Work Text:
Gunpowder & Lipstick
Elena was used to being judged. She was young, blonde, and pretty, and was well aware of every stereotype that came with her looks. When she had been even younger, she'd been trapped between her warring desires to prove them wrong and to get out of her older sister's shadow.
By graduation, she had truly accomplished neither. Despite her attempts to balance her femininity with her top rankings at ShinRa Military Academy, people still assumed she was a fragile little airhead, maybe book-smart but certainly nothing too dangerous – or they decided she was a clone of her sister.
Frustrated, she took the first job offer she found from ShinRa, never mind that she was more than overqualified for the position, and found herself a secretary in the company laughingstock that was the Space Department.
Elena was young, blonde, and pretty, so when she saw the look in Director Palmer's eyes, she made certain her concealed-carry license was up to date. Shortly after she started coming to work armed, she noticed Tseng of the Turks eyeing her speculatively.
She ignored him as best she could, but the man had a presence that made it difficult. So she exchanged fashion magazines with the other secretaries, she giggled and she blushed, she played up her femininity and she never once went to the company firing range.
If people were going to judge her, it would be for herself, damn it, not her sister.
Besides. She liked the fashion magazines.
Turks didn't use last names, so as long as she avoided the Department of Administrative Research (and Tseng), nobody would connect her with her sister. She could have that much out of her life. It wasn't much, but it wasn't nothing.
But she still made time to go to the shooting range in Wall Market at least twice a week, loathe to lose her skill. As much as she hated being anywhere near Don Corneo's turf, she knew she was untouchable there, a privilege few women had in Midgar Below.
Being able to put a bullet between a man's eyes at a hundred paces certainly helped.
Within bare months of graduating at the top of her class at the Shinra Military Academy, she had settled comfortably into a routine.
That routine was shattered on her way home from the range by a single male voice.
"I'll have a Costa Sunrise with extra sunshine, babe."
Startled, Elena whirled to see a familiar grin aimed at her. "Crisis!" she blurted, her amber eyes wide.
"Yo," he greeted her, grin widening like he wasn't on ShinRa's death list. Her sister had complained so much about that grin she sometimes wondered if Emma dreamed about it.
"What are you doing?" she hissed at him.
"Calm down, babe," he said soothingly, reaching out to ruffle her hair. She slapped his hand away. Shrugging, he continued, "We may be down, but we ain't out just yet. I need ya to get a message to Tseng for me."
Her eyes narrowed. "I don't want anything to do with Tseng or the Turks," she snapped.
Briefly, his face turned serious. "It's important, Elena, or I'd've let you be. Death warrant, remember?"
She bit back another comment and just glared.
"There's a new AVALANCHE forming," he said.
Elena was shocked enough that she actually swayed on her feet. Crisis caught her by the shoulders, both steadying her and getting her further from the public eye. "There can't be!" she gasped. "The leaders are all dead!"
"Calm down," he urged her. "We don't know how connected they are to the old AVALANCHE. Just tell Tseng what I told you, and that we'll keep him posted." He succeeded in ruffling her hair, then vanished into the urban sprawl.
Elena shivered, resisting the urge to hug herself, trying very hard not to remember her sole disastrous encounter with AVALANCHE. (Trying hard not to remember how worn and drawn the Turks had grown during the years they'd been dealing with AVALANCHE.)
Giving herself a mental shake, Elena made her way back to the ShinRa building. Going within a hundred yards of the Department of Administrative Research was one of the last things she wanted to do, but even less did she want a repeat of the last five years.
So it was that she found herself outside the Turk's office nearly three hours after she'd clocked out, trying to work up the courage to knock.
Just as she raised her hand, the door opened and Tseng stood there, inscrutable as he always was.
(Was that a faint smile on his lips? It couldn't be.)
"Did you need something, Elena?" he asked.
(He knew her name)
(Of course he knew her name, he'd worked with Emma for at least six years.)
"I—" She stopped and reworded her sentence, remembering the kill orders on the missing Turks. "Crisis found me," she said instead, and saw Tseng's eyes widen fractionally. "He has a message for you."
There was a pause.
"You'd better come in," he said, grasping her shoulder and guiding her inside the office suite.
Despite the late hour, Reno and Rude were still there. Reno was sprawled across a battered couch, one arm flung over his eyes; his partner seemed wholly preoccupied with the computer in front of him. As Tseng steered her to an inner office, however, she saw Reno peek at her from beneath his elbow and Rude shift slightly to bring her into his peripheral vision.
Then she was inside and Tseng was closing the door behind her. As he did, he bent so that his lips just barely brushed her ear and murmured, "Play along. My office is bugged." Straightening, he added, "I understand you're looking into transferring to the Turks, Elena."
Remembering his words, she bit back a denial and simply glared at him. He looked far too amused at trapping her into this conversation.
Well, two could play at that game.
"In an administrative capacity only, Mr Tseng," she said calmly.
A small smile curved his lips. "You lasted longer than Reno expected. Usually Palmer's assistants transfer by the third week. He lost a thousand gil to Rude."
Her job had dramatically improved once Palmer caught a glimpse of her shoulder holster, and she and Tseng both knew it. "The director and I came to an understanding," she said.
"And despite this, you want to join—" Spotting her scowl, he corrected himself, "—to transfer to the Turks?"
"The Space Department is a fast track to nowhere and Palmer is a jester," Elena said. "Administrative Research, on the other hand, hasn't had a secretary since I was in grade school."
Tseng made an amused noise. "Shuō h ǎ o…" Then he sighed. "Unfortunately, I fear I may have raised your hopes, Elena. The Turks aren't accepting any new members, administrative or otherwise."
" What? " She stared at him in disbelief. What the hell had that been about, then?
"I am sorry," he said, but there was a certain gleam in his eyes that gave the lie to his words. "Due to budget restrictions, we're enduring a hiring freeze."
If she glared at him hard enough, would he spontaneously combust?
It was worth a shot.
When he failed to burst into flames, she said icily, "Then I suppose we're done here."
"I'm afraid that we are." He stood, but with one hand gestured for her to remain in her seat. With the other, he removed his smartphone from his pocket and fiddled briefly with it.
From the phone came a series of soft noises: chairs being pushed back, hushed feet on carpet, the door opening and closing, a pair of feet returning to the desk. On cue, Tseng pushed his seat back in, sighing to mask whatever noise returning the phone to his pocket would have made.
So… the surveillance Tseng had warned her about was audio-only? What idiot was responsible for that setup?
She held her tongue despite her anger at the unwanted conversation. That was how Tseng operated: casually fluster the other party and then glean information that might not otherwise drop. Falling prey to that tactic, Elena decided, royally sucked.
The man in question silently -- completely silently, she noticed, not even the muffled noise that usually came from walking on carpet -- moved to the shelving behind him. He did something to one of the knick-knacks there, hiding the specific one as well as the act itself with his body, then turned back to her.
Every trace of mischief had vanished, replaced by such a cool professionalism that Elena found herself sitting up straighter. "Alvis has a message for me?" he asked.
It took her a moment to remember that 'Alvis' was Crisis' real name. Ignoring the brief confusion, she nodded and answered, "He said there's a new AVALANCHE forming."
Tseng's eyes narrowed. "Yuàn Hǎi Bàwáng tūn chī tāmen, jiāng tāmen tǔchū rù Dai Kūdō Kakō!" he spat. Elena vowed silently to learn Wutaian. Whatever sentiment he'd so viciously expressed, however, she couldn't blame him for, given the results of dealing with the first AVALANCHE: Their leader, Veld, dead; the majority of the Turks AWOL and the remainder disgraced.
"He doesn't know how connected this new group is to the old one," Elena said quietly. "But he said he'd keep you posted."
For a long moment, Tseng was silent. Then, so softly that Elena wondered if she was meant to hear it at all, he said, "Heidegger is an idiot, and so is the President. Theodore Shinra understood the difference between a loyal servant and a dutiful one, but them! They mistake loyalty for duty and hatred for fear, and they will destroy this company and the world's economy with it!"
Obsidian eyes bored into hers, and for a terrifying, giddy moment, Elena was certain he'd read her very soul.
"Welcome to the Turks, Elena," he said.
She stared at him. "Wait, what?"
"If AVALANCHE is back, I am going to need every advantage I can get," he said.
"I don't want to be a Turk!" she protested. "My sister--"
"I am not hiring your sister!" he snapped. "And right now, I don't particularly care what you want, either. I need someone to liaise with my absent Turks -- someone they'll trust, and someone Heidegger and Scarlett won't suspect of being in contact with them. Alvis made the choice for us both, it seems."
Elena fumed, but didn't argue further. She could already tell that he was even more stubborn than Emma had described. No matter what arguments she made, she knew she would leave this office under his command.
That didn't mean she had to like it, however.
"I don't suppose my pay check will reflect the transfer," she said sourly.
"Not immediately, no," he agreed. "I wasn't lying about a hiring freeze. Part of the fallout from the previous incident."
She tried not to scowl but Tseng read her face anyway. "I know it isn't fair, Elena, but it's safer for you."
Shiva take Crisis and Tseng.
"So I get to be a Turk, without the pay, suit, or protection," Elena said. If it wasn't for the renewed threat of AVALANCHE, she'd tell Tseng where to stick that so-called transfer.
"You'll have the protection," Tseng said quietly, implacably. "Not openly, perhaps, but I won't leave you to take any fall. That isn't how we operate."
She couldn't help but believe him.
Then she frowned again, but this time for a different reason. "How do I let you know when I have information? People will talk if I keep turning up here."
Tseng considered. "Email won't work – mine is encrypted, but yours isn't. And if that changes, it will raise flags." Silently, Elena cursed the upper politics of ShinRa that created such danger for those looking out for the Company's best interests, and the interests of those dependent on her.
"We could pretend to be seeing one another," Tseng offered.
Heat rose in her cheeks, but she just raised an eyebrow.
"No."
"No."
The awkward offer, however, set off a thought in her head.
"Lipstick," she said hesitantly – she'd made similar suggestions at the Academy, but they had been shut down by her instructors for being too… feminine.
She had the distinct pleasure of seeing Tseng of the Turks look nonplussed. After a moment, however, he said, "Tell me more."
Elena took a deep breath and explained, "I wear several different shades of lipstick. So if I have something important – like today, about AVALANCHE – I could wear red. If it's less urgent, maybe a coral…" She trailed off, seeing a smile tugging at his lips.
"I really should have grabbed you when you graduated, Heidegger be damned," Tseng mused. "It's subtle, but still comprehensible. It'll work." His black eyes fell on her lips, and she blushed again. "I assume that colour isn't a… coral."
"N-no, it—" Elena fumbled in her purse, hoping one of her spares was—ah! She fished out four small tubes and checked the labels, then looked up at Tseng. "I need some tissues…"
Wordlessly he passed her a box, and she cleaned the colour off her lips before applying the coral.
Tseng studied her carefully for a long moment during which Elena was positive all the blood in her body had gone to her cheeks. At last, he nodded. "All right," he said. "There's a noticeable change in colour from your natural shade for it to work."
Given that the natural shade of Elena's lips nearly matched her skin tone, he wasn't necessarily wrong.
But the fact that he'd looked long enough to memorise the natural colour of her lips wasn't making her blush go away. She fumbled the tissue box as she took another one out, ridding herself of the coral and reapplying the colour she'd been wearing before. The last thing she wanted was for Reno or Rude to notice her lipstick had changed.
She didn't doubt that he'd explain the situation to them after she left, but she'd rather not know if he did. She didn't want to get tangled up with Administrative Research any more than she already was, no thanks to Crisis.
As if diving her thoughts, Tseng said, "Don't blame Alvis, Elena. You were the most trustworthy person available to deliver the message."
Apparently she was going to leave his office blushing. Damn it.
Wordlessly, she returned the box of tissues to him, then rose. "I assume that's everything?"
He nodded, rising as well and coming around to escort her to the door. "Enjoy the rest of your evening," he said. "And, Elena?"
She glanced at him.
"Xièxiè," he said, his aristocratic mouth curving in a faint smile.
She was definitely going to learn Wutaian.
She was fairly certain he was thanking her, however, and so responded with an incline of her head. "The last AVALANCHE isn't so far behind that I've forgotten what it cost the Turks," Elena said quietly, and quit the room.