Weeks passed, and months. It seemed like so long. And the boy, would not heal. His care
taker could not understand it. He had repeatedly cast restorative magic on him, and still,
he would not heal.
His bones eventually repaired,
but as for the rest of his body, well, it remained ravaged. So ravaged in fact, he was
still too weak to do anything but walk four feet and then collapse. Either the
'interrogator,' which the boy referred to, had given him the most severe beating of all
beatings, or whatever horrors the Professor inflicted upon him were causing this distress
in his body, the caretaker could not figure out.
The boy rarely spoke. If he did,
it was about the interrogator or the keeper, both of whom he refused to call by name. In
fact, the caretaker doubted the boy even knew the interrogator's name. Ahh...a company of
nameless, faceless cronies to inflict pain. That's what we were all born for, eh?
The boy, (that was what the
Professor called him) was actually a man, and a very able looking man at that. It was
obvious he was strong, but his physical form had wasted away, giving him a gaunt look.
The caretaker glanced over at his
charge's painfully thin shape, lying asleep on the bed. That was actually the only time
the boy ever looked at peace. In slumber, his face lost its anger, confusion and fear, for
the drugs that the Professor inflicted upon him caused memory lapses and gaps in
knowledge. Sometimes, he stuttered and his eyes would roll back in his head, showing blank
white as if he were dead.
When those times, which had
become quite frequent, occurred, the caretaker could do nothing more than sit and watch.
Being who he was however, it was nothing horrible or new. Judging from his appearance, it
was obvious he was not some sort of soft spoken doctor. Given, he was a man of few words,
but adorned with a blue suit, sunglasses, a six foot two inch height and a nasty look, not
many had the gall to approach him. And that went for inside *and* outside of the company.
He was rarely with his charge as
frequently as he had first been, though he admired the boy to some degree. He remembered
being able to hear his screams of pain from the professor's laboratory, but now, the boy's
face barely moved. He still passed out, but being one of only 17, which the man had
finally gotten out of him, the feat was impressive. He was 20 himself, and although he too
was tone deaf to the world, this boy seemed to have been locked away from human contact
for a long time. If the caretaker spoke to him, he would give short, and sometimes
unintelligible, answers. He still didn't even know his name and he had been taking care of
him for approximately...what was it? Three months now?!
Three months, and the kid
wouldn't even give up his name. Or maybe, he really didn't have one.
He had to wonder what else the
sordid Professor used him for, however.
The boy, to be blunt, was not
ugly, and the Professor had a sort of reputation for his perverse fetishes. Then again,
although the boy was physically weak, he still, amazingly enough, had a strong will for
being locked up so long.
The caretaker had heard about his
incident with the 'interrogator.' The man had fumed, and fumed. It was the first thing to
make him chuckle in a long time.
On those rare occasions however,
when the boy was not delirious or stoic, he was one of the most insightful people that the
caretaker had ever met. Or at least, insightful to his own tastes. He had asked his
caretaker once, 'What's the point of having a name? If I'm going to die one day, then let
me be nameless. If I'm not, I'm gonna get outta this shit hole.'
He couldn't have said it better
himself.
Wall Market, the haven of the
decrepit.
The bar flashed, neon fluorescent
lights that blinded those who looked, although, many people where the caretaker stood
wanted to be blind, and senseless.
An old, rusted sign proclaimed in
a rather ghastly fashion above the door, 'Reno's Hell,' and inside resided the seediest
people in Midgar.
The caretaker was a regular.
He stepped inside, welcoming the
dark atmosphere like a security blanket. It washed over him as if it were the soothing
waters of the Lifestream, and perhaps in a sense it was, since it seemed so closely linked
to death itself. Murderers, killers, and prostitutes regularly hung around. It was a
place, where you could go for a night to be nameless and faceless. You could go and have
one night stands with wry smiles, cheap sex, cheap alcohol - cheap life.
He ignored the prostitutes, male
and female alike, that looked him up and down, not because they found him attractive. All
they saw was the suit, and what probably lay behind it - gil.
He sat in the corner, taking
leisurely sips of his drink. No one approached him. Even here, where Satan's angels
resided, he was feared.
The kid came to the caretaker's
mind, for some unknown reason. He wondered, with a mental wry grin, how the boy would get
along in a rough place like this. With that face, he'd be on the street selling himself in
a day.
'Somethin' funny?' an obnoxious
voice crowed.
The caretaker looked up,
expressionless. A man stood in front of him, obviously a pimp. From what he wore, who he
had around him, and the looks he received, he was almost as feared as the caretaker
himself.
Yes, even hell had its high and
low society.
The caretaker just stared, not
answering. The pimp, who stood menacingly in front of his corner, stared back.
Finally, he replied, 'No.'
'If I had a problem,' he added
mentally, 'you'd be dead.'
'Well, it looks like you do...'
He looked up incredulously. The
man wanted to start a fight.
'Do you know who I am?' the pimp
goaded on, trying to establish who was who.
'No.'
'Well, everyone else will when
they find your dead carcass lying in different pieces neatly arranged in each sector. So
who the hell are you?!' he spat.
'A Turk.'
The pimp almost dropped to the
floor. He stared, slack jawed, as the caretaker, or the Turk, stared back, frighteningly
silent.
'And you,' he continued, 'will
soon be nonexistent if you do not remove yourself from my vicinity.'
The pimp stared dumbly, too
shocked to move.
'You have two seconds.'
Two seconds passed, and the pimp
finally started to back away.
'Do you wish to continue this?'
The pimp shook his head, wide
eyed.
However, as he started for the
door, he mumbled, 'You'll get yours, damn Turk.' The caretaker, was not a violent man off
duty. He preferred, in fact, to remain silent and inside his own head, and unless there
was a threat, he would rather argue something than resort to violence. However, this, he
considered a threat. The man was a well known pimp, and Alexander only knew what
connections the bastard had.
He neatly received a bullet in
the back of his head, silenced, and fell dead, while the bar was engulfed in screams.
The caretaker calmly walked out.
'...but he killed him, sir. Shot,
clean in the head.'
A voice rambled on, frantically,
trying to establish some goal.
'And?'
'ShinRa will be blamed, sir!'
'He shot him...in the head?'
'Yes, sir! Shot clean. There
wasn't even any blood.'
'Do me a favor.'
'Yes, sir?!' the voice replied
excitedly, obviously expecting a reward for his betrayal of information.
'Congratulate him on his
marksmanship.'
There was the sharp stab of feet
walking toward the boy's door as he heard another softer padded walk go in the other
direction. The click of a key guard, and to the boy's horror, the interrogator himself
stood in the doorway.
'Well, nameless, we shall see.'
The boy looked at him, no idea to
his mind what he referred to.
He braved a response. 'See what?'
He changed his reply, 'See what,
*sir*?'
The interrogator looked at him,
surprised.
'Learned some respect, I see?
Well, well...the nameless does have some brains after all.'
The boy knew better than reply.
'For a reward, I will tell you,
what we shall see. We shall see,' he said, blowing a cloud of smoke into the room that
wafted through stale air, 'what you can withstand.'
The boy, usually looking fearful,
simply stared back at his torturer.
'Yes, sir,' he replied in a
sarcastic voice.
The interrogator choked on his
cigarette, spitting smoke everywhere. He marched up so fast the boy had no time to react,
and stabbed his lit cigarette into the boy's face.
'Are you getting cocky?' he
demanded, letting his flaming cigarette smolder out until it died in the boy's flesh.
Another blemish marred the boy's
cheek, and he could feel his eyes tear. He would not let them fall however. It was from
the pain, and the bitter anguish, the resentment... but he couldn't let go.
'No,' he whispered.
'Good. You've fouled my mood,
nameless. We'll save the tests for another day,' and with that, stalked out of the room.
When he was gone, the boy finally
let himself collapse onto the bed, and for the first time he could remember, let his tears
fall freely. He didn't sob, he didn't sniffle, he simply let the tears silently run down
his face. He lay on his side facing the wall, silently fighting them off...the cigarette
burn ignited fresh pain.
He heard footsteps. The
interrogator...back again for another round of wits, with a fresh cigarette no doubt.
He curled up into a ball,
awaiting some sort of strike or knife wound inflicted upon him. Not receiving any, he
cautiously turned around.
The caretaker saw a sight that
disturbed him. The boy, who he'd never seen show hardly any emotion, had tears running
down his face, with a neat round burn that freshly smoldered.
His eyes widened, and he
immediately turned back around and ignored the caretaker's presence.
The caretaker however, was for
once in his life, at a loss for words.
Without a sound, he crossed the
hallway, entering the cell again with fresh medical supplies. The boy was still curled
into a ball.
'Turn around,' he said, firmly.
He hated it when people cried...he couldn't deal with it. The boy did turn around, his
eyes still full of tears.
'I don't want sympathy,' he
whispered harshly.
'Well, I don't give sympathy.'
He expected the boy to recoil at
that rebuff, but to his slight shock, the boy actually appeared to be considering the
insult as a proposition.
Seemingly satisfied, he nodded,
blinked away his tears, and replied,
'Fine.'
He couldn't help it. He just
couldn't help, but smile. Yes, the cold killer and unlikely caretaker did have a smile.
And the boy stared incredulously.
'What?'
For once he had caught this
enigma off guard.
'You...'
'Smiled?'
'Yes. I didn't think you....did?'
'Well, I do.'
The boy was still staring.
'Now, let me clean up that
wound,' he replied to his blank look, noting the boy had something that looked like humour
in his eyes.
Without any further resistance,
he nodded. By the time he was finished, the wound was somewhat healed with the assistance
of a cure materia and a bandage. He couldn't help but ask in this rare time of true
communication, 'What's your name?'
'I told you, I don't have one,'
he replied icily.
'Do you want one?'
The boy looked up at this,
looking as if he was the Devil offering him fruit from the tree of Wisdom in the garden of
Eden.
Finally, he slightly nodded.
'Okay...'
The caretaker thought. He wasn't
good at this kind of thing...naming some experimental boy who the Professor favored as a
specimen? To each, their own, he supposed.
'How about...Reno?'
The boy nodded slowly.
'Reno...my name is, ... Reno.'
For the first time in the entire
period that the caretaker had known him, the boy smiled. He had a bright smile, something
unexpected from him. But it was gone within a moment's grasp.
'Well, Reno... I'll see you
later.'
The boy, or Reno, nodded. No more
talking for that day he supposed. But then again, at least the boy had received a name.
And unbeknownst to the caretaker's knowledge, he had ignited a will that had begun to go
out.
'Reno,' the boy smiled to
himself.
