sort of a side quest
"Answer Man" is kicking my ass.
Here's something else.
“I think,” she says, eyes teary and voice wavering the whole time, “violence is stupid.”
“That’s nice,” I say, and make a checkmark beside her name.
“So whatever I do, you know, I want to help-“
“Like, coffee and stuff.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I could do that.”
“Did you, um, notice the body armor? That I’m wearing?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I guess.”
“Go back,” I tell her, “to Kalm. Okay? Any internships around here right now? Are gonna require that you can field-strip this into the bullpup configuration.”
“Oh,” she says.
--
Reeve looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. I pick up his moogle-shaped coffee mug and look inside.
It’s too bad; the WRO could use a good coffee person.
“You’re scaring them away,” he says.
“You want those guys? You want their vomit all over your weird marble floors?”
“Thank you,” he says, “for that image, Yuffie.”
“You need some other caliber of intern, dude, okay? Deepground creamed us. They creamed us and put us on toast and ate us for breakfast.” I sit on the edge of his desk. “What we need,” I muse, “are Turks.”
“We don’t need Turks,” Reeve says, his voice flat and distant.
“We totally need Turks,” I retort. “Those little fucks are recruitment specialists.”
“Do you know,” Reeve says, his face grey, “how they ‘recruited’ their SOLDIER candidates? Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”
“I sure do,” I tell him. “Up close and goddamn personal. Reno fucking felt me up, man. When they burned down Don Corneo on Da Chao. I know they’re weasels, okay?”
“We’re not going to deploy a press-gang, Yuffie. It’s true, we need personnel.” He rubs his face; his hair is in his eyes. “We need personnel; we need ordnance; Lord knows we need funds.”
“Look. At that wacktastic party Rufus threw last week, didn’t you see his face? He’s a vulture, man. He’s just waiting. We can’t trust him anymore. We need to get smarter. We need good people. We need Turks of our own, okay?”
Reeve sits back and looks at me for a long time without saying anything.
“You’re fucking intransigent,” I tell him.
“Who taught you to talk like that?” he asks softly.
“My first words,” I say, “were curse words, okay?”
“I don’t mean the swearing. Your political analysis,” he says, getting up from his desk, “is maturing.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means you’re not wrong.”
Here's something else.
“I think,” she says, eyes teary and voice wavering the whole time, “violence is stupid.”
“That’s nice,” I say, and make a checkmark beside her name.
“So whatever I do, you know, I want to help-“
“Like, coffee and stuff.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I could do that.”
“Did you, um, notice the body armor? That I’m wearing?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I guess.”
“Go back,” I tell her, “to Kalm. Okay? Any internships around here right now? Are gonna require that you can field-strip this into the bullpup configuration.”
“Oh,” she says.
--
Reeve looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. I pick up his moogle-shaped coffee mug and look inside.
It’s too bad; the WRO could use a good coffee person.
“You’re scaring them away,” he says.
“You want those guys? You want their vomit all over your weird marble floors?”
“Thank you,” he says, “for that image, Yuffie.”
“You need some other caliber of intern, dude, okay? Deepground creamed us. They creamed us and put us on toast and ate us for breakfast.” I sit on the edge of his desk. “What we need,” I muse, “are Turks.”
“We don’t need Turks,” Reeve says, his voice flat and distant.
“We totally need Turks,” I retort. “Those little fucks are recruitment specialists.”
“Do you know,” Reeve says, his face grey, “how they ‘recruited’ their SOLDIER candidates? Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”
“I sure do,” I tell him. “Up close and goddamn personal. Reno fucking felt me up, man. When they burned down Don Corneo on Da Chao. I know they’re weasels, okay?”
“We’re not going to deploy a press-gang, Yuffie. It’s true, we need personnel.” He rubs his face; his hair is in his eyes. “We need personnel; we need ordnance; Lord knows we need funds.”
“Look. At that wacktastic party Rufus threw last week, didn’t you see his face? He’s a vulture, man. He’s just waiting. We can’t trust him anymore. We need to get smarter. We need good people. We need Turks of our own, okay?”
Reeve sits back and looks at me for a long time without saying anything.
“You’re fucking intransigent,” I tell him.
“Who taught you to talk like that?” he asks softly.
“My first words,” I say, “were curse words, okay?”
“I don’t mean the swearing. Your political analysis,” he says, getting up from his desk, “is maturing.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means you’re not wrong.”