[FF7-AC] Opportunity Cost
[FF7-AC] Opportunity Cost
Rating: PG - Oneshot, Complete - Warnings: None
Characters: Rufus, Turks (Gen)
Timeline: Pre-AC
Summary: Fighting the war against Geostigma, with finite resources. Rufus, tough choices, and maturity.
A/N: Re-archived for posterity. For some reason, I realised that I hadn't uploaded this here. Not my best work, looking back... (No other fic this weekend, sorry.)
It was getting harder to focus.
The words on the paper blurred in and out, his eyes tracking wildly over diagrams and charts and long paragraphs of unreadable text as another bolt of pain derailed his concentration.
He steeled himself against it, shoving it to the back of his mind as he lifted the paper up to bring it closer to his eyes. Ignored the pain, like he ignored the trickle he could feel, mapping down from the back of his right hand to soak into the sleeve of his dress shirt.
The clock ticked in the silence, counting away long, agonized seconds. The Turks would be back soon, he told himself, bearing the supply of painkillers he so desperately needed at this point. The only things that did anything for this nameless condition that was steadily killing the young and infirm out there.
And the President of Shinra Inc himself.
A hiss of air escaped between clenched teeth, lost on the razor edge of another spasm. His hand clenched involuntarily, fingers ripping into the paper, and the crunch was harsh in his ears. Another shudder, and he had to force himself to pry his fingers apart, to let the sheet fall before he did it any more damage.
His elbows came down hard on the table after that, the chair shoved back with a shriek as he hunched over, wincing. The vision in his right eye exploded into white static just before he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to scream. It would bring the doctors running, and the last thing he needed was more of their useless babbling and urging him to go to bed. It wasn’t as if he could sleep, or that sleep did anything for it-
--he bit his tongue and drew blood, rancid and coppery in his mouth and all too reminiscent of the day he’d awoken here, in Healing Lodge, with medical staff bustling around him and refusing to meet his eyes. Terrified of what the young, enigmatic President would do to the bearers of bad news.
Find the cure, he had rasped, forcing words through a throat brutally burnt by the explosion of Weapon’s blast.
His forehead found the cool surface of the desk and he let it rest there, while the fingers of his left hand sought and clawed in around the wrist of his right, nails tearing at unaffected skin in an attempt to relieve the throbbing.
Don’t tell me there isn’t a cure, he had yelled, furiously signing the papers that would channel Shinra’s bleeding resources to the various research teams that were investigating this mysterious illness. Stop telling me it’s impossible and do something about it!
Tseng had held him as he nearly slumped over from a fit of coughing after that, he remembered, loaned him a handkerchief when he stared dully at the red splashed across his hand and the table below. Had asked him, softly, if he’d like to take a rest.
A city is not metal and stone, he had said, mind lost on another train of thought. Midgar destroyed is still Midgar, if it’s people live. And any threat to them is a threat to my city, and I will take action.
Tick, and he opened his eyes again, the entire field of vision to his right side obliterated as a gray mess. Tick, he became conscious of little things again, the staccato hiccup of his breathing, the hum of his computer, the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside.
He sat up, knocking something to the floor when his vision spiraled into two, depth perception gone crazy. It didn’t matter. He’d find it later. Most importantly, they were back-
“--Yeah, but it sure as hell doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”
Reno?
“They will help the President far more than they will help her.”
“Senpai, I’m so sorry. But she’s going to die soon anyway…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know.”
“Would you rather see him suffer?” Tseng’s voice, raised and suddenly sharp. And the sound of people shushing him, all too aware that the walls weren’t as thick as the ones they’d been used to back in Headquarters.
What on earth is going on? Rufus wondered, smoothing down his hair and shuffling his papers into order.
There was a deferential knock on the door.
“Enter,” he called.
“Sir.” The door opened to reveal Tseng, with Reno standing behind him. Rude and Elena shuffling in behind them, reeking of discomfort and unspoken secrets.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“Nothing, sir. We have-“
He caught Tseng’s gaze and held it, and the Turk glanced away. “This is the last batch that’s available for a while. They’re perilously low on supplies, and the next shipment is only due in a couple of days’ time.”
Rufus’ eyes flicked across the four, lighting at last on Reno, leaning back against the wall and arms folded across his chest. The Turk was attempting to look nonchalant, and was only succeeding in looking vaguely sulky.
“Reno.”
The Turk in question started, arms coming down as his gaze spun from Tseng to meet his.
“Explain.”
“It’s nothing, chief.”
Rufus let his gaze harden, as he sat back and regarded his Turks. “I do not appreciate being lied to.” Especially by my most trusted of aides.
“It’s like this, sir,” Elena started, but he cut her off with an upraised hand, ignoring Tseng’s start at the sight of his Geostigma stained sleeve.
“I asked Reno,” he said.
Green eyes narrowed, before turning away, and Reno sighed. “There’s a girl, chief. But it doesn’t matter, cos she’s dying any way.”
Which was no explanation at all, but he had long mastered the fine art of piecing information together. Tseng’s knuckles were white around the package he clutched, and Elena looked like she was about to cry.
“Who is this girl to you, Reno?”
Reno bit his lip. “Old friend.”
“How serious is her condition?”
“Look,” Reno said, whirling to face him. “Just take the damn stuff, okay? It’s bad enough without you being difficult about the whole thing-“
Rufus’ sharp glance forestalled any action on Tseng’s part. “I understand. Is this person at Healing?”
“Yes sir,” Rude answered, when no one else would reply.
“I see.” And it was obvious to him now: there was someone dying, in mortal agony, and a shortage of medicine to ease her passing.
Tick, the clock went.
How is it, he wondered, when this disease progresses at last to its final stages?
The mind boggled at the thought of it being worse than what he’d already endured.
“I would like to see her, then.” He took a deep breath and stood, cutting off the chorus of protests in mid-sentence. There was a bite of pain from his right leg; beneath white fabric, the first spirals of black were starting to appear. He ignored it like he ignored the rest of the symptoms - his gradually failing eyesight, the splotches on his torso that were darkening to match the shade on the back of his hand and his neck, the nagging thought of being blind, and crippled, and helpless.
Courage had nothing to do with it, he reflected, as he led the way out of his office, attempting not to limp. Fear, on the other hand, had plenty. If he only thought about it, if he only let the thought sink in and hit home, he feared greatly that all his fake stoicism and nonchalance would break under the weight of that straw. And if hope failed, he truly had nothing left.
Failure was not an option. He would never take no for an answer. He could not.
The walk to the public wing of Healing Lodge was not particularly long. Rufus had appropriated a section for his own use, but it was a handful of rooms, insufficient, even, when all four Turks were in residence. He allowed Tseng to overtake him when he neared the double doors that separated them from the main part of the lodge, wondering as he did if the Director could see through the façade, could see him breaking, slowly but surely, under the weight of despair.
If Tseng knew, he made no sign of it.
The doors parted, and the chemical stench of sterilized corridors assaulted his senses. He had long since learnt to hate it. Tseng brought them past stretches of wards, where Elena winced at the groans of the sick and the dying, and Reno and Rude averted their eyes.
And finally, Tseng paused, half turning. “I must state for the record, Rufus-sama, that I am opposed to this.”
“Your objection is noted,” he said.
And he stepped into the room.
He didn’t know how long he stood, there, staring down at the figure in the bed. She might have been pretty, once, before the Geostigma claimed half her face and left the other side a sickly, pasty shade of white. He’d half expected to see someone trashing around in agony as she died, but she was still. Too still, almost, except for fingers gone almost skeletal that clutched sporadically at the sheets. Too weak to move.
Pity stirred, faintly, but he had seen too much death before to be disturbed by yet another one. Worse and messier death too - soldiers cut in half by Weapon’s blasts, videos of atrocities done in Wutai, and of course, the brutality of the Slums.
The figure before him cried out, and out of the corner of his eye, Rufus saw Reno turn sharply away.
Finite resources. Opportunity cost, some voice was saying inanely in the back of his head. Words from a tutor long gone, words that he’d never really understood the meaning of.
There was no point in giving her medication that wasn’t going to save her anyway. Not when he desperately needed it as well. Not when every hour that he spent lucid and clear headed meant far more done to the restoration of Midgar than-
--than the last hours of a dying person?
His right hand clenched, Geostigma flaring again.
Rufus Shinra, he thought. The boy who owned the world.
And yes, he had made sacrifices before. Time. Opportunities. Donations to public charities. The Company’s resources devoted to public causes. But this was different. This was personal. And he had every reason in the world to say no. There was nothing to be gained by giving away.
And yet he was standing there, transfixed, ignoring Tseng’s quiet suggestions that he leave. From the window he could see the distant wreck that was Midgar, could see the road that wound away towards it, dotted with what might have been people.
Shinra Company has a great debt to repay the world.
That had been his one thought, as Meteor came screaming from the sky, while others averted their gaze and closed their eyes. And he had stood there, fingers curled around the window sill, staring it down the same way he had stared his own imminent death in the face.
And, hope beyond all hope, they had all been saved, and he had been given the chance to repay that debt. And yet, even as he worked towards it every day of the year that had passed, he didn’t know why he was doing it.
Who am I trying to convince?
“Chief,” Reno said behind him, “Could we leave now?”
He nearly turned at that, hearing, for the first time in his life, a note of real pain in the normally unflappable Turk’s voice. And in that instant, he saw it - the reason, the motivation that had captured him on that distant day, laid out before him in crystalline perfection. The world, he thought, the sudden flash of revelation like a bolt of silver from the sky, Isn’t-
--red exploded in his vision on a wave of pain, and he felt his legs give way. He tried to reach out, to break his fall, but his right arm wouldn’t respond, and everything spiraled crazily into black as he toppled.
“Rufus. Rufus.”
Vision returned, slowly, shakily, and out of focus. He found himself in the same room, head pillowed against Tseng’s chest and an arm wrapped around his shoulders where the Turk had evidently broken his fall. “Sir, we should get you back.”
He shook his head, while his brain frantically tried to recover the strands of thought. He had been on the verge of something important, he recalled, something that had to be done right here, right now.
“Elena,” Tseng called sharply. “Pass me a syringe.”
“No,” he said. Quickly. Urgently. “No. Give it to her.”
He heard Reno gasp. He saw Tseng turned to stare at him, shock written clearly on his face. “Are you--“ Rude started, but Elena beat him to it. “No, sir!”
“I gave you an order,” he growled, pushing himself away from Tseng and wishing that he could trust his feet.
“Sir!”
“It’s important.” He cradled his aching head in his hands, feeling a migraine building steadily. Squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to remember. “It’s important.”
“You need it more than she does, sir,” Tseng said.
“No. That’s… not the point.” He drove a thumb against his temple, trying to massage away the burn. “Shinra Company owes the world a debt…”
“…this is not the way to repay it.”
And at last, like catching the reflection of a beam of light off a shattered fragment on the floor, he had it. A shard, all that was left of whatever he had thought of before, but it was enough. “No.” He let his hand fall, feeling the black ooze trailing down his little finger. “If we don’t act in the smallest of places, and the smallest of ways, how can we expect to accomplish any of the big things?” He opened his eyes, a ghost of a smile lightening his features. “It’s a clear day. There’ll be a gorgeous sunset. Let her have that much, at least.”
Tseng helped him to his feet, and he stared down, one last time, at the woman. Nameless to him, as he would remain nameless to her. There would be no thank yous from this one, and she would not be going out onto the streets to proclaim what Shinra had done for her. There would be no return on investment at all, and he himself would be spending the night screaming into the pillow. And yet, somehow, it felt more real than anything he had ever done.
The world is not just metal and stone, the thought had begun. But life itself, whose value cannot be calculated. The Company does not owe its debts to the ruins of a city, ... but to people.
The rest was lost, pages of a book ripped away. But he would find it again one day, he was sure. Or write it anew.
“We will find a cure,” he promised the comatose figure. “We will not fail.”
-End-
Rating: PG - Oneshot, Complete - Warnings: None
Characters: Rufus, Turks (Gen)
Timeline: Pre-AC
Summary: Fighting the war against Geostigma, with finite resources. Rufus, tough choices, and maturity.
A/N: Re-archived for posterity. For some reason, I realised that I hadn't uploaded this here. Not my best work, looking back... (No other fic this weekend, sorry.)
It was getting harder to focus.
The words on the paper blurred in and out, his eyes tracking wildly over diagrams and charts and long paragraphs of unreadable text as another bolt of pain derailed his concentration.
He steeled himself against it, shoving it to the back of his mind as he lifted the paper up to bring it closer to his eyes. Ignored the pain, like he ignored the trickle he could feel, mapping down from the back of his right hand to soak into the sleeve of his dress shirt.
The clock ticked in the silence, counting away long, agonized seconds. The Turks would be back soon, he told himself, bearing the supply of painkillers he so desperately needed at this point. The only things that did anything for this nameless condition that was steadily killing the young and infirm out there.
And the President of Shinra Inc himself.
A hiss of air escaped between clenched teeth, lost on the razor edge of another spasm. His hand clenched involuntarily, fingers ripping into the paper, and the crunch was harsh in his ears. Another shudder, and he had to force himself to pry his fingers apart, to let the sheet fall before he did it any more damage.
His elbows came down hard on the table after that, the chair shoved back with a shriek as he hunched over, wincing. The vision in his right eye exploded into white static just before he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to scream. It would bring the doctors running, and the last thing he needed was more of their useless babbling and urging him to go to bed. It wasn’t as if he could sleep, or that sleep did anything for it-
--he bit his tongue and drew blood, rancid and coppery in his mouth and all too reminiscent of the day he’d awoken here, in Healing Lodge, with medical staff bustling around him and refusing to meet his eyes. Terrified of what the young, enigmatic President would do to the bearers of bad news.
Find the cure, he had rasped, forcing words through a throat brutally burnt by the explosion of Weapon’s blast.
His forehead found the cool surface of the desk and he let it rest there, while the fingers of his left hand sought and clawed in around the wrist of his right, nails tearing at unaffected skin in an attempt to relieve the throbbing.
Don’t tell me there isn’t a cure, he had yelled, furiously signing the papers that would channel Shinra’s bleeding resources to the various research teams that were investigating this mysterious illness. Stop telling me it’s impossible and do something about it!
Tseng had held him as he nearly slumped over from a fit of coughing after that, he remembered, loaned him a handkerchief when he stared dully at the red splashed across his hand and the table below. Had asked him, softly, if he’d like to take a rest.
A city is not metal and stone, he had said, mind lost on another train of thought. Midgar destroyed is still Midgar, if it’s people live. And any threat to them is a threat to my city, and I will take action.
Tick, and he opened his eyes again, the entire field of vision to his right side obliterated as a gray mess. Tick, he became conscious of little things again, the staccato hiccup of his breathing, the hum of his computer, the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside.
He sat up, knocking something to the floor when his vision spiraled into two, depth perception gone crazy. It didn’t matter. He’d find it later. Most importantly, they were back-
“--Yeah, but it sure as hell doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”
Reno?
“They will help the President far more than they will help her.”
“Senpai, I’m so sorry. But she’s going to die soon anyway…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know.”
“Would you rather see him suffer?” Tseng’s voice, raised and suddenly sharp. And the sound of people shushing him, all too aware that the walls weren’t as thick as the ones they’d been used to back in Headquarters.
What on earth is going on? Rufus wondered, smoothing down his hair and shuffling his papers into order.
There was a deferential knock on the door.
“Enter,” he called.
“Sir.” The door opened to reveal Tseng, with Reno standing behind him. Rude and Elena shuffling in behind them, reeking of discomfort and unspoken secrets.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“Nothing, sir. We have-“
He caught Tseng’s gaze and held it, and the Turk glanced away. “This is the last batch that’s available for a while. They’re perilously low on supplies, and the next shipment is only due in a couple of days’ time.”
Rufus’ eyes flicked across the four, lighting at last on Reno, leaning back against the wall and arms folded across his chest. The Turk was attempting to look nonchalant, and was only succeeding in looking vaguely sulky.
“Reno.”
The Turk in question started, arms coming down as his gaze spun from Tseng to meet his.
“Explain.”
“It’s nothing, chief.”
Rufus let his gaze harden, as he sat back and regarded his Turks. “I do not appreciate being lied to.” Especially by my most trusted of aides.
“It’s like this, sir,” Elena started, but he cut her off with an upraised hand, ignoring Tseng’s start at the sight of his Geostigma stained sleeve.
“I asked Reno,” he said.
Green eyes narrowed, before turning away, and Reno sighed. “There’s a girl, chief. But it doesn’t matter, cos she’s dying any way.”
Which was no explanation at all, but he had long mastered the fine art of piecing information together. Tseng’s knuckles were white around the package he clutched, and Elena looked like she was about to cry.
“Who is this girl to you, Reno?”
Reno bit his lip. “Old friend.”
“How serious is her condition?”
“Look,” Reno said, whirling to face him. “Just take the damn stuff, okay? It’s bad enough without you being difficult about the whole thing-“
Rufus’ sharp glance forestalled any action on Tseng’s part. “I understand. Is this person at Healing?”
“Yes sir,” Rude answered, when no one else would reply.
“I see.” And it was obvious to him now: there was someone dying, in mortal agony, and a shortage of medicine to ease her passing.
Tick, the clock went.
How is it, he wondered, when this disease progresses at last to its final stages?
The mind boggled at the thought of it being worse than what he’d already endured.
“I would like to see her, then.” He took a deep breath and stood, cutting off the chorus of protests in mid-sentence. There was a bite of pain from his right leg; beneath white fabric, the first spirals of black were starting to appear. He ignored it like he ignored the rest of the symptoms - his gradually failing eyesight, the splotches on his torso that were darkening to match the shade on the back of his hand and his neck, the nagging thought of being blind, and crippled, and helpless.
Courage had nothing to do with it, he reflected, as he led the way out of his office, attempting not to limp. Fear, on the other hand, had plenty. If he only thought about it, if he only let the thought sink in and hit home, he feared greatly that all his fake stoicism and nonchalance would break under the weight of that straw. And if hope failed, he truly had nothing left.
Failure was not an option. He would never take no for an answer. He could not.
The walk to the public wing of Healing Lodge was not particularly long. Rufus had appropriated a section for his own use, but it was a handful of rooms, insufficient, even, when all four Turks were in residence. He allowed Tseng to overtake him when he neared the double doors that separated them from the main part of the lodge, wondering as he did if the Director could see through the façade, could see him breaking, slowly but surely, under the weight of despair.
If Tseng knew, he made no sign of it.
The doors parted, and the chemical stench of sterilized corridors assaulted his senses. He had long since learnt to hate it. Tseng brought them past stretches of wards, where Elena winced at the groans of the sick and the dying, and Reno and Rude averted their eyes.
And finally, Tseng paused, half turning. “I must state for the record, Rufus-sama, that I am opposed to this.”
“Your objection is noted,” he said.
And he stepped into the room.
He didn’t know how long he stood, there, staring down at the figure in the bed. She might have been pretty, once, before the Geostigma claimed half her face and left the other side a sickly, pasty shade of white. He’d half expected to see someone trashing around in agony as she died, but she was still. Too still, almost, except for fingers gone almost skeletal that clutched sporadically at the sheets. Too weak to move.
Pity stirred, faintly, but he had seen too much death before to be disturbed by yet another one. Worse and messier death too - soldiers cut in half by Weapon’s blasts, videos of atrocities done in Wutai, and of course, the brutality of the Slums.
The figure before him cried out, and out of the corner of his eye, Rufus saw Reno turn sharply away.
Finite resources. Opportunity cost, some voice was saying inanely in the back of his head. Words from a tutor long gone, words that he’d never really understood the meaning of.
There was no point in giving her medication that wasn’t going to save her anyway. Not when he desperately needed it as well. Not when every hour that he spent lucid and clear headed meant far more done to the restoration of Midgar than-
--than the last hours of a dying person?
His right hand clenched, Geostigma flaring again.
Rufus Shinra, he thought. The boy who owned the world.
And yes, he had made sacrifices before. Time. Opportunities. Donations to public charities. The Company’s resources devoted to public causes. But this was different. This was personal. And he had every reason in the world to say no. There was nothing to be gained by giving away.
And yet he was standing there, transfixed, ignoring Tseng’s quiet suggestions that he leave. From the window he could see the distant wreck that was Midgar, could see the road that wound away towards it, dotted with what might have been people.
Shinra Company has a great debt to repay the world.
That had been his one thought, as Meteor came screaming from the sky, while others averted their gaze and closed their eyes. And he had stood there, fingers curled around the window sill, staring it down the same way he had stared his own imminent death in the face.
And, hope beyond all hope, they had all been saved, and he had been given the chance to repay that debt. And yet, even as he worked towards it every day of the year that had passed, he didn’t know why he was doing it.
Who am I trying to convince?
“Chief,” Reno said behind him, “Could we leave now?”
He nearly turned at that, hearing, for the first time in his life, a note of real pain in the normally unflappable Turk’s voice. And in that instant, he saw it - the reason, the motivation that had captured him on that distant day, laid out before him in crystalline perfection. The world, he thought, the sudden flash of revelation like a bolt of silver from the sky, Isn’t-
--red exploded in his vision on a wave of pain, and he felt his legs give way. He tried to reach out, to break his fall, but his right arm wouldn’t respond, and everything spiraled crazily into black as he toppled.
“Rufus. Rufus.”
Vision returned, slowly, shakily, and out of focus. He found himself in the same room, head pillowed against Tseng’s chest and an arm wrapped around his shoulders where the Turk had evidently broken his fall. “Sir, we should get you back.”
He shook his head, while his brain frantically tried to recover the strands of thought. He had been on the verge of something important, he recalled, something that had to be done right here, right now.
“Elena,” Tseng called sharply. “Pass me a syringe.”
“No,” he said. Quickly. Urgently. “No. Give it to her.”
He heard Reno gasp. He saw Tseng turned to stare at him, shock written clearly on his face. “Are you--“ Rude started, but Elena beat him to it. “No, sir!”
“I gave you an order,” he growled, pushing himself away from Tseng and wishing that he could trust his feet.
“Sir!”
“It’s important.” He cradled his aching head in his hands, feeling a migraine building steadily. Squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to remember. “It’s important.”
“You need it more than she does, sir,” Tseng said.
“No. That’s… not the point.” He drove a thumb against his temple, trying to massage away the burn. “Shinra Company owes the world a debt…”
“…this is not the way to repay it.”
And at last, like catching the reflection of a beam of light off a shattered fragment on the floor, he had it. A shard, all that was left of whatever he had thought of before, but it was enough. “No.” He let his hand fall, feeling the black ooze trailing down his little finger. “If we don’t act in the smallest of places, and the smallest of ways, how can we expect to accomplish any of the big things?” He opened his eyes, a ghost of a smile lightening his features. “It’s a clear day. There’ll be a gorgeous sunset. Let her have that much, at least.”
Tseng helped him to his feet, and he stared down, one last time, at the woman. Nameless to him, as he would remain nameless to her. There would be no thank yous from this one, and she would not be going out onto the streets to proclaim what Shinra had done for her. There would be no return on investment at all, and he himself would be spending the night screaming into the pillow. And yet, somehow, it felt more real than anything he had ever done.
The world is not just metal and stone, the thought had begun. But life itself, whose value cannot be calculated. The Company does not owe its debts to the ruins of a city, ... but to people.
The rest was lost, pages of a book ripped away. But he would find it again one day, he was sure. Or write it anew.
“We will find a cure,” he promised the comatose figure. “We will not fail.”
-End-