Don't Play With Fire (Turks FFVII)

XLIII) Escape

The metal that takes the place of my leg is lightweight, though I'm not sure what it is. It feels strange to stand on. Why doesn't it hurt that bad? I shiver when my bare foot touches the cold floor, turning to the folded uniform to my left. It's the same one I've been wearing since we were taken, though it looks like it was cleaned. I shed my loose gown and pull on the uniform slowly, giving my aching body time to heal and my apathetic mind something to focus on. Even my shoes are here, but I'm not entirely sure how the end of my leg is supposed to fill them out.

I leave them off and carry them, turning to leave the room. There's a strange shadow on the ground that I can't quite place, so I blink until I realize it's a puddle. I gasp, startled by the lifeless body slouched on the floor in a pool of blood. Marx's head is a mess, slumped to the side, and his hand is still loosely curled around a handgun. Couldn't live with it?

I want to feel bad, but I can't be sorry for the man that singlehandedly turned my suffering into a self-righteous quest for greatness. I should take the gun, but I don't want to touch him. I don't want to breathe the air he's poisoning. So, perhaps a bit heartlessly, I pull the door open, pushing his leg aside, and leave, still clinging to my shoes.

The man that helped me is in the caves when I hobble across the rocks and head toward my room with Rufus. His face breaks out in a smile and he stands.

"Kat. You're alright."

"Yeah." I'm gonna be sick. I nod toward the woman on the ground, turning attention away from my aching heart. "How's she?"

"Not well. I gave her my medicine to go with hers because we've had to cut doses. It's not doing anything."

"Sorry. Is Kilmister here?"

"He's been gone a few days, but I think he'll have a good haul." He forces cheerfulness. "One can certainly hope, can't they?"

"Yeah..."

I hobble my way into my section, nodding toward Rufus when he looks at me. He sits up, frowning.

"Hey, Rufus."

"You've been gone for days."

"Did you miss me?" I ask dryly, dropping my shoes onto the floor. Without waiting for his answer, I jerk my pantleg upward and force him to look at a piece of my pain. He blinks at my leg for a moment, lost for words, but he regains himself quickly.

"They took your leg?"

"They?" I wrestle with the lump in my throat and plop onto the edge of the bed beside him. He doesn't say anything, his omnipresent frown deepening. "It was Marx. Said it would stop it from spreading and killing me."

"And from killing—"

"He killed it."

Rufus goes still and silent. I almost think I can hear his heart skip a beat before continuing as always. "... I see."

I bite down on my cheek, wishing anything could take away the pain of feeling nothing, shaking my head. My breath shudders when I speak again. "And he killed himself. Shot himself through the head."

"... Are you alright?" I shake my head, feeling a frustrated tear slip free before I turn and bury my face in his dingy suit, trying to stifle the rest. "I didn't think so."

Four days passed and Kilmister still hadn't returned. Rufus told me it was supposed to be a three-day trip. He was to bring the note to the Turks and tell them that Rufus needed the things that were listed. The Turks were then supposed to hand it over and follow him here. It was a long shot, but it seemed so hopeful. I really thought Rufus saved us.