bart7

Don't you love these assignments, Reno? You were told to find a certain blonde haired youth in Midgar by the name of Prince Bartolomei Fatima (who might be under an alias, though they don't know what sort, helpful, isn't it?). Like there aren't a million of them already in Midgar. Well, they gave you more details than that, such as height, weight, blue eyes (described as intense, almost inhumanly so), long blonde hair usually worn in a braid. Someone showed you a sketch (they never were able to get a picture of him, slippery devil that he is), and it really resembles that kid you ran across with the barmaid, if you remember him at all. Your job? Find and capture him, alive. Why? You're not told that. After all, you're on a need to know basis and-- you don't need to know.
Searching back through the slums, you'll find that he's not with the barmaid anymore. Tracking him further you'd find that someone saw him leaving the city via one of the hatches about five minutes ago. He was with a girl, and she's the Cetra you've been after, ooooooh happy day! But, sadly, by the time you get there, the flower girl isn't there anymore, the area is quiet and yon prince you're chasing apparently has already disappeared through yon hatch. Doesn't that just bite? Now, gonna give chase and make sure he doesn't leave the wasteland or tell everyone you failed at finding him?

Happy Happy, Joy Joy! Reno might kill two birds with one stone, score one point with blondie and two with that rascally Ancient. Is he enthused?-- Hell frickin' no! The only good thing that might come of this is that if in the slight, slight chance he actually SUCCEEDS in this venture, whereas he's managed to botch up all the rest of late, is he might get some vacation time if he wraps up both assignments simultaneously. Though the thought does motivate some haste into the Turk's pace, ultimately the red-head admits that he's fooling himself and deals with this with his usual cynicism. Another day, another gil. Another wild goose chase through Midgar as Reno pursues a description that could be anyone under the sun -- or plate, as it were.
That he recognizes the boy depicted in the drawing only serves to remind Reno of the irony of life. And in realizing that he's lost the Cetra, the Turk only grimaces thinly, the callused digits that are pale for lack of light to proffer his complexion any sort of color aside from sickly poking through fingerless gloves to flex around the handle of his baton, reaffirming his grip. He hadn't placed much stock in the hope by then, and thus isn't terribly upset now. It just means he has all the more reason now to get the job over with quickly.
Thus it goes without saying that Reno follows. With a soft grunt as the sun-hued mane of hair has already vanished through the hatch, the Turk retracts his baton with a shnnk of metal and stuffs it in his pocket for the timebeing before darting forward, fingers forming fists as his arms move in succession with his legs to keep a regular, but quick pace. Oh Goldilocks... o/~

Oh the boy hasn't actually gotten far, with a pack slung over one shoulder, given to him by Aerith, he's about fifty yards into the wasteland already, and doesn't look like he's about to stop. And how in the name of whatever god you feel like cursing is he moving that fast, anyway? The ground at his feet is even rising in tides of dust behind him. Inhuman all right, they didn't tell you about this, wasn't that nice of them? They didn't know about it, but that's besides the point.
Bart has no idea that Shakhan has managed to track him to Midgar. Hell, he has no idea that anyone realizes he's even alive. Prince Bartolomei is dead, officially, after all. All he wants to do is get home again and since he doesn't trust the wings to carry him too far, he's using Badb's speed junction to at least get him through the Wasteland and after that, well, he'll punt, as he told Aerith. He's not running, at least, for if he was it'd be nigh impossible to catch him on foot. But he's walking awfully damn fast, just trying to reserve some energy in case one of the wandering gangs of this place see him and think he's a target. Aerith warned him about it, so for once he's trying to be cautious.

Reno needs no God to curse; a gutteral, "Fuck," will do just nicely. It's a soft sound, like a whisper, but with the harshness of a growl underlying, as if the Turk would have rather spat the foul syllable than spoken it. "That's peachy," emphasizes the Turk's displeasure. The boy's not running, but Reno recognizes what he reasons to be a Haste spell immediately, if only by the dust and the sheer rapid fluidity of his movements, even if the capabilities of the spell don't appear to be being used in their full capacity. His understanding of Guardian Forces is groggy and untapped, and like everything else about the youth, he doesn't know the desert Prince has one to begin with. Smart, though, he has to give the kid that: if you gotta take the Wastes by foot, might as well do it with a Haste spell in place. The Turk would make a note to keep it in mind next time he has to do the same, but he usually gets transportation for the rare instances he's stationed outside of the city. Not that he has such right now. Yay Shin-Ra. Providing everything EXCEPT the bare essentials.
If Reno wants to get this done, however, he really shouldn't be standing around like an idiot. The Turk starts up his pace again without any REAL hurry; he just wants to close the distance significantly enough so that the boy falls within range of a Materia spell - which, unless Bart sees him, shouldn't be too difficult, he tells himself. Although he doesn't have to, since cloth doesn't get in the way of spell casting, Reno rolls up a sleeve, military-issued bangle glinting in the dull illumination proffered by the glowing orbs set in the silver metal. Reno could cast a Haste upon himself to make the odds more even, but he likes the idea of bringing the youth down to his level first rather than rising to meet his. Heh.
Feet slap against the dirt rather ungracefully. It won't be an obvious sound until Reno's caught up to the Prince, but with any luck - which the Turk has grown used to not having - it'll be too late by then. Skidding to a halt with sudden abruptness, his aquamarine eyes thin, focus - and energy swells suddenly from behind Bartolomei Fatima as a shower of emerald and yellow crescents upward in a suggestion of epitomized chronology, the melodic dink-donk sounding in the air like the beat of a lightweight drum only a few scant seconds after the Turk has called out, gravelly voice raised in identification: "Slow!"

Sadly, Bart isn't thinking to look -behind- him rather than ahead of him and the warning that Badb raises with a ruffle of feathers and a definite sqwauk isn't heard until it's too late, anyway. He whirls around just in time for that Slow spell to take effect, feeling the junction effectively nullified to leave him at normal human speed again. The braid sways with the motion of his torso and then the rest of him twisting around, swishing against the back of the slashed red jacket. Golden brows furrow after that, and he has to think fast to handle this. Hey... isn't that the scruffy haired guy from the Slums? The same one he wanted to whup on? Well, if Tifa hadn't been there, he would have. >.< Well, now's his chance, or so it seems. So, there's the temptation to immediately cast Haste again to regain his abnormal speed, but instead, he touches his forehead briefly and then points toward the oncoming Turk, "Confuse."
So, with a sparkle of magic, down comes that little 'BOINK' on the Turk's poor head, the stone cracking open and the whole little vision of a dancing chocobo. Crazy spell, isn't it? For the moment, the boy just waits to see if it worked, and if it doesn't... well, he'll punt.

D'oh. Retribution sucks. Reno is never leaving home without Heal again.
The Turk's hand is still extended, ungloved fingers spread, when Bart counterattacks. The stone cracks open, and there's a flurry of golden feathers - "What the hell?--" And then everything goes loopy. @_@; Reno's train of thought scatters to the four winds, and suddenly he has absolutely no idea where he is, what he's doing, which way is up, and hello, could you tell me what my name is, because I seem to have forgotten it, and-- A hand smacks to the Turk's face as if he meant to hold his head as if warding off a headache, but the gesture is too harsh and he stumbles back with the force of his own hand, then veering to the side like a drunken man. --drunk, hey, that makes sense. Is he drunk? Reno can't remember. Where is he again? This doesn't look like a bar... ... ... does it? Maybe they redecorated?
"Decor fucking sucks, man," is blurted out of nowhere. The bartender is never allowed to redecorate without Reno's imput again! His taste sucks! How lame is 'wasteland' anyway? ...wasn't he casting a spell before? In a bar? Huh? What? His stumbling stops though, and shakily, out of nowhere, he blurts, "HASTE!"
--and nearby, another clock twists and turns, superimposing over... a rather nondescript rock. Yeah. That was constructive, Reno.

Laughter emits from the prince's throat, resisting the urge to just fall down into the wasteland dirt and roll around laughing at the sight. Still, that's just a really nifty dandy little spell there, he thinks and he'll remember this for future reference. Now, really he should just hightail it out of here and hope that Reno doesn't keep trying to find him, he can get far fast in the ten minutes that spell will last (provided Reno doesn't do anything to hurt himself, which then nullfies the spell and returns one to lucidity). "Haste, indeed," he says with another chuckle, touching his forehead again before splaying fingers in front of his face. There's that forward fast ticking followed by a flash of golden light and the clock speeding up over the prince's head, effectively rendering the Slow spell useless. "Hey, nice playing with you, man, but I got places to go. People to see, I'm sure you'll understand."
And no, he can't help but point and laugh a bit more at Reno's situation before he turns to run.

Distantly, Reno realizes he's being laughed at. He can't remember WHO or WHERE, but the voice is vaguely familiar, and rather mocking at that, and -- well, it doesn't do much for the Turk's ego, as distracted and bewildered an ego as it may be. He /must/ be drunk. He's drunk, in a bar with nasty decor, and everyone is laughing at the sodden idiot. Dammit. And he thought he'd grown out of stumbling around like an idiot and making an ass out of himself. "Shaddap!" is growled rather hoarsely at an empty space of air, and to punctuate the command, the Turk shoves a hand into his pocket, fingers closing around the Electro-mag Rod. Bart may be gone by this time, but the laughter still rings in that bedazzled young man's ears, and swinging his baton sharply in the direction he THINKS he heard the laughter, Reno --
... succeeds in smacking himself on the side of the head rather nicely. CLONK! He sees stars this time instead of chocbos and promptly falls over backwards into the dirt, stunned. "Shit," he accuses the sky weakly, eyes spiraling comically. Could someone get him the license plate of that truck, please? Reno THINKS it ran him over, but he's not quite sure yet. The only thing Reno's really certain of is that he's rather glad his sunglasses survived the blow. Then it really would have gotten personal.
With a groan, Reno rolls over on to his stomach, fingers splaying against the ground as he push-ups to his knees in time to see Goldilocks book it. Oh, /now/ he remembers what the hell he was doing. "--HEY! You little shit-faced PUNK!"

"Go get your head examined, I think it's full of cobwebs! Eat my dust, slum scum!" is shouted over the boy's shoulder as he takes off at speeds that are ridiculous. He's running now, the dust rising behind him in great clouds as he continues to accelerate. It's going to catch up with him eventually, and he'll need to rest, but he's praying he can get as far away from Reno as possible before he has to stop. At full throttle, the boy can reach about 40 to 45 miles an hour. It's nigh tempting to pull the wings out and catch a breeze to glide up into the air. In fact, that's what he does, the pack pulled down as the wings emerge and then unfold from his back, explaining why the back of said jacket is torn like that. They are feathery, much like the mythological angels one might hear about, but also ethereal, somewhat wispy as if not quite real. They're not, since they're born of ether. When he reaches said proper speed, it starts lifting him into the air, gliding upward on the thermals rather than attempting to pull his weight off the earth by flapping the wings as that doesn't work too well. They didn't tell you about this either, Reno, wasn't that nice of them?
Bart is being a show off idiot, however, and all these effort -will- catch up to him sooner or later. (Probably sooner.) Already he can feel the strain of muscles not used that often that haven't had much time to recover from the last time he flew.

On his feet by this point, Reno makes a rather shaky attempt at running, dirt-strewn fingers pressed to his temple while their fellows clench his baton in a death-grip. Growl. "I'll make you eat it, you jackass-rubbing--" .. flying... person... you... o.o Against his better judgment, the Turk had been concentrating rather unsteadily on casting yet another spell, a Haste to match the vanishing Prince's, but luckily for both Bart and Reno's endurance, lift-off freezes the syllable in the Turk's throat before it's articulated, the gathered focus dispersing like snowflakes on warm water. He even stops running then too, an incredulous expression transfixing his grizzled face as he outright gapes, eyebrow twitching in disbelief as his jaw goes a little slack; he stares at the wings unfold in angelic display of ethereality, and he continues staring after Bart's gone airborn. "Sh-yit...," he articulates softly, dismayed; but a moment later, he's swearing with far more vehemence. "Sonsa/bitches/!" He kicks the dirt violently for emphasis. It is NOT unreasonable to tell him important facts like, oh, the boy has access to status spells and sprouts wings. It isn't. His life would be so much easier if people told him about these things. Hell, he'd be able to do his job so much better too.
Reno is faced with the temptation of turning on his heel, trudging back into the City (which isn't too far off yet), and striding all the way back to headquarters to give his superiors a piece of his mind. However, the Turk knows as well as anyone else that it wouldn't do diddly-squat. "We pay you to think, Reno. Not to spoonfeed you information." But this is all starting to get a little ridiculous. What Reno doesn't do is press the chase; instead, he retracts his baton with another sour round of swearing, and starts trudging after the figure that's quickly becoming a mere dot in the sky. He's not particularly upset at the idea of losing the boy right now, if he ends up doing so. After all, it won't be too difficult to find him again. It's just irritating having the chance slip through his fingers.

Would it help to know that none of them were aware of this either? It's not as if Bart displays these things on a daily basis. Gritting his teeth, the prince tries desperately to keep himself aloft and mimick what Sephiroth showed him that fateful day he was nabbed, bound gagged and unceremoniously dragged to the hellhole of Midgar to be sold to the Upper Plate folks. But, as it was the last time, he gets knocked off course several times, swirling this way and that in a drunken manner, as if he were trying to be a bumble bee rather than a graceful dove up in the skies. Eventually, an updraft totally knocks him off course and he goes spiralling down toward the earth, finding that he has absolutely no control over it this time, the wings refusing to obey him and there's no Sephiroth here this time to show him how to get out of a nosedive.
You can almost hear the whistling sound Wile E. Coyote makes when he falls down over the cliff after attempting to catch the Road Runner again. *piff* the sound he makes when he hits the ground, hard. That Luck junction holds, however, as it didn't actually do much damage, the wings tipping upward at the last second to slow his descent enough to keep him from becoming a grease spot in the wasteland dirt. Still, one wing hangs abjectly to the side, obviously broken from the way it hangs there limply. Bart grimaces, and tries to get his senses back, praying he's left the Turk far enough behind to get himself up and out of here again.

At this point, it no longer matters whether they know or not. Though to be certain, they will when Reno gets back, with or without the young Fatima in tow. What a doozey of a report this will make. The folks upstairs must be starting to wonder if the Turk's braincells are starting to decay with all of the alcohol he consumes and cigarette smoke that he inhales, what with his reports of late consisting of a man transforming into a demon, a squad of Troopers scattered like broken checkers on an Upper Plate game board, and now Prince Bartomei Fatima sprouting wings and taking to flight like a south-bound bird against the force of winter's chill. --and apparently with about the same amount of success, though it isn't frost that brings the Fatima groundward: it's inexperience.
Keeping his discontented eyes on the birdie, so to speak, Reno watches the pale dot battle the winds, then take an abrupt three-sixty in grace to sale headlong into the dirt. He actually winces sympathetically, though it's a dry, humorless empathy: he feels your pain, man, but now ask him if he feels sorry for you. Nnnnope! Reno doesn't waste any time either. He snorts softly with derisive satisfaction at the anticlimax born of this surprising twist, and digs his feet into the dirt to put on a burst of speed - natural speed, not magic-born. He'll either catch up or he won't, and Reno isn't going to waste a spell on another pointless venture. Which means that Bart does have some time to recollect his wits, but the Turk's en route, and it really won't take long at all for him to catch up. The crumpled figure of the fallen Prince comes into view as Reno clears the distance, and on the same hand, the rumpled figure of the rather irate Turk does the same if Bart has a chance to look in that direction. Incoming!

"Fuck," is muttered with the faintest taste of soap accompanying it on the prince's tongue. Maison always used to wash his mouth out whenever he cursed, stating that: Kings don't cuss like pirates, Young Master. Nevermind Bart is also a pirate, for that argument never went over very well either. The wing can't be drawn back in while it's broken, which means he'll just have to deal with it. Golden eyebrows shoot up in surprise to see the incoming Turk and he mutters something else under his breath. "God dammit... persistant bastard... the fuck does he want with me?" He twists to get back to his feet, palms against the dirt of the ground briefly to push himself upward and start running again, nevermind that his energies are wearing thin thanks to that take off and consequent nosedive and that broken wing is damned painful on top of it all. The tip of it drags along the ground, leaving a thin trail along with his footprints.
You're closing in on him anyway, the boy can't seem to maneuver the way he had before, for whatever reasons. One of these days, Bart just might learn from these experiences. u.u Just don't count on it being anytime soon. Fatimas are all well known for needing to fall on their asses repeatedly while young.

With the distance closing rapidly as it is, for once Reno realizes that the odds have turned in his favor, he finds motivation that wasn't there a few minutes ago and quick jogging turns into running, a sound fills the stagnant air of the Wastelands' atmosphere - the slide of metal against metal, for the nightstick is once again within the Turk's grasp, and he extends it with a thumbing of the correct button, holding it at an angle away from himself rather as if he were in fear of striking himself in the head with it again. He's just getting ready to hit something with it though. The Electro-Mag aspect isn't turned on yet, for the Turk already has the advantage, but that doesn't mean the incoming blow won't be anything less than staggering if it connects.
Once he's of a suitable distance, Reno literally pitches himself at the grounded boy-angel. The intention here isn't for Bart to fall on his ass, but rather, on his face. "What was that about eating dust, punk?" is the verifiable growl of angry satisfaction a moment before impact should occur, if Reno has his way. The hand empty of weaponry is already moving to the back of the kid's head to indeed drive his face to the dirt if his tackle succeeds.

Looks like Bart gets to eat his words, in a rather literal sense, too. He's still trying to get away, but he's at his limit and Badb is just sighing somewhere in the back of his head about him being so impetuous. All at once he's driven down toward the ground by the impact of another body, "Oof!" barely slipping past his lips before he's going down face first, as was intended by the Turk that now holds the upper hand. Just as his head starts to come up again, *THWACK*, not it's not, for he's going back down into the dirt. You'd think a blow like that would have knocked the kid out flat, but someone he manages to maintain conciousness, albeit not quite as lucid as he was a moment ago. "The hell you want with me..." he gasps, "... fucking rat haired pest. I ever do to you?" You know, he really should learn when to keep his mouth shut.
There is no further resistance from him, however, too dizzy and in pain to really put up a fight. The wings, since you're probably sitting on his back to keep him driven down, feel real enough if you should happen to touch them, but they're still kinda translucent seeming, ethereal. A few feathers pulled loose, strewn around the seen of the boy's fall.

Since Reno's thoughts are much along the same vein, he makes the remark aloud, rather than leaving it an unspoken observation on both their parts. "Kid, I'll grant you that you got balls, but do us both a favor and shut the fuck up." The Turk, while not as tall as Bart, nor one of obvious physical prowess, since he sort of has the appearance of a bedraggled bum with just enough meat to his muscle to upgrade him from scrawny to wirey, does indeed keep his weight on Bart by sitting on his back, caring not at all for the wings, injured and whole, that will no doubt be aggrivated by his rude presence overtop them. Broken bones and pressure cannot be a pleasant combination - and it isn't a difficult conclusion to reach that the effect is one intended by the Turk.
The texture and solidity of the wings are not traits that Reno's senses immediately pick up and put to memory. He observes the gossamer, unreal-and-real composition in a distracted fashion, but is for now far too preoccupied with the goal of keeping Bart down now that he's got him down in the first place. Reno never does answer the question of what he wants with the kid, and won't if the subject is pressed, likely not going so far as to even address the issue. Need-to-know basis. Reno didn't need to know, so apparently, neither does Bart.
Reno takes his hand from the back of the kid's head and turns his baton around, holding it by either end before pressing it against the back of Bart's neck, further insurance meant to keep him grounded instead of getting the wise idea of throwing the Turk off like a wild chocobo would its rider. "Quietly or unconscious, 'your Majesty.' What'll it be?"

Fatima blue eyes widen at the term 'Your Majesty', head turning slightly to the side as that baton is pressed unrepentantly against the back of his neck. "How the hell do you know about that?" he sputters, teeth gritting against the pain, indignity and outright apprehension all of this is causing. No one knows, just Sigurd and Squall and Jesse. He's never said a word... now the boy is really starting to realize the predicament he's in. If you know....
He's still not moving, for you see, that wing is stabbing him with sharp, insistant shoots of pain as you continue to straddle his back and press him into the dust. So, that kills any idea of trying to buck you off of him like a stallion not ready to be broken. Cause... technically, he is broken. "Let up... off the wing..." he gasps, because no one can take that kind of torment for long, not even someone who's experienced pain like that before. "-Please-," is added with spoken empahsis, as if he thought it might get you to let up or at least stop leaning on that broken wing. "I'll go quietly, just lay off the fucking wing!" You know, without Maison around to berate him for it, the cussing thing is getting to be sorta fun.

Hey, if Reno walks away from this Fatima-less, he can at least be reassured in that he corrupted yet another young tongue with the serpent's kiss of foul language. *.* Ah. The international language of 'Fuck you too, bitch.' Music to the ears.
The Turk chuckles low in his throat as he inadvertantly gets a reaction with 'your Majesty.' He'd been aiming more to spark the boy's ire, but startling him is good enough as well. More than good enough. He doesn't have an explanation any more than, They told me, and Reno keeps that to himself, if only to indulge the immature fancy that he knows more than at least ONE person around here. It's ridiculous how often he's kept out of the loop. Aside from that mote of cold humor, Bart earns nothing by reply; it isn't until he starts reacting aloud to the pain inflicted upon him by the redhead's callousness that Reno does more than sit on him and keep his face to the ground.
Pausing long enough to consider the value of Bart's pleas, Reno gets off of the boy. His guard doesn't slip in the slightest; when his feet are regained, the baton is still pointed at the youth. A wrong move, his stance says, and they go to default mode: unconscious. He stands not even a full stride away, looming over the young golden-haired heir, his lips twisted in a dry smirk for all that his ocean-green eyes have gone cool and dead somewhere in between tackling the boy to the ground and asking which way he wanted to go.

There is nothing but a flood of relief from the youth as soon as you get up and relieve the pressure on the broken wing. Both wings ruffle slightly, which causes another stab of pain and a grimace that suggests Bart is in pain and unable to do anything about it. Arms scrape along the ground, propping himself up to get to a crouch, trying to right the broken wing enough to get both of them to go back from whence they came, but it ain't happening. He gets to keep them for a little bit, namely until the fracture is mended by time or spell. Well, ain't this a bitch. Slowly and painfully getting back to his feet, he turns enough to see the expression on your face. Yeah, he gets the point. He does anything stupid and you bap him up the side of the head with that rod and make him eat dirt again. "What now?" Good question to him, seeing as he still has no idea why you're after him or what your intentions are now that he's 'caught'. He wouldn't dare try to cast a spell, since that takes a verbal element and a touch of concentration and if he so much as started it you'd bap him. Ether, on the other hand, requires nothing but a moment to channel it. Problem is... does he try it? He has no control over it, but his options are drastically thin at the moment and allowing himself to be taken in by you is not exactly the sort of thing he wants to allow. He -has- to get back to Sigurd... he made a promise after all and his subconcious is nagging at him to keep it.

Reno will do more than bap him with his stick, but unfortunately, it's unlikely that Bart knows the capabilities of the Electro-mag Rod unless one of the number of informative friends he picked up during his brief stint here thought to inform him of the Turk's reputation, and Reno is pretty much playing on that. He watches the young man struggle to his feet with no trace of pity or empathy to his expression, the eyes like pieces of frozen ocean water, hues of blue and green that have sharpened to a crystalline bent and betray nothing in the way of humane compassion. He's a good li'l Turk, yessir. Has a mouth that'll get him killed some day, and a stubborn streak to ascertain that he'll be good and dead too, but one mustn't allow themselves too much humanity in this line of work. Otherwise Reno might actually feel bad about kidnapping and beating the snot out of a snot-nosed kid who's still a little wet behind the ears - the latter of which he hasn't yet done, for Bart succeeded in dealing himself most of the damage, but it's something that the Turk is prepared to do without flinching. It can't be a pleasant sight to see what might have been human eyes at one time, but only proffer now a cracked mirror image, faded and on the brink of extinction. No compassion, no hesitation, no regret. What a wonderful day in the neighborhood.
"Now, your Princliness," the Turk says lowly, his dead gaze half-lidding so that his turquoise eyes are frozen between crimson lashes. "We walk all the way back home again." He pauses long enough for the corners of his lips to twitch. "Home again, home again. Jiggidy-jig." The nursery rhyme is quoted with wry, absurd humor; and no, Reno won't hold it against Bart if he doesn't find it amusing.
Instead the baton is employed toward tapping the youth's shoulder lightly. "You get to be the leader. Let's go."

Though there's no pity on the part of the Turk, there is on the part of the sunhaired youth he's toting back to Midgar. Though at first his expression is stubborn, angry, frustrated at his helplessness in this situation, it changes, softens a little the longer he stares into the oceanic depths of those cold eyes. Pity that someone can be like that, another product of the mako lit slums beneath the plate of Midgar a flower crushed like a plucked morning glory before it really has a chance to bloom. He and Aerith had a few conversations about the city and those who seek to repress the people below. So, in a way, Bart has come to understand why Reno is the way he is, even if he really doesn't know a thing. Yes, Reno, those crystalline blue eyes are looking at you in a manner that suggests he feels sorry for you.
"All right," he says, sounding resigned. No, he doesn't find any of this very funny, but at least he doesn't seem apt to respond to any of the tauntings, until... Princliness... >.< Argh. That does it. "Do I have to endure your lame ass jokes all the way back, too?" He's ahead of you, since you want him to play leader back toward the city, though he can't help but look over his shoulder at you, actually kinda amused for a moment. The good wing lifts a little to the side with a rustle of feathers so he can get a good look at you. "Besides, if we're going home, I should be walking the other way." So there, nyah.

...Nice. Just what he wanted to see. Pity. Something along the lines of intimidated would have been nicer. Reno doesn't go out of his way to be a scary individual, but he'd like that better then what he's seeing in the youth's eyes right now. Shit. Stare too long, and Bart gets an arched eyebrow, a 'What are you waiting for?' kind of exasperation to be written across the scarred visage. A jerk of the spikey red head indicates that Bart better get a move on, and once the Fatima has put movement into his steps, the Turk takes up the rear, indeed playing the caboose in this two-person game of follow the leader.
Reno would have endured the long trek back in silence past that point, but his bad taste in humor gets a reaction first. His crimson brows arch skeptically; but when Bart looks back at him, the Turk looks back with a brief, shit-eating grin. The eyes don't seem anymore humane than they were a moment ago, but the grin is genuine, for all that it's half-hearted. Reno manages to procure SOME amusement from his self-imposed pit of apathy. "Probably," he quips in return; it's more of a smart ass comment than an argumentative one. "I'll try'n think of something lamer for you though." He snorts softly. "Anyway, never said whose home." Though Reno imagines that Bart may be seeing his sooner than he thinks, though it may not be the home he wants. The Turk isn't terribly stupid. What else could Shin-Ra want with the heir of some other country's royalty? Unless it has to do with all of the funky shit that Bart pulled, between status attacks and flying. That would figure too. Sigh.

Pity only goes so far in the face of this situation. Bart complies easily enough, trying to ignore the sharp spikes of pain that shoot up from the fracture in the wing. Fists are clenched at his sides, though the fingerless gloves cover his knuckles so the Turk can't see how white they are. This is so utterly humiliating and beyond that, Bart has no idea what is going to come of this. All he knows for sure is the second he goes back down into that infestation of a city he's probably not going to see Sigurd ever again. "Great," he replies blandly, looking ahead of himself again toward the gleaming cancerous beacon in the near distance. "Just when I thought you were already scraping the bottom of the barrel there."
There's no ofference of explanation here, as to why ShinRa suddenly has an interest in this sunhaired youth with wings. Bart knows less than you do, at least he thinks he does. Since you've told him nothing, well, he assumes you're just holding back to keep him wallowing in the dark. "Did Shakhan send you?" It's an assumption. How else do you know that he's a prince for crying out loud, he's told no one while he was in Midgar and it's not like Aveh is all that well known by anyone around here. It's just a little satallite nation in Sairou.
But, whether you answer him or not, things are bound to come to a head rather quickly in just an instant. Grabbing for the wild ether that is a part of his royal bloodline, he spins rather suddenly and releases it. Half the time, this sort of thing is comical, the other half can lead to catastrophy. This time? It's a caustic blast of fire ether, and the resultant explosion is liable to knock both prince and Turk off their feet. (No one ever said intrepid meant smart.)

"Never underestimate how low my barrel can go, man," Reno councils dryly, thinning his gaze slightly with a smirk, deliberately making it a double-edged sword: he proffers at threat of truly, truly wretched humor overtop a more subtle threat of playing dirty to keep the kid in line. The Turk's sense of honor is rather nonexistant, and never pertains to strangers anyway. Honor has no place in a den of back-stabbers and night-walkers. His temple already hurts, and when the conversation drifts into a brief period of silence, the Turk wonders whether it'd be worth it to cast a minor Cure on himself to shoo the headache away and keep people from asking embarrassing questions. Like how it got there. 'I, eh, hit myself with my nightstick.' Yeah, that'd go over really well. Reno shakes his head at the thought, swallowing a snort of bitter amusement with some difficulty.
Aquamarine eyes track upward as the question, visible for a short while longer before Reno pulls his shades down over them. Nothing ulterior in the motive, but daylight is starting to make his Slums-adjusted eyes ache a bit. As if he had been staring into a bright light for too long, when it really isn't that bright at all. "I work for Shin-Ra, Fatima." Growing tired of thinking up lame nicknames for the heir, Reno just resorts to his surname. "The only people that-- shit!" Well, no, a lot of people do that. But that's not what Reno meant.
Suddenly there's a burst of fire. Having sortakinda been ready for Bart to pull such a stunt, but honestly gotten distracted with their vague attempts at conversation -- /Stupid/ asshole, Reno cusses at himself. Stupid, stupid asshole rookie mistake! -- the Turk only manages to dodge in time to avoid the full brunt of the explosive round of fire ether. But the heat scalds him, singing his ragged attire and burning his face, and the Turk cusses wildly as he backpedals. More magic. /More/ magic. Dammit! He's going to kill somebody when this is all over.
Abruptly, there's more than just the scent of ether in the air. A crackle of ozone spirals in spinnerets of blue electricity as the shock rod flares to life, hissing and spitting sparks until it dies down with a low thrum of currents, enfusing the Turk with its electromagnetic dance of power. Righty-o. Now Reno's angry.

That hurt.

No, really, that -hurt-. Thrown back by the sudden force of the expendature of ether, Bart realizes too late that channeling wasn't a good idea. Just like flying wasn't a good idea. The Confuse spell seems to have been the only thing so far that was a good idea. But, regardless of being a bit singed by the channeling, he leaps back to his feet as quick as he can, just in time to hear that crackling of energy. Fatima blue eyes widen, understanding that he's about to go down hard if he doesn't think fast and do something -right- for a change. "Aero!" he shouts somewhat hoarsely, pressing a palm out immediately to send sharp gusts of air blasting off toward the Turk and hopefully push him away from the immediate vicinity of the prince. He would rather keep his state of conciousness. Whether it works or not, concidering the man is now protected by that electromagnetical forcefield, he's backing up as fast as he can, which is no longer the junctioned speed. He simply doesn't have the energy for it and after that one last spell, he's exhausted his options.

In other words, he's well and truly doomed.

Perhaps luck decides to smile again upon Bart, if briefly, for while the electromagnetic field bastardized through magic and science's tryst is able to dispell some forms of magic, the call of Air and Wind is not one of them. One can hypothesize that Thunder and Wind are close cousins in certain respects, born of the same mothers, but apparently not enough to protect the Turk from the force of the winds that now push him back, lashing out at his grimy attire and grimier appearance, shoving him back with a strong backlash of rising dust and dirt in his wake. Lost in the roar of wind is yet another curse, this one more specific than all the others, for there might have been a few names lost in the mix that will no doubt be the focus of Captain Scruffy's ire once he's done with this mess. He's pushed back a respectable distance, and afterward, Reno wobbles a bit where he stands, breathing harshly and spitting out sand that had flown into his mouth with the violent breezes he'd been thrown to the whims of.

However, the shockrod is still in hand. The atmosphere is still thick with ozone, like the promise of a thunderstorm, except the air is more dry than wet, and not a cloud mars the imperfect blue sky. Bart has a few precious seconds in addition to the time gained in pushing the Turk back, but that's /all/ he will have, so he best use it without delay and /wisely/ before Reno catches up. Which he will quickly, far too quickly, is Reno running towards him again dogearedly, baton lashing at the air.

Precious seconds to do something with and nothing with which to do anything. He can't call on Angel, because his wing is broken. He can't run because he has nothing left to run with. He doesn't dare use ether again, because it's so wild he could kill himself just as easily as he could kill his attacker with it. He can't cast a spell because he's exhausted himself.
So, rather than run for it, or attempt to defend himself at all, he sighs resignedly and waits for it. 'Sorry, Sig. I don't think I'm coming home again. Forgive me, aniki. I tried.' is what he thinks in those last few seconds before Reno closes in on him. The whole world seems to slow down, then, each second filling a span of hours rather than mere moments. The arm swings toward him with the zots of energy crackling louder and louder with a rush of air as it cracks up against his skull, electrical currents rocketing through his athletic frame to render him completely unable to react, not as if he were concious long enough to realize it. Already dizzy, injured, exhausted, he just drops like a rock to the ground, body twitching from the low voltage for a few seconds before finally releasing, leaving the desert angel flat on his back against the dirt of the wastelands. Strangely peaceful, despite being broken like a doll at your feet.

You win.

The figure left standing has already snapped his baton back, winding up for a follow up move if this minor charge proved unsuccessful. Reno was running on auto-pilot, beyond the exhaustion and pain inflicted upon him by the impulsive youth and the product of his own mistakes. His body is tense, charged with the electromagnetism that sings through his veins as loudly as it dances in the air, seeking out a similar bond with the intended victim and instead inflicting harm rather than symbiosis; his body is tense, and yet the tension is pointless. It takes Reno a few seconds to realize there's a figure at his feet now, and when the realization finally breaks past the ozone to flick ashes of recognition in his smoldering eyes, the Turk relaxes slowly and straightens, the baton dropping, business end pointing downward.
Well, lookee there, Reno. You won. Beat the snot out of a punk kid. He bleeds from lacerations inflicted by the lancing Aero winds, has a nastying bruise swelling at his temple... but hey, he's still standing. The kid isn't. Dog eat dog. Life's a bitch. The Electro-mag Rod retracts with a soft *shnick!* of sound and vanishes into the Turk's pocket. Whopee-doo.

Kneeling down slowly, Reno checks to make sure that, well, he hasn't killed Bart. The kid is pretty well trashed now, and for all that he kept the voltage low, sometimes it doesn't take much when you've been through as much hell as this one has. He checks pulse and breathing, and in the midst of doing so, the Turk comments gruffly, "You got balls, kid. Stupid as shit, but at least you got balls." Pity that Bart can't hear him. Not that it would have made a difference. Wanting to cast a Cure upon himself, but wondering if his endurance can handle it at this point, the Turk decides to hold off until it's strictly necessary and begins the somewhat awkward pause of gathering Bart up. This is gonna be a lot of fun, between deadweight and those wings, and the fact that Bart's larger than the Turk; the kid's gonna get a strange sort of piggyback, since it's the only real option aside from dragging him by his braid, and Reno isn't /that/ callous. Yet. It's going to be a long walk home though.