[FF7] Across Distant Shores - 13
[FF7] Across Distant Shores
Point XIII - Blood in the Night
FF7 - Rating: PG-13 - Part 13/? - Warnings: Violence
Pairings: Rufus/Reno (established) - Status: In progress, incomplete.
For codename_scar, because people don't forget that easily.
Summary: "You're stuck on the shores of Hell, and the only way out...is through." Shinra moves against its own, the President against the Vice President, with the Turks caught in between. All loyalties and motives are called into question, and as the Company comes under attack by enemies, the Turks are forced to question just who and what they are fighting for.
Chapter Summary: Where there is blood spilt, and a new regime is formed.
Point XIII - Blood in the Night
They’ve been to Junon and they’re halfway back to Midgar when the word arrives.
Rufus listens impassively to the report, to the SOLDIER whose terse tones betray just the slightest edge of hysteria. The pilot glances at him, waiting on his order. The very world seems to have come to a halt, and they are suspended in the dark, just another star amidst the fields above.
Attack on Shinra Tower, they say. The President was targeted. Sephiroth returned from the dead to do it.
Rufus doesn’t move because it feels like all the blood in his body has turned to ice. For a moment, he can’t move, and the voice of the SOLDIER requesting orders is just a buzz in his ears.
The President was targeted. They have not been able to contact his office or his guards. There was a team dispatched to check, but they were killed.
The President was targeted and is suspected to be dead.
He doesn’t hear the rest, about the casualty reports. He tries to move a jaw that has locked shut, but it seems that he can’t pry his teeth apart.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
He can’t be. They hadn’t even had time to talk...
“General Heidegger has-”
That name is like a burst of bolt lightning to the senses. He sits up, draws a breath that is more painful than it should be, and there’s a snarl on his lips when he replies. “General Heidegger is not the President.”
“Sir-”
“In the event of the death or incapacitation of the President,” Rufus’ voice is low and ominous, “His designated successor is me.”
“Sir!”
“Gun it,” he snaps at the pilot. And to the accompanying SOLDIER, “Pass me my shotgun.”
His heart is a frozen thing in his chest. There’s so much conflicting emotion that he can barely keep track of it, and he deals with it the only way he knows how to - by bottling it up completely. Dark Nation brushes against his foot, and he reaches down to run fingers through his soft fur, the action strangely soothing. Outside, the mountains are whipping by, replaced quickly by long grass, and the glitter of Midgar in the distance.
It looks exactly the same as the millions of times he’s made this flight. He doesn’t believe... he can’t believe that his father is dead. And while half of him crows in victory that the Presidency is his at last, the other half of his mind is screaming.
The helicopter blades whirr, but it is not an airship, and it takes time. Rufus’ fingers have lost blood, gripped as tightly as they are around the stock of his shotgun. Reports come in, all painting a scene of disaster. Teams of SOLDIER have been slaughtered. The defence of the tower is in shambles. And there are dangerous prisoners on the loose, terrorists that were held at building.
“Fix it,” Rufus snaps, and the reply comes back ‘yes sir, we’ll do that sir’, but no one seems to be able to do anything. Rufus gnashes his teeth in frustration and growing fury, and he swears that whoever is responsible for this is going to beg for death by the time he’s done with them.
Dark Nation growls, sensing his mood, and his hand falls to his collar. He subsides, clearly unhappy. But they’re over Midgar now, the lights of the reactors glowing like tiny suns in the dark. The Tower is right ahead of them, and it looks the same as it always has, and for a moment, Rufus is almost convinced that this entire thing was a prank.
But then another call comes in, something about the terrorists moving up to the President’s office, and Rufus’ voice is pure venom as he orders someone to stop them.
Not possible, the reply comes back. The contingent of SOLDIER 1st assigned to guard the upper floors was slaughtered...
“Five minutes to landing, sir. Please stan-”
“I’ll jump,” Rufus snaps, terminating the useless report in mid-sentence and glowering at the pilot. “Head to the rooftop helicopter pad. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
The pilot stares at him for a moment. “It’s dangero-”
Rufus’ voice is silk over cold steel as he replies. “Then it’s your responsibility to ensure that I don’t break anything, isn’t it?”
“Sir.”
His escort moves to unbolt the door. Rufus stands, shotgun slung over one arm. Shinra Tower spins dizzily into view beneath them, and the wind that gusts past his face is cold enough to have knives in it.
*
Reno can’t actually believe it when they wake him up for the second time that night. They’d just told him that it could wait for morning, and sure, it’s an ungodly hour of the morning, but ... still! Morning means morning, you know, sunrise and tweety birds and all that bullshit. On good days, morning means afternoon, but those days are few and far between.
“Nice joke,” he says to Stan. “Now shut up and let me sleep-”
“It’s no joke.” Stan is white and shaking, and there isn’t much in the way of bad news that can shake the doctor.
“Fuck,” Reno says, eloquently, moving for his PHS... then decides there’s no time. “Where’s Rufus?” Safely in Junon, right. Please say that he’s safely in Junon...
“On his way back.”
Reno is on his feet in a second, injuries and drugs and everything be damned. He knew it. Knew it. Can’t get a good night’s sleep without everything going to hell. “Adrenaline shot,” he yells. “Now!”
Stan doesn’t even argue.
*
Screaming.
Something in his head is screaming. It’s almost familiar. He thinks it might be himself, trapped in the dark...
No.
He’s here. He can feel the wind on his face. He can feel the shotgun in his hand. The grip is slick with blood. It trails down the stock, red on silver.
Red on the floor.
No.
He’s here now, and the damn wind is making his coat flap. And his jacket is a bloody, bloody mess. There is pain, but it is a muffled, distant thing
like a fragmentation round to the shoulder
“Damnit, will you shut the hell up?” he hisses furiously at the mental voice. The thrice damned wind cold as the wastes of the Icicle Area steals the words, whips them far from the hovering spectators, and for that he’s grateful. He can’t let them hear this. He can’t fall apart now, for all that it feels like his mind is a morass of clamouring voices, too many stimuli, too many thoughts, too many voices--
He takes a deep breath, and silences the clamour with one, single thought.
He’s the President of Shinra.
He’s declared it with his own voice. Sealed it in blood, that is splashed liberally across the rooftop, the SOLDIER’s, his own, and Dark Nation’s.
He should be celebrating.
Instead, he’s hunched over before his father’s desk, using the shotgun as a prop, and something in his head won’t shut up.
He can hear the whispers from the crowd behind him. Something in him knows that he’s not cutting the fine figure that the President of Shinra Company should. It doesn’t matter; fear will keep them in line. They know it - he has announced his intention to rule by the iron fist, after all, loud and clear, and without embellishment. Something in him keeps telling him it’s wrong, naïve, simplistic, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that fear holds them back, and they’re not touching him, not right now, and that’s-
“Rufus!”
--that’s just fine.
“Rufus!”
Two corpses sacrificed to the start of his Presidency. Dark Nation at his feet, his father before him. His enemies escaped. He can’t tear his eyes from the scene before him - the sign of death, the blade of the masamune glitters brighter than any star tonight.
I will have revenge, he thinks. I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth--
“Rufus, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Something breaks through the circle of onlookers and he glances up sharply. Fitting that it’s red, the colour of blood. The colour of this night. Red and black and white, it shoves people aside with reckless abandon, trying desperately to reach his side.
for Odin’s sake, you nitwit, that’s ...
...that’s...
No one, he thinks, but the next moment he’s enfolded in an embrace, and there are arms yanking him close, a chin on his shoulder, and a voice all but sobbing in his ear: “You stupid shit, why the hell did you go and do that for? You could have gotten yourself killed! Now quit-”
He still has enough control in his injured arm to drag it up, even as he tears lose. Unsteady legs bring him two steps back, and then the shotgun is between both of them, the barrel clearly centred over the stranger’s heart.
“Stand down, dog.”
The stranger’s eyes widen, and betrayal seeps into them like blood across a bandage. He sees the other’s jaw move, the struggle for words almost painful, before his jaw goes slack in utter shock. Then a muscle twitches, fingers curl into fists, and the stranger is yelling, slamming the gun barrel aside, surging forward to grab him by the lapels. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Get your ass down to medical now, because you’re either fucking delirious or someone hit you over the head too damn hard!”
He can make out the tremor in the other’s shouts, though. Uncertainty laces the stranger’s words like poison. He smiles, the smirk of a predator that is amused by its prey’s attempts at resistance. “Do not presume to order me around,” he says, voice dropping to a sibilant hiss, one that is barely audible over the roar of the wind or is it the roaring in his ears the constant noise that rises and falls and rises and falls just won’t go away?
And, more effective than any bullets, the words hit the mark. The stranger physically stumbles back a step. How strange, he wonders. It is almost as though the stranger expected something completely different from him. As though he presumed to intimacy...
...hm.
He wonders what could he have done to give anyone such an impression of closeness. It’s almost as though they have some sort of history, but that’s nonsense. Impossible. He hasn’t been close to anyone in years. There hasn’t been anyone even remotely interesting enough
except
...
“Reno!” a new voice axes through the fray, and the crowds are parting again. Rufus watches them move, and he does not miss the looks of apprehension that some of them bestow on the newcomer. Clearly, someone important. Clearly, someone they live in fear of...
The newcomer is Wutainese, and the sight of him moving to the first stranger’s shoulder sends a wave of disorientation through him that’s almost physical. He frowns, as thoughts seem to skitter through his mind and disappear into dust. He snatches at them, then growls in pure frustration as they elude him. He doesn’t have time for this; his Presidency is waiting, the Company - no, the world is watching.
“Take him away,” he orders, gesturing at the red-haired stranger. Reno, the other called him... The Wutainese - Shen... Zeng...? gives him a sharp glance, then nods his head in acquiescence, and moves.
“Fuck that!” the redhead yells, even as he’s grabbed. “Rufus! Rufus, listen to me-”
His chin comes up, and anger settles like ice crystals onto his words. “I am the President. You will address me as such.”
The Wutainese -- Tseng... wasn’t he killed? -- hisses something to the... to Reno, possibly an order to stand down. Rufus is already turning away, he truly does not care, and the longer he entertains this rabble, the more they’ll demand it. “My apologies for that, sir,” Tseng says, calm and professional. “What are your orders?”
He pauses. There’s a glint of challenge in dark eyes, and even Reno has shut up and is listening intently. Trap, he thinks. A test...
I should know him. Why don’t I know him?
“The terrorists,” he says, improvising. “Hunt them down.”
Without waiting for the other’s acknowledgement, he turns, sweeping out in a flurry of white.
*
“I don’t believe this.” It’s the first words that Reno has spoken since they came down from the roof.
Tseng’s not sure he believes it either - there’s been no yelling, no copious amounts of destruction Reno has gone disturbingly quiet instead, slumped on the sofas of the lounge. His eyes are locked onto nothing, and as Tseng watches, he mechanically lifts the beer can to his lips and takes another swallow.
Tseng exchanges a look with Rude. The other Turk shakes his head and shrugs.
“The terrorists are heading out of Midgar,” he says.
“Let them,” Reno shrugs, tossing back another mouthful, before reaching for his sixth can. “Got anything stronger?”
Tseng ignores his question. “We should set off in pursuit. Their likely destination is Kalm, to restock and retrieve supplies. And then...”
“Junon,” Rude adds. “If they wish to escape from us. They will have to cross the mountains, or go by chocobo through the swamp, through the mithril mines.”
“Who cares?” Reno says, thunking the can down on the table. “I mean, save for that bastard up on the roof.” He hiccups, wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket. “And who cares about that bastard anyway...”
Tseng’s lip curls. “What do you have in mind, Reno?”
“First, I’m gonna finish the beer. Then I’m gonna finish everything else in the liquor cabinet. Maybe I’ll raid his office - oops, I mean his old office - he’s gotta nice stash there. And he won’t need it any more, on account of his being President and all that shit.”
“How about,” Tseng suggests, “We figure out a way to save him?”
“Save him?” Reno laughs bitterly. “I already saved him, didn’t I? Went speeding all the damn way to fucking Junon, and I get there and it’s too late. And then I got him out of the tank and it’s too late. And then I got back to Midgar and it’s too late. It’s always too late. It’s all too late.” He slumps back against the seat, eyes suspiciously bloodshot.
“It’s never too late,” Rude says, folding his arms, and eying his partner with concern.
“Yeah? After a while you ditch a mission cos you’re losing way more than you can afford to lose. I tried, right? You heard what the bastard said. ‘I am the President.’ President, bullshit!”
Tseng opens his mouth to speak, but Reno beats him to the punch.
“I tried, right? Fat lot of good that bleeding does when he doesn’t even bloody remember me. You think I’ve given up? Damn well I’ve given up. It’s one thing to go after an enemy when he’s in your sights... and another to fight against something when... when you’ve been fucking erased, that’s what it is. I don’t exist to him any more. Everything that we did, we had...”
Rude is silent, and Tseng takes a cue from him, letting Reno rant. Letting the poison leak from the wound. It’s not the end. He’s sure of it. He has faith in his Turks to see any mission to the bitter end. But even then, despair and frustration are not unfamiliar to them. To him. And he remembers, back in his own past: I can’t do this / I can’t be Director / no one can be Director after Veld / I can’t. do. this!
“Reno.” He settles into the seat opposite Reno, as his bitter ranting winds down. Reaching forward, he swipes the can from Reno’s hands. “Listen to me.”
“Hey, give that back.” The protest is half-hearted, though, and Reno’s swipe misses completely.
“I will talk to Rufus,” Tseng says. “And I assign you as his personal escort until further notice.”
“The last thing I wanna do is to be next to that asshole all-”
“Look at me,” Tseng says.
Reno blinks.
“Look me in the eye and say that, if you can.”
“Shit, I-”
“Say it.”
Silence falls. Reno glares at him, the mako light in his eyes glowing in response to his agitation and fury. His hands clench into fists, and Tseng is sure that the nails are biting into his palms hard enough to leave grooves. And still he says nothing.
“Tell me you’re happier abandoning him to this fate,” Tseng says, low and venomous. “To the demons in his head, to the lies, the memories he’s lost. To the machinations of his father, reaching out to manipulate him even from beyond the grave. Tell me you’d desert him in his hour of need.”
Reno’s jaw locks. The muscles in his neck stand out in clear relief as he clenches his teeth. And he looks away. “Give me back my damn beer.”
Tseng waits another moment before pushing the can back across the table. Reno grabs it, and takes a long, hard pull.
“You will stay by Rufus’ side,” Tseng orders. “You will find out what they have done to him - you will talk to him, make him remember. And you will protect him from any threats... and from himself.”
“You’re a bastard, Tseng,” Reno growls, crumpling the can and tossing it against the wall.
Tseng smirks, and tosses him a new can. “Thank you.”
Reno raises his chin. “Fat lotta good it’ll do...”
“It was an order,” Tseng says. “Not a request.”
Reno just glares.
Point XIII - Blood in the Night
FF7 - Rating: PG-13 - Part 13/? - Warnings: Violence
Pairings: Rufus/Reno (established) - Status: In progress, incomplete.
For codename_scar, because people don't forget that easily.
Summary: "You're stuck on the shores of Hell, and the only way out...is through." Shinra moves against its own, the President against the Vice President, with the Turks caught in between. All loyalties and motives are called into question, and as the Company comes under attack by enemies, the Turks are forced to question just who and what they are fighting for.
Chapter Summary: Where there is blood spilt, and a new regime is formed.
Point XIII - Blood in the Night
They’ve been to Junon and they’re halfway back to Midgar when the word arrives.
Rufus listens impassively to the report, to the SOLDIER whose terse tones betray just the slightest edge of hysteria. The pilot glances at him, waiting on his order. The very world seems to have come to a halt, and they are suspended in the dark, just another star amidst the fields above.
Attack on Shinra Tower, they say. The President was targeted. Sephiroth returned from the dead to do it.
Rufus doesn’t move because it feels like all the blood in his body has turned to ice. For a moment, he can’t move, and the voice of the SOLDIER requesting orders is just a buzz in his ears.
The President was targeted. They have not been able to contact his office or his guards. There was a team dispatched to check, but they were killed.
The President was targeted and is suspected to be dead.
He doesn’t hear the rest, about the casualty reports. He tries to move a jaw that has locked shut, but it seems that he can’t pry his teeth apart.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
He can’t be. They hadn’t even had time to talk...
“General Heidegger has-”
That name is like a burst of bolt lightning to the senses. He sits up, draws a breath that is more painful than it should be, and there’s a snarl on his lips when he replies. “General Heidegger is not the President.”
“Sir-”
“In the event of the death or incapacitation of the President,” Rufus’ voice is low and ominous, “His designated successor is me.”
“Sir!”
“Gun it,” he snaps at the pilot. And to the accompanying SOLDIER, “Pass me my shotgun.”
His heart is a frozen thing in his chest. There’s so much conflicting emotion that he can barely keep track of it, and he deals with it the only way he knows how to - by bottling it up completely. Dark Nation brushes against his foot, and he reaches down to run fingers through his soft fur, the action strangely soothing. Outside, the mountains are whipping by, replaced quickly by long grass, and the glitter of Midgar in the distance.
It looks exactly the same as the millions of times he’s made this flight. He doesn’t believe... he can’t believe that his father is dead. And while half of him crows in victory that the Presidency is his at last, the other half of his mind is screaming.
The helicopter blades whirr, but it is not an airship, and it takes time. Rufus’ fingers have lost blood, gripped as tightly as they are around the stock of his shotgun. Reports come in, all painting a scene of disaster. Teams of SOLDIER have been slaughtered. The defence of the tower is in shambles. And there are dangerous prisoners on the loose, terrorists that were held at building.
“Fix it,” Rufus snaps, and the reply comes back ‘yes sir, we’ll do that sir’, but no one seems to be able to do anything. Rufus gnashes his teeth in frustration and growing fury, and he swears that whoever is responsible for this is going to beg for death by the time he’s done with them.
Dark Nation growls, sensing his mood, and his hand falls to his collar. He subsides, clearly unhappy. But they’re over Midgar now, the lights of the reactors glowing like tiny suns in the dark. The Tower is right ahead of them, and it looks the same as it always has, and for a moment, Rufus is almost convinced that this entire thing was a prank.
But then another call comes in, something about the terrorists moving up to the President’s office, and Rufus’ voice is pure venom as he orders someone to stop them.
Not possible, the reply comes back. The contingent of SOLDIER 1st assigned to guard the upper floors was slaughtered...
“Five minutes to landing, sir. Please stan-”
“I’ll jump,” Rufus snaps, terminating the useless report in mid-sentence and glowering at the pilot. “Head to the rooftop helicopter pad. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
The pilot stares at him for a moment. “It’s dangero-”
Rufus’ voice is silk over cold steel as he replies. “Then it’s your responsibility to ensure that I don’t break anything, isn’t it?”
“Sir.”
His escort moves to unbolt the door. Rufus stands, shotgun slung over one arm. Shinra Tower spins dizzily into view beneath them, and the wind that gusts past his face is cold enough to have knives in it.
*
Reno can’t actually believe it when they wake him up for the second time that night. They’d just told him that it could wait for morning, and sure, it’s an ungodly hour of the morning, but ... still! Morning means morning, you know, sunrise and tweety birds and all that bullshit. On good days, morning means afternoon, but those days are few and far between.
“Nice joke,” he says to Stan. “Now shut up and let me sleep-”
“It’s no joke.” Stan is white and shaking, and there isn’t much in the way of bad news that can shake the doctor.
“Fuck,” Reno says, eloquently, moving for his PHS... then decides there’s no time. “Where’s Rufus?” Safely in Junon, right. Please say that he’s safely in Junon...
“On his way back.”
Reno is on his feet in a second, injuries and drugs and everything be damned. He knew it. Knew it. Can’t get a good night’s sleep without everything going to hell. “Adrenaline shot,” he yells. “Now!”
Stan doesn’t even argue.
*
Screaming.
Something in his head is screaming. It’s almost familiar. He thinks it might be himself, trapped in the dark...
No.
He’s here. He can feel the wind on his face. He can feel the shotgun in his hand. The grip is slick with blood. It trails down the stock, red on silver.
Red on the floor.
No.
He’s here now, and the damn wind is making his coat flap. And his jacket is a bloody, bloody mess. There is pain, but it is a muffled, distant thing
like a fragmentation round to the shoulder
“Damnit, will you shut the hell up?” he hisses furiously at the mental voice. The thrice damned wind cold as the wastes of the Icicle Area steals the words, whips them far from the hovering spectators, and for that he’s grateful. He can’t let them hear this. He can’t fall apart now, for all that it feels like his mind is a morass of clamouring voices, too many stimuli, too many thoughts, too many voices--
He takes a deep breath, and silences the clamour with one, single thought.
He’s the President of Shinra.
He’s declared it with his own voice. Sealed it in blood, that is splashed liberally across the rooftop, the SOLDIER’s, his own, and Dark Nation’s.
He should be celebrating.
Instead, he’s hunched over before his father’s desk, using the shotgun as a prop, and something in his head won’t shut up.
He can hear the whispers from the crowd behind him. Something in him knows that he’s not cutting the fine figure that the President of Shinra Company should. It doesn’t matter; fear will keep them in line. They know it - he has announced his intention to rule by the iron fist, after all, loud and clear, and without embellishment. Something in him keeps telling him it’s wrong, naïve, simplistic, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that fear holds them back, and they’re not touching him, not right now, and that’s-
“Rufus!”
--that’s just fine.
“Rufus!”
Two corpses sacrificed to the start of his Presidency. Dark Nation at his feet, his father before him. His enemies escaped. He can’t tear his eyes from the scene before him - the sign of death, the blade of the masamune glitters brighter than any star tonight.
I will have revenge, he thinks. I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth--
“Rufus, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Something breaks through the circle of onlookers and he glances up sharply. Fitting that it’s red, the colour of blood. The colour of this night. Red and black and white, it shoves people aside with reckless abandon, trying desperately to reach his side.
for Odin’s sake, you nitwit, that’s ...
...that’s...
No one, he thinks, but the next moment he’s enfolded in an embrace, and there are arms yanking him close, a chin on his shoulder, and a voice all but sobbing in his ear: “You stupid shit, why the hell did you go and do that for? You could have gotten yourself killed! Now quit-”
He still has enough control in his injured arm to drag it up, even as he tears lose. Unsteady legs bring him two steps back, and then the shotgun is between both of them, the barrel clearly centred over the stranger’s heart.
“Stand down, dog.”
The stranger’s eyes widen, and betrayal seeps into them like blood across a bandage. He sees the other’s jaw move, the struggle for words almost painful, before his jaw goes slack in utter shock. Then a muscle twitches, fingers curl into fists, and the stranger is yelling, slamming the gun barrel aside, surging forward to grab him by the lapels. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Get your ass down to medical now, because you’re either fucking delirious or someone hit you over the head too damn hard!”
He can make out the tremor in the other’s shouts, though. Uncertainty laces the stranger’s words like poison. He smiles, the smirk of a predator that is amused by its prey’s attempts at resistance. “Do not presume to order me around,” he says, voice dropping to a sibilant hiss, one that is barely audible over the roar of the wind or is it the roaring in his ears the constant noise that rises and falls and rises and falls just won’t go away?
And, more effective than any bullets, the words hit the mark. The stranger physically stumbles back a step. How strange, he wonders. It is almost as though the stranger expected something completely different from him. As though he presumed to intimacy...
...hm.
He wonders what could he have done to give anyone such an impression of closeness. It’s almost as though they have some sort of history, but that’s nonsense. Impossible. He hasn’t been close to anyone in years. There hasn’t been anyone even remotely interesting enough
except
...
“Reno!” a new voice axes through the fray, and the crowds are parting again. Rufus watches them move, and he does not miss the looks of apprehension that some of them bestow on the newcomer. Clearly, someone important. Clearly, someone they live in fear of...
The newcomer is Wutainese, and the sight of him moving to the first stranger’s shoulder sends a wave of disorientation through him that’s almost physical. He frowns, as thoughts seem to skitter through his mind and disappear into dust. He snatches at them, then growls in pure frustration as they elude him. He doesn’t have time for this; his Presidency is waiting, the Company - no, the world is watching.
“Take him away,” he orders, gesturing at the red-haired stranger. Reno, the other called him... The Wutainese - Shen... Zeng...? gives him a sharp glance, then nods his head in acquiescence, and moves.
“Fuck that!” the redhead yells, even as he’s grabbed. “Rufus! Rufus, listen to me-”
His chin comes up, and anger settles like ice crystals onto his words. “I am the President. You will address me as such.”
The Wutainese -- Tseng... wasn’t he killed? -- hisses something to the... to Reno, possibly an order to stand down. Rufus is already turning away, he truly does not care, and the longer he entertains this rabble, the more they’ll demand it. “My apologies for that, sir,” Tseng says, calm and professional. “What are your orders?”
He pauses. There’s a glint of challenge in dark eyes, and even Reno has shut up and is listening intently. Trap, he thinks. A test...
I should know him. Why don’t I know him?
“The terrorists,” he says, improvising. “Hunt them down.”
Without waiting for the other’s acknowledgement, he turns, sweeping out in a flurry of white.
*
“I don’t believe this.” It’s the first words that Reno has spoken since they came down from the roof.
Tseng’s not sure he believes it either - there’s been no yelling, no copious amounts of destruction Reno has gone disturbingly quiet instead, slumped on the sofas of the lounge. His eyes are locked onto nothing, and as Tseng watches, he mechanically lifts the beer can to his lips and takes another swallow.
Tseng exchanges a look with Rude. The other Turk shakes his head and shrugs.
“The terrorists are heading out of Midgar,” he says.
“Let them,” Reno shrugs, tossing back another mouthful, before reaching for his sixth can. “Got anything stronger?”
Tseng ignores his question. “We should set off in pursuit. Their likely destination is Kalm, to restock and retrieve supplies. And then...”
“Junon,” Rude adds. “If they wish to escape from us. They will have to cross the mountains, or go by chocobo through the swamp, through the mithril mines.”
“Who cares?” Reno says, thunking the can down on the table. “I mean, save for that bastard up on the roof.” He hiccups, wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket. “And who cares about that bastard anyway...”
Tseng’s lip curls. “What do you have in mind, Reno?”
“First, I’m gonna finish the beer. Then I’m gonna finish everything else in the liquor cabinet. Maybe I’ll raid his office - oops, I mean his old office - he’s gotta nice stash there. And he won’t need it any more, on account of his being President and all that shit.”
“How about,” Tseng suggests, “We figure out a way to save him?”
“Save him?” Reno laughs bitterly. “I already saved him, didn’t I? Went speeding all the damn way to fucking Junon, and I get there and it’s too late. And then I got him out of the tank and it’s too late. And then I got back to Midgar and it’s too late. It’s always too late. It’s all too late.” He slumps back against the seat, eyes suspiciously bloodshot.
“It’s never too late,” Rude says, folding his arms, and eying his partner with concern.
“Yeah? After a while you ditch a mission cos you’re losing way more than you can afford to lose. I tried, right? You heard what the bastard said. ‘I am the President.’ President, bullshit!”
Tseng opens his mouth to speak, but Reno beats him to the punch.
“I tried, right? Fat lot of good that bleeding does when he doesn’t even bloody remember me. You think I’ve given up? Damn well I’ve given up. It’s one thing to go after an enemy when he’s in your sights... and another to fight against something when... when you’ve been fucking erased, that’s what it is. I don’t exist to him any more. Everything that we did, we had...”
Rude is silent, and Tseng takes a cue from him, letting Reno rant. Letting the poison leak from the wound. It’s not the end. He’s sure of it. He has faith in his Turks to see any mission to the bitter end. But even then, despair and frustration are not unfamiliar to them. To him. And he remembers, back in his own past: I can’t do this / I can’t be Director / no one can be Director after Veld / I can’t. do. this!
“Reno.” He settles into the seat opposite Reno, as his bitter ranting winds down. Reaching forward, he swipes the can from Reno’s hands. “Listen to me.”
“Hey, give that back.” The protest is half-hearted, though, and Reno’s swipe misses completely.
“I will talk to Rufus,” Tseng says. “And I assign you as his personal escort until further notice.”
“The last thing I wanna do is to be next to that asshole all-”
“Look at me,” Tseng says.
Reno blinks.
“Look me in the eye and say that, if you can.”
“Shit, I-”
“Say it.”
Silence falls. Reno glares at him, the mako light in his eyes glowing in response to his agitation and fury. His hands clench into fists, and Tseng is sure that the nails are biting into his palms hard enough to leave grooves. And still he says nothing.
“Tell me you’re happier abandoning him to this fate,” Tseng says, low and venomous. “To the demons in his head, to the lies, the memories he’s lost. To the machinations of his father, reaching out to manipulate him even from beyond the grave. Tell me you’d desert him in his hour of need.”
Reno’s jaw locks. The muscles in his neck stand out in clear relief as he clenches his teeth. And he looks away. “Give me back my damn beer.”
Tseng waits another moment before pushing the can back across the table. Reno grabs it, and takes a long, hard pull.
“You will stay by Rufus’ side,” Tseng orders. “You will find out what they have done to him - you will talk to him, make him remember. And you will protect him from any threats... and from himself.”
“You’re a bastard, Tseng,” Reno growls, crumpling the can and tossing it against the wall.
Tseng smirks, and tosses him a new can. “Thank you.”
Reno raises his chin. “Fat lotta good it’ll do...”
“It was an order,” Tseng says. “Not a request.”
Reno just glares.