The service buildings of the Junon airfield were rapidly rising in their windows as Rafe tossed a pair of chunky heeled sandals in her direction. His own shoes were underneath them, engraved decorative steel-caps glinting in the dark recesses of the duffel.
"That it, yeah...? Where's the silverware?"
"Do you mean the *jewellery?* I have it. Alright, touchdown in three... two..."
Rafe's temple collided with the dividing wall as a rough jolt shuddered through the aircraft.
"Whoops! Anyway..." Flair was already flicking off switches before the helicopter hit the ground for the second time. "Okay, time to make tracks!"
Ash-blonde hair flashed past his vision like a streamer as she scrambled between the seats, grabbing strewn pieces of her uniform as she went. Moments later, she ducked back into the cockpit for her wedges, snagging them with her fingers before turning toward the chopper door. Rafe shoved his laces into his shoes and his feet after them, hoping that might be good enough to run in.
"Just hold on a damn—"
"There's no time! Hurry up, slowcoach!"
"I mean you're still half fucking—"
"You can zip me up in the elevator. Let's go!"
The fastest draw under the Plate, that's what they'd called him—and, well, if his match was out there, he'd never met them. Flair, meanwhile, lined up shots like she was aiming the damn Sister Ray, and could barely run an eight-minute mile. The irony of how often she left him in her dust wasn't lost on him.
Flair yanked the helicopter door open, hefting her silver suitcase down onto the tarmac and hopping after it, bare feet landing on the helipad. With her unzipped dress still bunched up inside itself around one leg and her ponytail askew, she looked as if their journey from Midgar had been a lot more enjoyable than the reality. Rafe barely presented any better, a handful of his loose shirt accidentally tucked in and his belt only halfway pulled through the buckle—but at least he wasn't the one currently bending to grab the jewellery pouch from the tarmac while rotor wash blew clothing everywhere except where it should be. The sound of a wolf-whistle floating across the airfield was choppy but unmistakable.
Rafe yanked on the duffel's zips and swung it roughly over his shoulder. As his soles hit the tarmac beside his partner, his eyes were already scanning for the source of that sound. His gaze landed on a group of troopers hanging
out near the fuelling station, one of them making a crude gesture with his gloved hands.
"Oi!" he roared, "Eyes to your fucking self!"
The winds were against him. If the troopers heard anything, they showed no sign. He rounded on the airfield signaller instead.
"Hey! What's his badge number?"
The bespectacled man cringed back under the sudden vented frustrations, but was rescued from speaking when Flair cut in.
"Not now! Honestly!" She shoved the jewellery pouch down the front of her dress for safe keeping and shifted her grip to the suitcase. "We've got places to be!"
Then she was off, her bare feet darting across the tarmac, heedless of the oil and grit she was picking up as she went, her ponytail flying out in her wake above the rattle of her suitcase wheels. Rafe broke into a jog a half-second later, abandoning their chopper to the ground crew just as it was, only turning back to bark at the airfield signaller as they pushed past.
"I want that fucking badge number with the Turks, tonight," he pointed at the man's chest, glancing down at the tag
Day 5: Wardrobe Malfunction
Turks are cool, competent, and in command of the situation, right? ...Right?
Undercover mission for Two Guns & Shotgun gets off to a rough start. (Also, TIL I can do extended screenshots. More readable? Less readable? Idk)
#TurkWeek #ffviiturkweek
![J [Fandom Granny]](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/avatar/plain/did:plc:ujp32x2dcb6f56cwieygjdp7/bafkreigcpcfjxdcrpfof5ftdxubtpcrm3qe76ufdb4meicw6kdlmalvjzy)
