Debt - Chapter 1
Characters: Rufus Shinra, Tseng, Mean-Mister-Meteor, and a well-known and well-loved supporting cast of Turks and Shinra executives.
Summary: Tseng is disabled after his encounter with Sephiroth, but Rufus has other ideas.
You best come see this for yourself, Cait Sith said, its intonations flat and lifeless, I'd rather not explain over the phone.
So Rufus came, drawn by dread and anger in equal measure, to this small Midgar hospital, 1am with Meteor blinking above his city of lights. He came without his great white overcoat, leaving Dark Nation at reception to walk unaccompanied down the intensive care unit corridor.
"Sir," three Turks say in unison as he enters the room. The fourth lies stretched out on the single bed, under clinically coloured cotton and surrounded by cables like the core of an organic machine. Rufus takes one look at Tseng's face, half-obscured by a mouthpiece holding tubing in place, and consciously tears his eyes away before anything but rage can affect his expression.
"He's alive," the president states the obvious to calm himself, buy himself more time. At the foot of the bed, Elena's posture stiffens, the clasped hands at her stomach tightening with the frown lines at her mouth. Rude looks at Reno as the latter looks down, away, smirking grimly and mumbling what sounds like poor sonnovabitch.
The only chair in the room is occupied by Cait Sith, large mittens resting on its tiny knees, crescent shaped eyes directed at Rufus. The whole scene could be comical, Rufus thinks distractedly, if viewed from a far enough distance, outside the interactive range of this situation like he wishes he could be.
"I was too late." Cait Sith's voice is deprived of its usual accent. The speech pattern is Reeve's alone. "Curative magic ensured his survival... but irreparable damage had already been done."
"Irreparable damage," Rufus repeats. In his peripheral vision, Elena bites her lower lip while Reno and Rude both shuffle, as if impatient.
Cait Sith bows its head. "He's not going to wake up, sir."
Rufus stares. The soft purr of the ventilator and the rhythmic beeping of monitoring equipment close in around him, ushering the sound of blood and panic in his ears. It takes precious seconds to rearrange his features, left askew by the shock of the news, and the awful realisation that all eyes are now on him, gouging for a reaction, does nothing to improve his mood.
"Sir-" Elena begins, and Rufus holds up a hand to stop her.
"What do you all think this is - a funeral?" he breathes, sounding frayed at the edges, alien to his own ears. "If there's nothing further to report, then get back to work."
"Don't make me repeat myself," he says a moment later, dangerously, when no one moves.
Rude shifts his weight, and with a just-audible sigh through his nose has brushed past the president and out the door. Reno shakes his head at the floor, ironic smile aimed at no one, tucks his hands into his pockets and saunters after his partner, pausing momentarily at level with Rufus as if wanting to say something but thinking better of it. Elena's wide brown eyes are trained like headlights in Rufus' direction.
"It's my fault." She swallows.
"I don't have time for this, Elena," Rufus sighs. Outside the window, Meteor is a singular star shining in the light-polluted sky.
"If I'd been with him when Sephiroth appeared-"
"Then I may now have two useless Turks on my hands instead of just one." He forces himself to look at her, straight into her blazing gaze and challenging it to affect him. "Indulge your sense of guilt elsewhere. I gave you an order; now leave."
Elena leaves, and Rufus takes three great, slow breaths before finally looking back at Tseng. He's never seen the director asleep, and this picture is surreal to the point of ludicrousness. Vulnerability is striking when so suddenly apparent; in Tseng, the Turk who had been practically subhuman, even the gently closed eyes and mechanical respiratory pattern of unconsciousness seem infinitely strange.
A silhouette against the glass over Midgar, as steely, cold, and precise as the manmade constructions below. What did Rufus expect Tseng to be crafted out of underneath the suit, if not bruised flesh and breakable bones?
"What do you plan to do?" Cait Sith asks, and Rufus turns his head, livid. Ah, Reeve is still here, he almost forgot. Reeve, with the luxury of an emotionless vessel to hide behind and whatever amount of time it took to calm himself. The president sneers, in self-defence.
"Go back to my office and finalise arrangements for the flight to Icicle," he answers, "or were you after something more specific?"
Cait Sith raises its head again, nothing perceivable on its doll's face, and Rufus hated its creator then.
"I know what protocol is," the toy says quietly, peacefully.
"Then you'll also know what happens to him is none of your concern," Rufus replies, bitter. Never was, never will be. "Get your robot out of here, Tuesti."
Cait Sith hops off the chair and pads out silently, without looking back. The door closes soundlessly behind it, and Rufus is finally free to relax, let his guard drop and his fists unclench. Alone with Tseng. Alone with the life support. He crosses the room to sink into the chair vacated by Cait Sith, threading his fingers together and stretching out his legs, exasperation now replacing the previous mask of rage. That exhaustion hanging off his shoulder blades will only become more debilitating, he knows, if he acknowledges its presence.
"I never took you for a traitor," Rufus mutters, his voice lonely and loud in the air above them. Tseng's silence rebuts more effectively than words, so the president swallows the next sour accusations threatening to roll off his tongue - something he's glad for, a second later, when a knock sounds at the door.
"Mr. Shinra," the doctor says, a fine mist of nervousness fogging her glasses, "is this a good time for us to have a chat about your friend?"
Friend. What a fine choice of term, Rufus muses darkly, as he tilts his head and waits for the woman to continue.
It's chilly outside, five degrees centigrade on a typical winter morning, and Rufus is more sensitive to the temperature now that adrenaline no longer coats his veins. Dark Nation yawns beside him, her breath rising in the yellow streetlamp lights, like the trail of ashen smoke leaving Reno's cigarette.
Rude nods to Rufus as he approaches, the president completely unsurprised to find two Turks waiting at the hospital entrance despite his previous order. He examines each face in turn, and, once satisfied there is no sympathy in either, speaks low and calm: "he has an organ donor card."
Reno chortles, exhaling smoke from both nostrils. "Fucking upstanding citizen, ain't he? Always best intentions at heart."
Rufus attempts a smirk, for courage. "They need my consent to begin the harvest."
"About as ceremonious an end as any Turk can hope for," Reno chimes, dropping the stub and grinding it into hard concrete. "Better the doctors get him, than the rats-"
"Reno," Rude warns levelly, "too soon."
The redhead shrugs, and the rest of the walk to the car-park is done in silence. The indistinct halo of light and smog in the sky draws the eyes like any beautiful disaster, growing perceivably larger with each passing day. Everything is only a matter of time. Muscular atrophy and an achingly slow degenerative process with no likelihood of recovery, every machine merely providing another layer of illusion. The kindest thing to do, explained the doctor with steadily rising colour, would be to let him go.
And admit defeat, bow to the accusations of an easy inheritance. Under the strain of 3am with destruction looming above and within, Rufus shivers lightly, and blames it on the cold.
Dark Nation jumps obediently into the backseat of Rufus' black Mercedes and he shuts the door behind her. Turning to the Turks standing at a respectable distance, the president breathes in, and allows himself a moment's hesitation. Apprehension. The decision solidifying at the back of his mind eats at logic like a cancerous growth.
"I declined." His hand supports an open driver's seat door. Emotional attachment, Tseng once told him, should never cloud good judgement. "There's something worth trying first."
Reno and Rude, professionals who had long learned the dangerous nature of hope, remain attentive but impassive.
"0600 hours in my office for new orders," Rufus says, sliding into his car. As the engine hums into life around him, only Dark Nation hears the president's next quiet mutter: "You're not getting off that easily, you bastard."
Summary: Tseng is disabled after his encounter with Sephiroth, but Rufus has other ideas.
You best come see this for yourself, Cait Sith said, its intonations flat and lifeless, I'd rather not explain over the phone.
So Rufus came, drawn by dread and anger in equal measure, to this small Midgar hospital, 1am with Meteor blinking above his city of lights. He came without his great white overcoat, leaving Dark Nation at reception to walk unaccompanied down the intensive care unit corridor.
"Sir," three Turks say in unison as he enters the room. The fourth lies stretched out on the single bed, under clinically coloured cotton and surrounded by cables like the core of an organic machine. Rufus takes one look at Tseng's face, half-obscured by a mouthpiece holding tubing in place, and consciously tears his eyes away before anything but rage can affect his expression.
"He's alive," the president states the obvious to calm himself, buy himself more time. At the foot of the bed, Elena's posture stiffens, the clasped hands at her stomach tightening with the frown lines at her mouth. Rude looks at Reno as the latter looks down, away, smirking grimly and mumbling what sounds like poor sonnovabitch.
The only chair in the room is occupied by Cait Sith, large mittens resting on its tiny knees, crescent shaped eyes directed at Rufus. The whole scene could be comical, Rufus thinks distractedly, if viewed from a far enough distance, outside the interactive range of this situation like he wishes he could be.
"I was too late." Cait Sith's voice is deprived of its usual accent. The speech pattern is Reeve's alone. "Curative magic ensured his survival... but irreparable damage had already been done."
"Irreparable damage," Rufus repeats. In his peripheral vision, Elena bites her lower lip while Reno and Rude both shuffle, as if impatient.
Cait Sith bows its head. "He's not going to wake up, sir."
Rufus stares. The soft purr of the ventilator and the rhythmic beeping of monitoring equipment close in around him, ushering the sound of blood and panic in his ears. It takes precious seconds to rearrange his features, left askew by the shock of the news, and the awful realisation that all eyes are now on him, gouging for a reaction, does nothing to improve his mood.
"Sir-" Elena begins, and Rufus holds up a hand to stop her.
"What do you all think this is - a funeral?" he breathes, sounding frayed at the edges, alien to his own ears. "If there's nothing further to report, then get back to work."
"Don't make me repeat myself," he says a moment later, dangerously, when no one moves.
Rude shifts his weight, and with a just-audible sigh through his nose has brushed past the president and out the door. Reno shakes his head at the floor, ironic smile aimed at no one, tucks his hands into his pockets and saunters after his partner, pausing momentarily at level with Rufus as if wanting to say something but thinking better of it. Elena's wide brown eyes are trained like headlights in Rufus' direction.
"It's my fault." She swallows.
"I don't have time for this, Elena," Rufus sighs. Outside the window, Meteor is a singular star shining in the light-polluted sky.
"If I'd been with him when Sephiroth appeared-"
"Then I may now have two useless Turks on my hands instead of just one." He forces himself to look at her, straight into her blazing gaze and challenging it to affect him. "Indulge your sense of guilt elsewhere. I gave you an order; now leave."
Elena leaves, and Rufus takes three great, slow breaths before finally looking back at Tseng. He's never seen the director asleep, and this picture is surreal to the point of ludicrousness. Vulnerability is striking when so suddenly apparent; in Tseng, the Turk who had been practically subhuman, even the gently closed eyes and mechanical respiratory pattern of unconsciousness seem infinitely strange.
A silhouette against the glass over Midgar, as steely, cold, and precise as the manmade constructions below. What did Rufus expect Tseng to be crafted out of underneath the suit, if not bruised flesh and breakable bones?
"What do you plan to do?" Cait Sith asks, and Rufus turns his head, livid. Ah, Reeve is still here, he almost forgot. Reeve, with the luxury of an emotionless vessel to hide behind and whatever amount of time it took to calm himself. The president sneers, in self-defence.
"Go back to my office and finalise arrangements for the flight to Icicle," he answers, "or were you after something more specific?"
Cait Sith raises its head again, nothing perceivable on its doll's face, and Rufus hated its creator then.
"I know what protocol is," the toy says quietly, peacefully.
"Then you'll also know what happens to him is none of your concern," Rufus replies, bitter. Never was, never will be. "Get your robot out of here, Tuesti."
Cait Sith hops off the chair and pads out silently, without looking back. The door closes soundlessly behind it, and Rufus is finally free to relax, let his guard drop and his fists unclench. Alone with Tseng. Alone with the life support. He crosses the room to sink into the chair vacated by Cait Sith, threading his fingers together and stretching out his legs, exasperation now replacing the previous mask of rage. That exhaustion hanging off his shoulder blades will only become more debilitating, he knows, if he acknowledges its presence.
"I never took you for a traitor," Rufus mutters, his voice lonely and loud in the air above them. Tseng's silence rebuts more effectively than words, so the president swallows the next sour accusations threatening to roll off his tongue - something he's glad for, a second later, when a knock sounds at the door.
"Mr. Shinra," the doctor says, a fine mist of nervousness fogging her glasses, "is this a good time for us to have a chat about your friend?"
Friend. What a fine choice of term, Rufus muses darkly, as he tilts his head and waits for the woman to continue.
It's chilly outside, five degrees centigrade on a typical winter morning, and Rufus is more sensitive to the temperature now that adrenaline no longer coats his veins. Dark Nation yawns beside him, her breath rising in the yellow streetlamp lights, like the trail of ashen smoke leaving Reno's cigarette.
Rude nods to Rufus as he approaches, the president completely unsurprised to find two Turks waiting at the hospital entrance despite his previous order. He examines each face in turn, and, once satisfied there is no sympathy in either, speaks low and calm: "he has an organ donor card."
Reno chortles, exhaling smoke from both nostrils. "Fucking upstanding citizen, ain't he? Always best intentions at heart."
Rufus attempts a smirk, for courage. "They need my consent to begin the harvest."
"About as ceremonious an end as any Turk can hope for," Reno chimes, dropping the stub and grinding it into hard concrete. "Better the doctors get him, than the rats-"
"Reno," Rude warns levelly, "too soon."
The redhead shrugs, and the rest of the walk to the car-park is done in silence. The indistinct halo of light and smog in the sky draws the eyes like any beautiful disaster, growing perceivably larger with each passing day. Everything is only a matter of time. Muscular atrophy and an achingly slow degenerative process with no likelihood of recovery, every machine merely providing another layer of illusion. The kindest thing to do, explained the doctor with steadily rising colour, would be to let him go.
And admit defeat, bow to the accusations of an easy inheritance. Under the strain of 3am with destruction looming above and within, Rufus shivers lightly, and blames it on the cold.
Dark Nation jumps obediently into the backseat of Rufus' black Mercedes and he shuts the door behind her. Turning to the Turks standing at a respectable distance, the president breathes in, and allows himself a moment's hesitation. Apprehension. The decision solidifying at the back of his mind eats at logic like a cancerous growth.
"I declined." His hand supports an open driver's seat door. Emotional attachment, Tseng once told him, should never cloud good judgement. "There's something worth trying first."
Reno and Rude, professionals who had long learned the dangerous nature of hope, remain attentive but impassive.
"0600 hours in my office for new orders," Rufus says, sliding into his car. As the engine hums into life around him, only Dark Nation hears the president's next quiet mutter: "You're not getting off that easily, you bastard."