Starring: Tifa Lockheart, Bart Fatima, Reno Date of Log:  April 20th, 2001 Location: Midgar Slums. These last few days have gotten very very odd for Bart. First he had flying lessons from Sephiroth, and after that he was snatched off Balamb Isle and brought here to be sold into slavery. Hey, he's the kind of person they'd grab for those Upper Plate decadents. Sungold hair, intensely blue eyes, angelic beauty, yeah. Just the type the Midgarians up there love to grab, sully and destroy in their lust for pleasures. Lucky for Bart, they underestimated him and he was able to get free from them and run for it. There's a problem now, however. He's lost. The slums seem never ending, he doesn't have his whips with him and on top of that, this place smells horrid. >.< Ah what he'd give to be back at Yggridsil II, in the scent of the desert and under the warmth of the sun and not these blasted mako lights. That and Sigurd must be freaking out by now. u.u But, anyway, along comes someone who does not seem to fit in at all, skin too tanned to have been under Mako lights for long, eyes too bright for for those under the plates whose hopes and dreams are broken under the ShinRa machine. Just the type some gang thugs would love to take advantage of. The lights are indeed rather unpleasant - but not impossible to live under, as one of the more recent arrivals to this benighted little region of the blasted heath of Midgar has learned. Why exactly she was brought here, of all places, to be healed - she doesn't understand. But then, it's doubtful that even then, Zangan could have leapt up to the top plate. Probably not even in his hearty youth. But, that's neither here nor there. Tifa, not too unusual in the slum's masses, walks her way back towards the bar with a bag slung over her shoulder and a purposeful expression. She'd gone scrounging through Wall Market for fresh consumables; even if it's usually a bit old, vegetables are always good to go with burgers. Meat is easier to find than good veggies - after all, a cow doesn't spoil until you kill it, and can be lead just about anywhere, but vegetables have to be harvested from where they grow. But without a little of both, you get terminal clogging of the pipes, as momma back home would have put it. For someone who has spent his life as a desert pirate, these lights are enough to drive him insane if he has to stay under them much longer. He's been wary since getting here, since his main weapon of protection is not with him. It's good though, if he were to lose his father's whip... Sigurd would so kill him, if he didn't kill himself first for it. But, upon looking up and spotting the groceries bearing lass, he changes his course slightly to intercept her. "Excuse me, Miss..." though he smiles, it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He's been here nearly twelve hours now and hasn't slept, beyond however long he was drugged to be dragged to this Byakko forsaken city. "How does one get out of here...?" Heh, imagine his surprise to learn there is no way out. Once you're in Midgar, you don't get to leave again if you're a slum dweller. That'll go over real well. Well... it's not easy, but presumably there -are- ways to get out. You just have to steal a truck and fight a few boss battles and win a fairly straightforward minigame. - Er, uh, that is to say... Tifa blinks a little as she's intercepted - gosh, why would she ever catch someone's eye? Nothing distinctive about HER - to turn her head, listening for a moment to the man. .. "You're new, hmmm?" she says, relatively gently, glancing over at the sullen wretches of scum and villainy for a moment. "It's not really a good idea to talk here," she says after looking the other way as well, making a quick and discret sort of gesture towards the slums proper. "C'mon, I'll explain it when we get there," whereever THERE is. "Er, yeah, you could say that," Bart replies, sounding somewhat sheepish about it. Brand new, that's for sure and he's not about to tell her what happened to bring him here, either. The braid he keeps that long sungold hair plainted in is pulled over his shoulder and tugged lightly. A nervous habit, one might say. Nodding, he falls in behind the girl in the skirt that's way too short, following her through the grimey 'streets' to wherever she appears to be going. Not as if he doesn't have the time for it, since otherwise he's just going to continue to wander around, totally lost. Trusting, isn't he? Doesn't even question where she's leading him or anything, could be a trap for all he knows. Well, can't blame him, he's not Midgarian and he was raised in a setting where no one had ulterior motives (well, except the Shakhan planted moles, but that's another story). Hey, speaking of the sullen wretches of scum and villainy... Waitaminnut, waitaminnut, whoever said Reno was sullen? The Turk is actually more pensive than sullen, the expression he wears lending toward reclusive, and not exactly an uncommon one; the young man has a problem with either thinking too much or thinking too little, with scarce enough middle ground to keep him from completely tipping the bucket. He arrives in the usual silence, going unharassed by the locals who usually know better than to pay him notice, except at the most inopportune of times, except the quiet is marred by one thing: a can. The Turk shuffles his step, a beat-up soda pop can the object of his current consideration, kicking it forward, striding forward a few steps, kicking it again, and so on. Upon occasion it strikes one of the piles of refuse steel with a striking clang, only to be shied away from the interrupting metal to be kicked further down the path. Shuffle shuffle. Kick. Tifa, to Bart's great good fortune, is not a person with malign motives - they do exist! They're even the majority! They just aren't the overwhelming majority, as they are in - oh - everywhere else, really. The man playing kick-the-can even though, well, he's much too OLD to be doing such a thing, gets an odd look from the brunette. Hm.. something about him looks slightly familiar, she guesses, inwardly remembering being shown blurry photographs. Hrm. "How long have you been here?" she asks Bart, followed, after a somewhat considerate pause, "Do you have much in the way of money?" She doesn't phrase it as a threat, naturally. It's gotta be that luck junction Badb so graciously provides, making sure the boy doesn't run into ill intentioned people while he's here. So no wonder he didn't stop to talk to anyone before he saw Tifa. Hey, the crow looks out for her chosen. He looks up as questions are asked, shoulders slumping a little as he replies, "Just a few hours, I think. And no... I didn't really come here of my own free will." He hadn't actually thought about that, yet. He just thought he'd hop out of here and try flying home (provided he could actually achieve lift off and then find his way home). The sound of the can is what gets the prince's attention to look over in that direction, but he doesn't know Reno or his reputation or what Turks are even. So, there is no incentive for him to be afraid or even anymore wary than he is now. He just looks back toward Tifa again and says, "By the way, my name is Bart. I don't have anything I can offer, really, but if you could just show me how to get out of here..." The only thing of value on him is the signet ring and he'll die or sell his own body before giving that up. Kick the can is a game for all ages. Sorta like checkers, except it requires less brain power and more foot-eye coordination. Reno's concentrating rather carefully on not kicking the can in such a fashion that it goes airborn and introduces itself to his skull. That would not be a particularly pleasant highlight of his usually unpleasant day. Paying the pair about as much attention as they pay him - an idle glance upward, then nothing more - Reno would continue on his way if the scuffed toe of his shoe hadn't struck the can in such a way that it does indeed go airborn -- though, much to the scruffy Turk's relief, it doesn't clonk HIM on the head. It merely sails, enjoying its brief moment of flight, before it turns kamikaze and divebombs into the dirt again with a rising of dust in its wake. The significance of this action is that its landing place ends up being at the pair's feet, hop-skidding to collide with the closest boot before rolling off at an odd angle like a drunkard ricocheting off a wall he's been introduced, wobblingly. "Eh. 'Scuse me." Tifa blinkblinks again, looking over at Reno strangely. Hm - he must be one of those burnouts or weirdos... all sorts of drugs in the slums, naturally. Some people even eat materia, she's heard, which strikes her as.. well... as they said back in Nibelheim, 'crazier than a shithouse rat', although that doesn't make much sense when you think about it. "It's all right," she assures Captain Scruffy of the First Inebriated Infantry, before looking over at Bart and lowering her voice a little. "Shh! It's okay, I'll try and help you out. Um - you may have to wash some dishes, though," she adds, eyes crinkling a bit in faint amusement. "Just to earn your keep and all. Ah... hm. Where are you from?" With that tan, it must be somewhere to the south, she figures. Logical. Sensible. Probably wrong. Reno gets a bit more of a glance this time, as it appears to be Bart's boot that the aforementioned can tumbles against before being knocked aside idly. Not on purpose, just a reflex. However, at Tifa's shushing, he falls rather quietly, looking back at the Turk again as if he felt she was doing it because of his presence. Oh. He wrinkles his nose at her for the idea of washing dishes, but hey, anything to get -out- of here. "Sure," he replies with a nod, lowering his voice to match the boxing girl's. "I'm from Sairou." And that's actually the truth. Hasn't been in Balamb long enough to really call it 'home'. Not south, persay, but definitely warm country there. Of course, he's starting to get the impression he's gonna be around here a little longer than he thought he was going to be. u.u *sigh* Aquamarine eyes flick after the can as its course is redetermined by the blonde's reflexes, then lift to the aforementioned, peering at Bart. He... kicked his can. Without permission! ... Nah, Reno doesn't really care. He looks up because it seemed the logical thing to do, and quirks a red eyebrow at the youth mildly, gaze straying toward Tifa as she addresses him. His lips pull into a grin, flashing teeth briefly as he proffers the crooked expression, then falling again into a neutral countenance, blue-green eyes half-lidding in recognition as the pair's voices lower accordingly. "Heh..." Regardless of whether the action was a direct result of his presence or not, Reno takes it as such, and considers moving on his merry way - but it seems he's lost his can. Blink-blink. "Where the..." It's a silly imperative, but Reno wants to find the can. There's a bottle nearby that he could certainly try kicking, but bottles have a bad habit of breaking if kicked too hard, and getting clonked upside the head is far peachier a concept then getting a faceful of glass. And kicking the can gives him an odd sense of purpose. Can he kick it all the way to the Sector Eight bar? Can he? --he won't find out if he can't find that can. Reno needs a better way to occupy his time in between assignments. Having walked away a few paces, the Turk looks back over his shoulder and directs toward the bartender and her golden-haired companion, specifically the latter, "Hey, kid, where'd you kick it to?" Tifa looks at Bart, and then at Reno, before biting her lower lip to stifle a giggle. Kid, huh? This from captain shorty. But, Tifa being a helpful little barmaid, she lifts up a hand to point over towards some random small heap of detritus, saying "I think it went there..." Not, of course, that Reno would care. However, he seems to be a harmless little crack-monkey, even if he does keep stirring those vague 'This guy looks familiar' memories... argh... Jessie was showing her these darn photos, and... No, he's not that grim guy with the dot on his head, the one who was always hanging around the receptions upstairs.. Her expression turns a bit sour as she racks her po' little brain for this memory. Stupid GF! ... wait, she doesn't use the GF. Darn! c.c So much for that excuse. "I'm not a kid," comes the reply from Bart immediately, a little ire making the boy stand a little straighter. Doesn't help that he's already possessing a regal bearing (blame Maison for that one). But, Bart is an impulsive and impetuous youth and he's had enough of people calling him 'boy' and 'kid' and ... well, other things, too, but he doubts anyone would know to call him 'Your Majesty' here. Thank goodness. So, Reno just happened to trip the sunhaired youth's trigger for a moment of indignity. But, the end result is that the scruffy haired Turk just gets glared at and Bart just refuses to tell him where he kicked the can to. Not that he knows, he wasn't really paying attention where it went off too. "Shouldn't have kicked it at me if you wanted to keep track of it." And he just keeps digging himself deeper. x.x But, at least he shuts up after that, letting Tifa attempt to point it out, though who knows where it really went. The term, dear lady, is 'vertically challenged.' And besides, for all you know, he could just be another one of those sops that have a bad habit of passing out in a corner of your bar. Which he might have done so anyway without realizing it. Crack-monkey? Him? Reno glances in the implied direction that Tifa points out to him, nodding once vaguely for all he doesn't see the can - and won't, because Bart's tone of voice makes him the center of the Turk's attention again. A level gaze is focused upon the youth, and the glare that he recieves in turn makes Reno's red brows arch high toward his hairline, boosting his sunglasses a few centimeters with the expression. Certainly Bart is taller than Reno, for the Turk's height isn't terribly impressive, but he recognizes youth when he sees it. That doesn't stop the Turk from taking a step forward though, hands left in his pockets, an expression that somehow combines bland curiosity and a wry sort of amusement fixing itself upon the red-headed slob's face. He lifts a hand briefly to adjust the shades over his brow, mako-light glinting in the opaque lenses, and eyes Bart narrowly. "Don't get your panties in a twist. I was just askin' a question. Does that pose a problem that I can't apparently figure out?" Tifa oh dears silently to herself; this doesn't bode well, not one little bit, oh no sir. >.< She opens her mouth to try and suggest that Bart not antagonize the small, wiry man, but, clearly, it's too late. So her mouth closes with a faint click of teeth. Hmf, fine then. Teach her to help! "Please, sir, it's really not that important," she says quietly, trying to give Reno a proper bit of ego-snuggling so that he'll go away and not start a fight. Eesh, a fight, that'll be JUST what they all need. Of course, it's doubtful that it'd be noticed much, but she still isn't that fond of, you know, having things go that way. "No..." the sunhaired youth responds somewhat warily. He doesn't know people around here, after all, but Sigurd always said he didn't have any ability to just keep his mouth shut when he should. "Just should watch what you call people." Badb is present, too, watching through her chosen's eyes. The braid swings of it's own accord, slinking off his shoulder to sway back and forth against the bright red jacket, *swish, swish* Yes, the crow is not pleased with how things are going and is currently advising Bart not to pick a fight, she can't stand that sort of thing. So, it appears as though he's going to just let it go, looking back at Tifa now rather than continuing any other pointless arguing with the scruffy haired man. "Sorry," he offers to the boxing girl quietly. Didn't mean to cause trouble, really. n.nV Bart's just intrepid, that's all. (Just not too smart about it.) --and Reno hrmphs softly. With his luck of late of picking fights, between getting a gang rounded upon him, then unleashing a nastybad demon from the pits of God Knows Where<TM>, he's not too anxious to pick a fight either. One would hope that the third time's the charm, but this isn't business, and there isn't any Ancients running around underfoot - and furthermore, it doesn't look like it'll be the third time anyway. He doesn't have the energy to be amused by this, so the Turk merely shakes his head at them both, a hand dismissing the issue silently before slipping beneath his ragged, knotty ponytail to rub at the back of his neck absentmindedly. Bah. While a fistfight wouldn't have been particularly pleasant, the Turk does enjoy the occasional pissing contest, and having it cut off so abruptly by... well, /manners/ is rather disappointing. Damn nice people. Being polite and all. However, Bart's choice of phrases is worded appropriately enough to provoke the Turk to press the issue, not quite willing to let them go yet. Certainly social interaction can be more interesting than a one-man game of kick the can, right? Both hands again in his pocket, he shuffles forward, eyeing them both now in turn - Bart, then Tifa, then Bart again. Joy upon joys, the two have garnered the /Turk's/ attention. They should be so honored. "So what's the alternative?" To 'kid.' Faded amusement shows in ocean-green eyes. Tifa palms her face quietly, and closes her eyes for a moment. Great. Just, wonderful, great terrific yay. She goes shopping, finds some poor young thing from outside the slums who needs help, and now they run into Captain Shorty, who's getting promoted from Captain to Major in the ranks of the Irritant Army - Major Asshole, naturally. But, such is life. "Please," she says rather mutedly, "Just let it go..." But, she takes a half step or two away, letting herself fall into a incrementally more 'ready' stance, for when actual trouble -does- start. Of course, she'll likely get rod-slapped. (How phallic is -that-?) But such is the life of a barmaid. You know, it takes a lot for Bart to just turn around and walk away after that, but with Badb's urging to let it go, he puts some effort into it, though the back of his jacket is noticably torn in two spots, slits it looks like and clinging to one of them is a long, white feather that pulls free and drifts to the grimey ground of the slums, slowly swirling in eddies of ether before fading away like smoke. Odd? Yes. And you thought you'd seen enough lately, Reno. Tsk, you should know by now that the Slums boast some really weird things. The boy's fists clench, jaw set stubbornly though he won't turn to look at Reno. Best that he doesn't. Well, at least until he sees the girl's stance. You know, he doesn't even know her name yet and here he is possibly getting her into trouble. So, he takes in a deep breath and turns that crystal blue gaze toward the scruffy haired man, "No alternative, I guess. Call me what you want." Oh that was so not easy. -.- Should just whoop on the guy! (Heh, he /so/ has no idea who he's dealing with.) "Hey, let's get outta here," he says in a softer tone to Tifa, then. At least get her out of here so she doesn't end up a focus of yon Turk. With neither turning to face him, Reno takes the hint and grins at their backs with another shake of his head, dirty bangs brushing crimson fingertips over his mounted shades. He doesn't, however, push it any farther than that. Instead, a roughly appreciated chuckle emits, for Reno takes amusement from the boy's response, and not just because he admires flippancy when proffered alongside self-control. He has a private running joke with himself that follows the lines the permanent anonymouty, and the boy just technically stole his act. You'd never know to look at the Turk's face that he'd just watched a feather float through the air and vanish like dust against a breeze. He's gotten good at pretending to be used to all of this insanity. "Anything but late to dinner, right?" he remarks lamely, but at least in full knowledge of how bad a response it was, and it was partially to himself anyway, tone lowered a touch as he considers their backs through lidded eyes. Tifa didn't earn a response, though now that braid-boy has turned his attention towards her again, Reno does the same. The young lady is stared at blatantly, but without malice or underlying intention that usually comes with staring at a woman of unquestionable build: her face, as well as Bart's, are put to memory, not yet because Reno thinks he should, but out of habitual paranoia that goes hand-in-hand with being a sullen wretch of scum and villainy. The weight of the Turk's regard is a rather palpable thing for as long as it lasts; then he looks away, feet wandering in turn, and Reno ends up staring at the piles of refuse. Where /did/ that can go anyway?

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