectorals. "Yeah?" he asked, "Well so are yours!"
"Hey!" for the first time that Reno could remember, Yuffie sounded genuinely offended. "These aren't fake! Im just getting a little help."
"So I've noticed... a little hydro help."
"You wish you could wear a water bra this well, you tramp," Yuffie was back on the offensive, but Reno noticed a resentful glance downward as the Wutain spoke.
"Uh-huh," he mocked, "do you keep goldfish in there, like they do with those shoes?"
"Shut up."
"Do you have to avoid sparks?"
"Shut up!"
"Slosh, slosh, slosh..."
"SHUT UP!"
"Hey, now!"
Reno and Yuffie both jumped backwards, clutching at their throats in surprise as the voice broke them up from the intense square off they had become involved in. Yuffie waved with false shyness as Reno went to turn away, but both of them froze as they got a better look at the speaker. He was about twenty five, incredibly tanned, and seemed to have been ripped straight from the pages of an Abercrombie catalog, with dark chin stubble and light blonde hair. He was also the exact man, out of hundreds, who they had hoped to find.
"Now I don't want to get involved where I'm not wanted," he said with a carelessness that required incredible concentration, "but two beautiful ladies such as yourselves shouldn't be fighting on such a great night as this. Would either of you like a drink?"
His warm request was greeted with icy silence. After a moment of awkward pause, Yuffie looked over at Reno and kicked him in the leg, away from the man's view. This was working out so perfectly and here he was playing statue, completely ignoring the advances of the unfaithful husband. "I'm sorry," she said sweetly as a way to fill the pause, "but I'm engaged. Christine here is single though."
In wars, soldiers would throw themselves on top of grenades to save their fellow soldiers. Yuffie Kisaragi had just kicked a live bomb into Reno's lap.
"Reeeeally?" the man was practically purring now, as he leaned closer to Reno's ear. Grimacing, the Turk turned his head away, not believing that he was chickening out but at the same time completely unwilling to resist the urge to do so. "Well, we'll just have to do something about that, won't we?"
"I..." Reno choked, somewhere deep in the back of his throat. His body was producing bile, it seemed, at mach speed. "I guess..."
"Oh do you?" the lips that spoke were way too close for comfort now, and now the alcohol tainted organs were pressing up against Reno's neck, tasting perfume mixed with sweat and oddly- to him, anyway- what seemed to be aftershave. It tasted good, however, and for a brief second he thought sparks were literally flying- a bright white flash passed briefly over his vision, but then disappeared, and quickly left his inebriated mind.
Off to the side, Yuffie tucked the micro-camera that was her neckless neatly back in between her breasts, noticing with dismay that there actually was a slight sloshing sound. She considered simply leaving with her film, dumping the difficult duty of extricating himself from this situation squarely on Reno, but something stopped her. Sisterly bonding, she reasoned. "Actually," she piped in, watching Reno's eyes and wondering if she'd actually be able to tell if he tried to black himself out, "she does have a boyfriend that should be coming any sec-"
"Yeah." The voice that cut her off was not a pleasant one, still lustful but quickly replacing the old charm with determination. "I'm sure."
The kiss began to travel upward, leaving wet streaks across the flesh of the red headed Turk. "Uh," Reno managed to squeak, his voice high not out of choice but more blind terror, "I think she's right... I really should... hey, come on!"
Yuffie was stunned. She had seen Reno kill a man because he had almost stepped on his shoes in the park, and he was letting this drunk asshole feel him up? Something about a dress, she sighed, seemed to make people natural victims.
"Let me go!" Reno cried out, finally finding a bit of strength to his voice, but the man simply gripped him tightly by both shoulders.
"Shut up, bitch," he snarled, "you know you want this."
Even as he spoke, however, his expression changed. Maybe it was the thin layer of hair that was already trying to grow back in on Reno's upper lip. Maybe it was the steely biceps he had felt under the soft arms of the dress. Maybe it was the Wutain girl to his right, rearing back like a professional boxer and decking him cleanly across the forehead.
The world may never know. Thoroughly unconscious, the man himself was not talking.
Not remotely interested in the condition of her target- Yuffie hadn't thrown a punch in years that had failed to put someone's lights out- the princess instead checked on her ruffled partner in crime, who was hastily pulling his skewed dress tightly around him. "What a creep," he managed in a scandalized voice.
"Aw, honey," Yuffie said, bizarrely unsure whether or not she was kidding. "Men are pigs."
Hoping to avoid the gathering crowd, she signaled to Reno and walked away, hoping to get the both of them out of public eye. Reno, however, seemed to need something to steel his nerves as he fished around inside his dress. From it he drew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, which- when logically placed together- produced a glowing ember at the end of a thin white cancer stick. Biting his bottom lip, Reno stooped over and promptly put out the freshly lit nicotine tube on the face of the unconscious man, who let out only a slight groan at the burning.
His job done, Reno tossed away the cigarette and stalked away. Despite continued limping, he was treading quickly with determination. He reached the doors of the party and turned back for just a second to glance at the still form of his assailant.
"Fresh," he spit out, an closed the door behind him.
(Basically, Pip and I did one of those story exchange deals, where you get to ask for a bunch of incredibly weird objects to be placed into a story. The result was this, which just seemed to ring so incredibly with the same tone as the rest of File This I figured Id add this on. Think of it as happening somewhere before the last two chapters)
Click, click, click, click, click...
The crisp sound of suede on linoleum rang out time and time again as the lone figure made its way across the crowded room. There's something about parties that drives people insane, some strange and unknown X-factor that replaces common sense with an extreme feeling of masochism. In normal, every day life, we all know certain things. They are called facts of life. Things like 'don't like the floor', and 'for the love of God stop having a staring contest with the sun'. Those are just two of thousands. A third is that while walking, flat surfaces are best. You do not walk on rocks when you can avoid it. You especially do not walk on knives.
So why, pray tell, do parties cause people to add spikes right to the bottom of their feet?
Click, click, click...
"Ow, ow, ow..." with each step the figure hurt just a little bit more, its toes grinding further down into the pointed tips of the red high heels, its ankles rolling a little bit to either side with every wavering strut. For a brief second it stumbled, but the nearest single man in a business suit was all to happy to step in and stop the fall, somehow accomplishing that feat without ever looking away from the figures amply bulging chest. Before he can glance up past the throat and to the eyes- an act, to be fair, which would have taken him hours- the figure has scurried off with a small wave of thanks, cursing under its breath about the subtle but firm grope that had been placed on its thigh.
This was hell, or at least a very accurate representation. The figure glanced around with tearing eyes, looking for some ally, some bastion of sanity in this sea of pretense and presentation. Instead, it found Yuffie Kisaragi.
Though her mood was currently thousand times better than that of the figure, you would never be able to tell from her expression. The princess heir of Wutai had decided a long time ago that the only expression she would ever wear at a party would simply be varying levels of scowls, and she had managed to stick to that decision since she had been drug to her first celebration ball at six. The fact of the matter was, she actually found this particular party rather pleasant, since coming from the influential position of having thrown it she had all her favorite foods and music around to keep her in good spirits.
Nothing cheered her as much, however, as the limping form heading towards her. Its earrings hung loosely, its makeup looking like it had been applied by several hookers at once, its dress was about two sizes too small and its ankles... well, they were swelling rapidly to the size of grape fruits. The incredible amount of leg that was showing revealed several cuts ranging from nicks to chainsaw attacks, the product of the latest shaving attempt. Over all, a truly withering display.
"Hey Turkey," Yuffie said with a grin so wide it should be in toothpaste commercials, "looking
good."
From behind blood colored lipstick, the red head snarled at her like a wild animal. It was bad enough that he had to suffer the general indignity of going into public dressed this way, but to do it in front of his greatest rival just added poisoned icing to the hell cake. "Shove it, bitch," he snapped, gesturing towards the plastic nails that had been glued onto his real ones, "or I'll scratch your damn eyes out."
***
It had been almost a week ago when a man who looked almost entirely, but not quite, unlike Rufus Shinra had marched into the Turk offices like he owned the place. Only after the intrusion had been answered with the usual hail of bullets that the man had, surprisingly, survived was Tseng willing to talk with him, and even so it had been terse at first. That was before the man produced a briefcase that he laid confidently on the nearest desk, flipping it open with the air of someone turning over a poker card.
One hundred thousand dollars in Gil.
All he wanted, he said, was for the Turks to catch the husband of his girlfriend trying to cheat on her. It seems that she had lately decided that violating the very soul of marriage vows was slightly immoral, and had stopped letting the man touch the only parts of her he had any interest in. Hoping to remedy this by providing proof that her husband was doing the exact same thing as she, granted in different positions and with varying levels of enjoyment, the man had come to the Turks.
After all, he said, they said they would do anything for a price.
Rude had flat out insisted that Elena stay out of it, partially out of the typical possessive fiancee way of acting but mostly because the man and woman involved in this case happened to be her parents, a fact that he knew would both distress her terribly and make it impossible for her to seduce the male- at least in any sort of kind and decent world. Yuffie had reluctantly volunteered, even agreeing to set up the alcohol laden event that would trigger the act of infidelity, but the man with the briefcase had shaken her off.
It seemed that the staying man had a bit of a racist street. Wutains got him about as hot as an accountants love life.
In fact, the man had said, reflecting on his mistress for a moment, he seemed to have a thing for red heads.
Of course, Reno hadn't known any of this at the time. He had stumbled into the room about thirty seconds later, clutching a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a completely empty of carton of cigarettes, promising in slurs that he would do anything to make up for being late again.
***
"You're pretty," Yuffie commented, giving him a once over with an appraising eye. She went to circle around, only to have Reno spin around like he had been burnt, keeping his other side fully out of the ninjas view. She thought about asking about it- after all, he handed out snapshots of his ass as Christmas gifts- but decided that when you tried to cram something like that into a sequined dress it was a whole different ball park.
"Screw you," Reno muttered in response.
"Oh, please do," the princess continued to gush, "I promise I wont tell any of my friends about it. Ill let everyone think you were untouchable, really. I just wanna get close to some of that hot-"
"-don't make me kill you," was the hissing cut off.
"Hmpf," she tried to sound a lot snippier than she felt, "ice queen. Tease. Your tits are fake anyway."
The assassin glanced irritably down at the two silicon sacs that had been wedged into the almost non-existent space between the front of his dress and his pectorals. "Yeah?" he asked, "Well so are yours!"
"Hey!" for the first time that Reno could remember, Yuffie sounded genuinely offended. "These aren't fake! Im just getting a little help."
"So I've noticed... a little hydro help."
"You wish you could wear a water bra this well, you tramp," Yuffie was back on the offensive, but Reno noticed a resentful glance downward as the Wutain spoke.
"Uh-huh," he mocked, "do you keep goldfish in there, like they do with those shoes?"
"Shut up."
"Do you have to avoid sparks?"
"Shut up!"
"Slosh, slosh, slosh..."
"SHUT UP!"
"Hey, now!"
Reno and Yuffie both jumped backwards, clutching at their throats in surprise as the voice broke them up from the intense square off they had become involved in. Yuffie waved with false shyness as Reno went to turn away, but both of them froze as they got a better look at the speaker. He was about twenty five, incredibly tanned, and seemed to have been ripped straight from the pages of an Abercrombie catalog, with dark chin stubble and light blonde hair. He was also the exact man, out of hundreds, who they had hoped to find.
"Now I don't want to get involved where I'm not wanted," he said with a carelessness that required incredible concentration, "but two beautiful ladies such as yourselves shouldn't be fighting on such a great night as this. Would either of you like a drink?"
His warm request was greeted with icy silence. After a moment of awkward pause, Yuffie looked over at Reno and kicked him in the leg, away from the man's view. This was working out so perfectly and here he was playing statue, completely ignoring the advances of the unfaithful husband. "I'm sorry," she said sweetly as a way to fill the pause, "but I'm engaged. Christine here is single though."
In wars, soldiers would throw themselves on top of grenades to save their fellow soldiers. Yuffie Kisaragi had just kicked a live bomb into Reno's lap.
"Reeeeally?" the man was practically purring now, as he leaned closer to Reno's ear. Grimacing, the Turk turned his head away, not believing that he was chickening out but at the same time completely unwilling to resist the urge to do so. "Well, we'll just have to do something about that, won't we?"
"I..." Reno choked, somewhere deep in the back of his throat. His body was producing bile, it seemed, at mach speed. "I guess..."
"Oh do you?" the lips that spoke were way too close for comfort now, and now the alcohol tainted organs were pressing up against Reno's neck, tasting perfume mixed with sweat and oddly- to him, anyway- what seemed to be aftershave. It tasted good, however, and for a brief second he thought sparks were literally flying- a bright white flash passed briefly over his vision, but then disappeared, and quickly left his inebriated mind.
Off to the side, Yuffie tucked the micro-camera that was her neckless neatly back in between her breasts, noticing with dismay that there actually was a slight sloshing sound. She considered simply leaving with her film, dumping the difficult duty of extricating himself from this situation squarely on Reno, but something stopped her. Sisterly bonding, she reasoned. "Actually," she piped in, watching Reno's eyes and wondering if she'd actually be able to tell if he tried to black himself out, "she does have a boyfriend that should be coming any sec-"
"Yeah." The voice that cut her off was not a pleasant one, still lustful but quickly replacing the old charm with determination. "I'm sure."
The kiss began to travel upward, leaving wet streaks across the flesh of the red headed Turk. "Uh," Reno managed to squeak, his voice high not out of choice but more blind terror, "I think she's right... I really should... hey, come on!"
Yuffie was stunned. She had seen Reno kill a man because he had almost stepped on his shoes in the park, and he was letting this drunk asshole feel him up? Something about a dress, she sighed, seemed to make people natural victims.
"Let me go!" Reno cried out, finally finding a bit of strength to his voice, but the man simply gripped him tightly by both shoulders.
"Shut up, bitch," he snarled, "you know you want this."
Even as he spoke, however, his expression changed. Maybe it was the thin layer of hair that was already trying to grow back in on Reno's upper lip. Maybe it was the steely biceps he had felt under the soft arms of the dress. Maybe it was the Wutain girl to his right, rearing back like a professional boxer and decking him cleanly across the forehead.
The world may never know. Thoroughly unconscious, the man himself was not talking.
Not remotely interested in the condition of her target- Yuffie hadn't thrown a punch in years that had failed to put someone's lights out- the princess instead checked on her ruffled partner in crime, who was hastily pulling his skewed dress tightly around him. "What a creep," he managed in a scandalized voice.
"Aw, honey," Yuffie said, bizarrely unsure whether or not she was kidding. "Men are pigs."
Hoping to avoid the gathering crowd, she signaled to Reno and walked away, hoping to get the both of them out of public eye. Reno, however, seemed to need something to steel his nerves as he fished around inside his dress. From it he drew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, which- when logically placed together- produced a glowing ember at the end of a thin white cancer stick. Biting his bottom lip, Reno stooped over and promptly put out the freshly lit nicotine tube on the face of the unconscious man, who let out only a slight groan at the burning.
His job done, Reno tossed away the cigarette and stalked away. Despite continued limping, he was treading quickly with determination. He reached the doors of the party and turned back for just a second to glance at the still form of his assailant.
"Fresh," he spit out, an closed the door behind him.