Archive of Our Own ^beta

This deep down, the waters of the bay off Junon are pitch dark. Tseng glances through the windows of the underwater reactor's dock, angling to catch a glimpse of the noon day sunlight that is beating down on the surface of the ocean, and sees only the sickly green glow of the reactor's external lights. They shimmer on the currents, reflecting off the seabed like otherworldly hellfires, and Tseng has to bite back a sharp sense of satisfaction at the sight.

He turns. The corridors reek of mako and oil, the air stale despite the persistent efforts of the ventilation and filtration systems. The whirr of those systems, the steady hum of electricity and the thump of machinery is a constant, never-ending grind on the nerves, as the reactor sucks the lifestream from the deep and spits it out as power.

The reactor was not built to act as a prison, but there is no place more secure in all of Shinra's territories. And here, deep in the darkness, where the weight of billions of tons of water bearing down on them seems to manifest itself as a physical pressure that almost makes it hard to breathe, there is no place more suitable for crushing the spark of rebellion.

Workers hurry past him, grim and silent, each one no doubt counting down the days until their shift ends, and they can take the next submarine up to the surface. Some of them shoot him fearful looks, wondering what his presence here signifies, wondering which of their insignificant, petty trespasses have warranted the attention of the new head of Administrative Research. If they even know about his field promotion yet; news travels here slowly, if at all, and the unwanted promotion is still new enough to sit awkwardly on his shoulders, a ill-fitting suit he hasn't grown into yet. He wonders if he will ever grow into it.

You are ready, Veld had told him, You have been ready for a long time.

Go, he had said, go with your family, when what he had actually meant was don't go. Because he hadn't been able to bring himself to crush that confidence in Veld's eyes, because what Veld needed was to be able to leave with a clear conscience; because to do anything else would have to been to inspire doubt, doubt that would have torn Veld into two.

Some things, he realises, are too important to choose between.

But just because he has accepted a position doesn't make him ready for it. It isn't about his ability to manage the Turks, to plan and execute an operation. It isn't about the responsibility, for the men and women under his command, for the security of the executives that rests in his hands. That he can manage that much competently is beyond even his own doubts; he has been the field commander for years now. But there is a world of difference between a field commander and the one who wears the title of Director, Department of Administrative Research, and that difference lies in the treacherous battlefield of choices.

Veld, he thinks, makes the right choice instinctively. Always has. But Tseng has no such instincts; caught between the mission of duty and a mission of mercy, between the mission and a life, between saving one team mate or another, between what is required and what is right, he struggles. He remembers every single reprimand from Veld, remembers every painful mistake, every painful lesson. He has them catalogued in his head, a database of precedents that he has to pull out and deconstruct and replicate, in a vain attempt to reproduce what Veld does effortlessly.

Caught between a duty to family and a duty to Shinra, Tseng knows that he would be utterly lost. But Veld made the choice in a heartbeat.

He pauses behind a door made of six inches of solid steel. His keycard slides through the electronic reader, and red flashes to green. The doors groan as they slide apart, laboriously slow. He pauses for a moment to breathe in, for one selfish moment to wish that Veld was here to deal with this mess, and then for a moment to cast all irrelevant thoughts aside. Squaring his shoulders, he steps through.

The room beyond is lit by harsh, uncompromising fluorescents. It is bare, furnished by nothing more than a screen lying dark and silent against one wall, a single table, and a single chair. The Shinra heir currently occupies the chair, stripped of his trademark white jacket, his hands cuffed roughly behind his back. An unnecessary precaution, in this place, but not one that Tseng feels charitable enough to dispense with.

“Boss,” Reno says, from where he is lounging against the wall, and the word strikes something painful in Tseng's chest. He doesn't let any of it show on his face. Rufus glances up, and Tseng meets his gaze for a second, and struck by how sharp and utterly unrepentant it is.

Fool, he thinks. Cry, beg, throw yourself on the mercy of your father, and you might still be saved...

Tseng glances at his watch; there are no clocks in the room. Wordlessly, he moves towards the screen, picking up a remote control and hitting the power button. Rufus watches him, uncharacteristically silent, though the keenness in his gaze betrays the fact that he is still thinking, calculating, planning. For what little good that will do him, here. His road has run out, his choices have run out - they ran out a long time ago when he decided to throw his lot in with Avalanche instead of Shinra. Some choices are easy – between loyalty and selfish ambition, Tseng knows where he would stand, and cannot find it in himself to feel any sort of sympathy for the boy. Pride and falls. It is the same old story, throughout the ages, and one that Rufus would have done well to learn. Too late, now.

The screen flickers to life. Tseng moves to a wall panel and hits buttons; words flash as the system connects to the network. It takes forever, trying and failing repeatedly, a digital reminder of their complete isolation from the rest of the world, and out of the corner of his eye, Tseng sees Rufus wince, just a little.

It finally clicks through, helped by a priority code that boots all other traffic off the network so that this call can be made. There is a flicker, then the screen resolves without warning into the view of the President's office in Midgar. Rufus inhales, very carefully.

All clear, the technician on the other end signals, and then the President himself comes onscreen.

There is a long moment while father and son simply stare at each other. Rufus is expressionless, but hardly poised; his stillness practically radiates tension. Tseng can hardly blame him; this is the moment that defines the rest of his life. The President's gaze is cold, disapproving, and he folds his arms across his chest.

Tseng fades into the background, off to the side where the cameras cannot catch him. Across the room, Reno does the same.

Rufus is the first to break the deadlock. His gaze drops to the table in front of him, his posture shifting as he ducks his head, rounding his shoulders, his whole demeanour shifting from neutral to submissive. It's marginal, the effort somewhat blunted by the fact that he can't move from his chair, but it's more than Tseng has ever seen, coming from him. He folds his own arms, leans against the wall, and watches dispassionately. He isn't sure what he wants the outcome of this to be, but he rather thinks it doesn't matter to him. He has his own plans.

The President unfolds his arms, shakes his head, and sighs. In a moment, the ice in his gaze shifts to exasperation, and disappointment. “Rufus,” he says, and the word is laden with a parent's sorrow. “What am I to do with you?”

Rufus swallows, noticeably. Tseng is about ninety per cent sure that it's an act, but it's a good one. He doesn't expect the boy to beg, but he's surprised when Rufus doesn't say anything at all.

“I bring you up,” the President says, waving a hand like he's making a speech. It probably counts as a speech to him. “I feed you, I give you an education, I give you a legacy, and this is what you repay me with.”

Rufus doesn't look up. He hunches down a little more. Tseng narrows his eyes, and wonders what his game is.

“Is this your definition of gratitude, Rufus? Betrayal? Treachery? Throwing your lot in with worthless terrorists in hopes that they would dispose of me?” the President continues, pacing his office, his movements agitated. The camera pans to follow him. “Why, son? Why, when the Company would all be yours, anyway?”

It sounds magnanimous, and justified. It would be, but Tseng knows that the President would leap at the chance to hold onto the reins of power forever, if that chance just presented itself. Briefly, his thoughts turn to Aeris – yet another choice, there. Veld has never questioned him about it, but Tseng doesn't actually know what his mentor's thoughts on the subject are. And he still isn't sure what to make of that choice – whether his decision is simply to stall until an appropriate moment, or whether he will never hand her over to Shinra. He isn't sure whether he'll ever be able to make that choice.

Importance of the mission against the importance of a person. Or a principle. Or is it an ideal? He's not sure any more, and he knows he's more than a little emotionally attached to her – it's hard not to be, when the first time he met her she was just a kid, and he's watched her grow up over the years. But emotion and attachment so often lead to bad choices.

The President is still speaking. Rufus continues to stare at the table, unmoving, and Tseng realises that he's letting the President's speech run its course. The elder Shinra is in love with the sound of his own voice – Tseng rather suspects that Rufus is too, he's just better at hiding it. He moves a little, shifting the angle of his observation, and that allows him to catch a glimpse of Rufus' eyes, half hidden behind the fall of his fringe. They're narrowed in concentration and furious thought.

Tseng finds himself reluctantly impressed. If it's one thing that Shinras do to perfection, it's stubborn tenacity.

Reno is trying to catch his eye. He glances over, but he can't read whatever the other Turk is trying to tell him. Later, he signals, and Reno nods.

He wonders, for a moment, what Veld is doing. Whether he's found his daughter. Whether he's found the happiness he deserves. Whether he's at peace with the choice that he made.

He probably is.

“You wound me, Rufus,” the President says, “Is love so paltry, so insignificant? Is blood truly that thin?”

It's subtle, so subtle that Tseng wouldn't have noticed it if he wasn't a Turk, and a Turk who had watched over Rufus for years, but the boy goes completely rigid with anger for a single moment, teeth clenched, a muscle shifting in the contours of his jaw. Tseng tenses, himself, instinctively moving to place a hand on the gun holstered by his side, until he remembers that the President is miles away and Rufus would be a fool to try and assault two senior Turks.

Then the moment passes, and Rufus exhales quietly, allowing the anger to flow away. It's so fast that Tseng almost wonders if he imagined it, but the lingering unease of unsettled nerves tells him otherwise.

The President completes the circle he's been making in his office. He comes round to face the camera again. “You truly leave me at a loss. What am I supposed to do with you?”

Rufus looks up. He's managed to erase the intensity from his eyes. Without it, he looks tired. Defeated. He works his jaw; it takes a moment for the words to come out, but when they do, they catch Tseng by surprise. “You're right, old man,” he says, “You win.”

Tseng narrows his eyes. For a moment he thinks that losing has driven Rufus off the brink, that he's utterly wasted his last chance on being flippant, or that he's grossly miscalculated ... but then he glances at the President. The elder Shinra is smiling tightly, in an unamused sort of way, but his eyes are narrowed and his expression is considering. In that instant, the resemblance he shares with Rufus is striking.

Not a miscalculation, Tseng realises. He would have thought that begging would be the best way out of this, but Rufus is right – the President has no tolerance for weakness, especially not in his son. Like the guard hounds, the President wants those of them who work for him to retain a certain amount of bite... as long as that bite isn't directed at him. A guard hound that has lost its bite is useless, and the President has no tolerance for uselessness. And Rufus knows his father better than anyone alive.

“That's right, son,” the President says, his voice soft and dangerous. “I win. And you would do well to remember that.”

Rufus lowers his head, though his gaze never shifts. “And to the victor goes the spoils. Yes, I'll remember it.” He sighs, and the flash of annoyance across his face is probably as carefully calculated as the rest of his act. “I was a fool.”

The President snorts. “I'm glad you realise that.”

Rufus is still tense. He isn't out of the woods yet. He hunches a little more, the loser submitting to the alpha male. “Sir,” he says, and the word is edged with reluctance.

The President's smile grows just a fraction. Victorious. Tseng is fairly sure that he knows that it's an act on Rufus' part, that Rufus will never really be cowed as long as there is breath in his body... but at the same time, there's nothing that Rufus can do, now that all his cards are on the table and his father holds all the aces.

“Director Tseng,” the President says, the voice of a judge pronouncing judgment.

Tseng steps forward. The President announces the sentence – stripping of all rank and privileges, indefinite house arrest in Junon. No contact with the outside world, no access to the network, nothing without prior approval. Rufus can't quite keep his grip on his expression, and Tseng sees that muscle in his jaw jumping again.

“It will do you some good to sit and think on your mistakes, boy,” the President says, and Tseng sees Rufus glance away before the resentment can reach his eyes.

“Be grateful,” the President says, sharply. “The fact that you still live is entirely thanks to my mercy. You would do well to remember that.”

Rufus ducks his head. “Yes sir.” The words are toneless.

The President studies him for another moment, then makes a signal. The screen cuts to black without a further word, and the link is lost.

Silence falls across the room. Tseng watches Rufus start breathing again, some of the tension going out of his shoulders. He lets him savour his relief for a few long moments, before silently ordering Reno to leave with a flick of his hand.

“Boss,” Reno says, leveraging himself off the wall. Rufus glances at both of them; Tseng ignores him, and reaches for his pistol. He pulls it from its holster, and checks the magazine. Rufus' expression freezes, his whole demeanour does, shields and barriers coming down until no emotion can leak out from behind them.

“Boss,” Reno says again, an urgent whisper against his ear as he draws level with him. “… Give the boy a chance, yeah?”

Tseng gives Reno a look. “Leave,” he says.

“I know what you're thinking, and hell knows I kinda feel the same way,” Reno tries again. “But just... hear him out, before you do anything. Alright?”

“I distinctly remember giving you an order, Turk,” Tseng says flatly. Reno gives him a look that says bastard, but he turns and heads for the door anyway. He glances back as he steps through, and it's Rufus whose gaze he meets.

Tseng wonders just what Rufus said to Reno before he arrived, and decides that it doesn't matter. He flicks the safety off, and walks around to the back of the chair. Presses the barrel of the gun to Rufus' head without ceremony.

He can see their reflection in the screen. Rufus is still fighting to be unreadable, but Tseng can sense the fear in the way he holds himself, steeling himself against the inevitable. The President may have allowed him to live, the President's pardon is useless here - there are ways to make a murder look like an accident, and Tseng knows them all. The Company may be able to overlook its prodigal son's transgressions, but Tseng acts on behalf of the Turks now, and for the Turks, and it's personal.

“Hear me out,” Rufus says.

Tseng says nothing, just grinds the barrel harder against Rufus' skull.

“Do you think it's just ambition, Tseng?” Rufus all but snarls. “Do you think that it's just a case of my being so hungry for the seat of power that I couldn't wait for it to drop into my hands?”

“Do you think that I care about what your motivations are?” Tseng asks, and his tone is utterly cold. “You betrayed the Turks; that's all the reason I need.”

“Oh for Shiva's sake,” Rufus spits out. “You weren't even supposed to be there. If you all hadn't been a bunch of interfering idiots... or haven't you noticed that I've been trying to keep you out of this mess?”

“Pray tell,” Tseng says, and he finds his own temper rising. He pushes it back down.

“Veld... is more astute than I've given him credit for. A miscalculation on my part.” Rufus sucks in a breath, seems to realise that he isn't making sense, and reorganises his argument. “I was at the reactor to attempt to stop Avalanche.” There's a note of anger in his voice. “It's been evident to me for some time that the Avalanche that I had funded was falling apart, thanks to some unexpected power struggles amongst their upper echelons. When they started exceeding their authorisation, it became obvious to me that they were out of control.”

“You asked them to kill us.”

“Do you think I'm unfamiliar with their abilities? There was no way they could have defeated you.”

“And you couldn't have ordered us to kill them?” Tseng asks, his voice very close to a growl.

“And you take orders from me?” Rufus snaps. “I have no assurance of that. I needed Fuhito dead, and the best way of assuring that would happen was to get him to attack you.”

Tseng wonders what the world must be like in Rufus Shinra's head. An endless chessboard, black and white, move upon move, him the player on both sides. He grabs hold of Rufus' hair and yanks his head back enough that he can look directly into startled blue eyes. “We are not your pawns.”

“That is precisely what I mean when I say you don't take orders from me. Would you have listened, when you had direct orders that I was a traitor, and you were to apprehend me? I think not.”

Tseng tightens his grip, twisting painfully. “And you were going to kill Fuhito all on your own. Perhaps we should hire you as an assassin, since you've lost your Vice Presidency.”

“Very funny,” Rufus snarls, a world away from the composed figure he was when speaking to his father. “No, I didn't have much of a plan. I have to admit that I was out of my depth. Elfe I could have dealt with, but Fuhito's power grab made it difficult. I had some idea of talking Fuhito out of it, or if he was hopeless, of getting close enough to shoot him. Blowing up the reactor was a backup plan of last resort. No, I wasn't thinking clearly, but I felt responsible. Avalanche was an organisation that I was integral in turning into a force to be reckoned with; I would not let them turn into a monster. I have only one target, and that does not involve bringing down the entire Company with it. Or the Turks. Least of all the Turks.”

“And so we're back to this again,” Tseng says. “If you haven't noticed, that target is your father, and you seem perfectly capable of taking down everyone else who happens to be in the way.”

“Tseng,” Rufus says, a little strangled because Tseng is yanking his head far back enough that it's difficult to speak. “My father is insane. He needs to be stopped.”

There's a raw note in his voice, something that convinces Tseng that this at last, is what Rufus is really thinking. It's not what he expected. It's not even something he's sure he agrees with, but it's clearly something that Rufus convinced of, through and through.

“Does he, now?” Tseng replies, letting disbelief colour his tone.

“Aeris,” Rufus shoots back, and Tseng very nearly pulls the trigger there and then.

Then long years of training kick in, and he clamps down hard on his own personal, selfish, emotions. Personal is not the same as important. He releases Rufus' hair, gives him a hard shove to send him rocking forward, and while Rufus is still off balance, Tseng fires a shot into the ground. He has the satisfaction of seeing Rufus jump. He stalks around, kicking the table aside with a clang that echoes throughout the room, and steps in front of Rufus, the pistol cradled in plain sight. “You wanted to be heard. Talk.”

Rufus gives him a wary look. Gives the gun a wary look. “There are secrets to this Company that even the Turks don't know. Human experimentation - the old man has authorised it. We always knew about the SOLDIER program, but that barely scrapes the surface of it.”

Tseng keeps his eyes narrowed.

“Do you know which department gets the most funding in the Company?” Rufus says urgently, knowing that he needs to get to the point quickly. “On paper, it's Urban Development and their engineering research department. In reality, Urban Development only gets about half of what Science does. It isn't obvious until you tear the accounts of this Company apart piece by piece, but about thirty percent of our net profit just vanishes every year.”

Tseng puts on his most disinterested expression, and hefts the gun. Rufus starts speaking faster.

“It goes to Hojo. There are whole villages that have disappeared, Tseng. It's usually an accident. But Shinra burns them down, carts the survivors off, rebuilds the place as though nothing has happened. But the survivors go to Hojo. We saw some of that, back in the Corel reactor. Elfe was one of those.”

Rufus is very careful not to mention Veld's name, but Tseng thinks about it anyway.

“My father is obsessed about creating the perfect super soldier – he wants another Sephiroth. You've seen the reports about Elfe's fighting abilities; she can fight Sephiroth to a draw. That isn't natural. Whole villages of people, Tseng. Where do they go? Where do they wind up? What happens to them? There are rumours about there being a live Shinra research facility in Nibelheim, but as far as the official Company records are concerned, it doesn't exist. The cover up that goes on in this Company is huge, and the secrets that are being kept are the stuff of nightmares.”

Rufus winds down a little, looking to him for some kind of reaction. “Keep talking,” Tseng says, terse. Nibelheim. He knows all about it. He was there at the clean-up. Handed Zack Fair and Cloud Strife over to Hojo himself. Suddenly, he wonders what became of them.

“Do you know why the old man wants Aeris so badly? Hojo is convinced that she's not human, or not entirely human, anyway, that she belongs to some ancient race that used to inhabit this planet. The old man wants her because he thinks that she's the key to power like he's never had before.” Rufus leans forward instinctively, comes up against the restraints, and still manages to pour every ounce of charisma that he possesses into his words. Tseng feels like he has to dig in his heels to resist being sucked in.

“What kind of man controls almost the entirety of the known world and still wants more power? The same kind who builds a whole city over eight whole villages to prove a point. The same kind who is willing to throw away millions of gil and trample whole towns in his bid for a crazy dream.” Rufus looks straight at him, and Tseng sees a ferocity and passion that he would have thought Shinra's brat prince incapable of. “Do you know,” Rufus says, and every word is tinged with fury, “What the old man's dream city is?”

Midgar, Tseng thinks.

“Not Midgar,” Rufus breathes out, and the very words sound like a curse, “Midgar is one of those that he will happily sacrifice for the city that doesn't yet exist. Neo-Midgar. That's the city that he would burn down the whole world to build, the city built in the mythical Promised Land, the city that is his life's obsession.”

Tseng feels the beginnings of doubt starting to claw in the back of his mind. He has conducted enough interrogations to recognise absolute conviction when it stares at him in the face. ...And looking at Rufus, really looking at him for the first time in years, he thinks he sees a hint of the President that Rufus will become - could become – one day.

Suddenly, there are too many possible paths before him, and Tseng doesn't know which one to take.

“What proof do you have?” he asks. His voice sounds like it's coming from far away.

“The old man's ranted long and hard enough at me about the Promised Land,” Rufus says, “But if you're talking about the rest...” He sets his jaw. “I don't have anything yet. But--” and the look that he gives Tseng is pure challenge, “--the events of today have made it possible to find out.”

“Go on,” Tseng says, neutral.

“Elfe. Felicia, to give her the name that Veld gave her. If she is truly Veld's daughter, then she, or Veld, or both of them... will know. Find him, Tseng.”

He'll give the boy points for balls of absolute steel. He gives him a look that goes on for long enough to drive home the point that he's not going to simply take his orders, or buy whatever he's saying, just because his name is Rufus Shinra.

“Even in this time, and this place,” Tseng says slowly, “You still have the nerve to talk treason. Do you have a death wish?”

Something changes in the way Rufus is holding himself, and it is as though the mantle of authority draws itself around his shoulders. Tseng feels his spine stiffen instinctively, drawn to that magnetism despite himself. “Why are you here, Tseng?” Rufus says, very softly. “You don't have to divulge the answer to me. But it's a question that you need to know the answer to, because there will come a time when this Company will force you to choose – between who you are, and what they want you to be. And if you don't know the answer by then, you will never be able to make the right decision.”

“Have a care, scion of Shinra,” Tseng replies, his voice sibilant with threat. “You tread on dangerous ground.” Then, without waiting for an answer, he heads for the door, swiping his card through the reader. Reno slips through the doors the moment they open, and Tseng doesn't miss the way his second-in-command's eyes go straight to Rufus. Neither does he miss the look of relief as Reno realises that Rufus is not dead on the floor.

“Take care of things here,” Tseng tells Reno, “There are inquiries I need to make.”

–

It doesn't take long for the order to come. Find Veld, the President says. Find Veld and kill him.

Tseng stares at his PHS for a long time after that, and it is Rufus' words that keep echoing through his head.

The choice between who you are, and what they want you to be.

There is no leeway to persuade Veld to return. There is no talk of pardon. Shinra has made worse crimes than this disappear before – the Turks are a dumping ground for people whose crimes Shinra is willing to overlook, if they will but sign their souls away to the service of the Company.

So why is it that a simple MIA would warrant a terminate with extreme prejudice?

If she is truly Veld's daughter, then she, or Veld, or both of them... will know. Find him.

Find him, and... what? Tseng rather thinks that whatever the outcome of that choice, it will destroy his world as he knows it.

The footsteps coming up behind him are nearly silent, but they trigger something on the edge of his consciousness anyway. He snaps the phone shut, and glances around as a cup of tea is laid in front of him. Aeris smiles, that bright innocent smile of hers. “It's nice of you to drop by, Tseng.”

It's a strange, how they've come to this. When he'd first appeared on her doorstep, she had run from him, calling him a bad man, refusing to have anything to do with him. And now that she actually knows why he's here, now that she actually knows the stakes, she welcomes him into her house without any fear, and feeds him tea the safety of which she swears to.

“It's been awhile,” he says, and he can't stop the way his voice gentles when he speaks to her. “I thought I'd check on how you're doing.”

“I have to thank you for those lilies you brought.” Aeris takes the seat opposite him. “We don't get any of them under the plate, and they've been doing really well. The upper platers really love them too; I've sold more bouquets of them in a day than I normally do in a month.”

“I'm glad,” he says, and wonders what it would be like to have her life, where everything seems to be so clear-cut. And he had thought, back when he had been a rookie Turk, that the hardest thing he would have to do was to shoot a man in cold blood. Assassination seems so very simple now.

He sips the tea. It's sweetened, the way he likes it without wanting to admit to it, something that Aeris had picked up, somehow, without asking. The warmth of the liquid is like a balm to his nerves; being here is a balm to those nerves, and he knows that he's being a fool for fraternizing with the enemy, but he can't bring himself to stop.

Aeris gives him a knowing look, tilting her head as she studies him. “There's something on your mind,” she says.

“There's always something on my mind,” Tseng replies wryly.

She laughs, honest and unrestrained. “Well, you know what I mean. You seem troubled.”

He doesn't know how she reads him like a book, when he's spent years perfecting the art of being unreadable. A special gift, her mother calls it. “It's just work,” he says, the same thing he always says.

Aeris studies him, and he's almost disconcerted. She takes a sip from her own cup, but her eyes never leave his face. Secrets of the Company, Rufus had said. He has spent sleepless nights since leaving Junon searching for proof of that, but it is true that there's absolutely nothing on the Company networks. He's even secured Rufus' systems, overriding their access codes, only to come up against Rufus' own security which isn't Company issue. Rude is still working on cracking his codes.

Aeris has her own way of interrogating. She doesn't press, she just waits. And there's something about it that circumvents all his anti-interrogation training and just inspires an openness in him that runs contrary to everything that he's been taught. Everything that he is.

“What do you do,” he says, “When all courses seem to lead to evil?”

Aeris thinks about it. She takes a sugar cube from the pot in the center of the table, drops it into her cup, and stirs. The clink of the spoon on porcelain reminds Tseng sharply of Veld, idly stirring his coffee while frowning over a report.

“Not all evil is equal, I think,” Aeris says, but her voice is a little shushed, absent its usual bright tone. “Maybe the question is – what do you really regard as evil?”

He never expected any answer from her to be easy, and this one is no different, but it seems to strike a chord within him. He changes the topic because he has no answer to her question, but his mind refuses to let the point go.

–

Rude finally cracks Rufus' codes, and Tseng spends almost twenty hours in front of Rufus' computer, reading nonstop. When he's done, he takes the helicopter to Junon, and boards the first submarine heading for the reactor.

Rufus glances over from where he's lying on the bed when Tseng enters, and Tseng notes the pallor of his features, the dullness to that bright gaze. His accommodations aren't outright uncomfortable, but they're basic, and the enforced isolation does amount to solitary confinement.

There's a pile of extremely dog-earred magazines lying beside his bed. Tseng catches a glimpse of pictures of cars and women in various states of undress on the covers, and thinks he can guess at the source of them. Reno's been giving him reproving looks for the past fortnight, after all.

“Tseng,” Rufus says. His voice sounds a little rusty from disuse.

Tseng extracts a wad of papers from the briefcase that he's carrying, and wordlessly holds them out to Rufus. Rufus frowns at him, sits up, and takes them. And his eyes narrow.

“The accounts that you spoke so fondly of,” Tseng says, unnecessarily.

“You've read them, I presume,” Rufus says, flipping through. “And all the rest of my files, while you're at it?”

“You'll have to tell me more about the encryption systems of yours,” Tseng says, pulling up a chair and taking a seat. Rufus jumps a little at the sound, hypersensitive.

“Fair trade,” Rufus says. “Information for information.”

“No information without prior approval. President's orders,” Tseng says.

“Spare me,” Rufus rolls his eyes. “Nothing you're doing here is official.”

He opens a hand in acquiescence, and says nothing.

“Do you know,” Rufus says, and Tseng can hear a hint of agitation in his voice, “The damn generator goes on all the time. And by all the time I mean – twenty four hours. Every minute. Every second. Drone, drone, fucking drone.”

Tseng raises an eyebrow at him.

“You wake up in the middle of the night and it's going on and on and on, and it becomes impossible to fall asleep again. Whatever counts as night around here. You bang your shins on the furniture a few times trying to reach the light switch in the dark and after a while you just give the hell up on the damn thing. Sleep with it on, sleep with it off, doesn't make a damn difference. And in the meantime the generator still keeps going.” His voice is rising, and Tseng watches as he struggles to moderate his tone again. “So,” Rufus says, and this time he doesn't bother to hide the edge to his voice. “If you're going to sit pretty over there and pretend that you're here to talk to me about encryption algorithms, do me a favour and take that gun of yours that you had at my head the last time and just pull the fucking trigger.”

Tseng doesn't allow it to show on his face, but he realises that he's starting to feel a little concerned. He hadn't expected Rufus to crack so quickly, but he should have – the boy isn't exactly fragile, but in these circumstances, that very sharp mind is its own enemy. Rufus can no sooner stop himself from thinking than he can stop the sun from rising, and those thoughts going round and round continuously, without distraction, without outlet - that is probably what's getting to him, not the generator. “This accounting anomaly you mentioned. Show it to me.”

Rufus gives him a look that says are you fucking serious, but he flips open the loosely bound stack. “How familiar are you with financial statements?”

“You can assume I know the basics,” Tseng replies, and Rufus sighs like we'll be here all day, and starts talking.

Rufus' explanations are a little more comprehensive than what Tseng had put together with a little help from auditors and accountants, but the general analysis is consistent with what Tseng had come up with. It's clear – the numbers don't quite add up, especially when certain dubious expenses are subtracted from the equation, but the numbers themselves don't say where the money's gone to.

“And that,” Rufus concludes, “Is what you need to find out, if you want to unlock this particular mystery.” Since I can no longer do it myself, is unspoken implication.

Tseng retrieves the papers and returns them to his briefcase.

“So tell me,” Rufus asks, almost innocently. “Have you found Veld yet?”

Tseng just looks back at him, and Rufus smirks.

“Would you like to?” the boy says.

“And you believe that you would be successful where the Turks haven't?” Tseng replies, sardonic.

“Know thy enemy, they say. And I know Avalanche,” Rufus tells him, and Tseng can hardly refute the truth of that statement.

He stands. Rufus tenses and betrays himself by glancing at the door. And Tseng knows that he has him.

“There is a room prepared for you in Junon city,” Tseng says mildly, pretending to fiddle with the catches on the briefcase. “I believe it may even have a window.”

Rufus is tired enough that he's not bothering to hide the annoyance in his face at the obvious manipulation, nor the hunger in his expression. “Name your terms,” he says lowly.

Tseng meets his gaze head on. This time, his tone is steel. “Your absolute cooperation in locating Veld. And if you so much as breathe a word of it to your father, recall that there are fates worse than death.”

“Who's talking treason today, Director?” Rufus says, his eyes glinting. He smiles, very slowly, and his expression reminds Tseng of a shark. “Very well. I accept.”

--

Even with Rufus' help, it's an uphill task. Rufus gives them names and locations, gives them the keys to stamp out Avalanche. Tseng has to give him credit – Fuhito had evidently been unaware of just how much information Rufus had amassed on their group, because he hasn't made a move to pull his spies out of Shinra, or to relocate his bases. And by the time the Turks descend on them, they don't have time to run.

But Veld isn't about to go to a place where Avalanche is, and all the hideouts that Tseng knows he knows too. They comb the continent from end to end and still come up with a blank.

A year later, Avalanche is a mere shadow of the threat that it once was. Its leaders are still alive somewhere, but the group that once managed to mount an attack on the Shinra headquarters itself has fragmented into little more than a name.

Tseng leads the last attack personally, following closely on the heels of SOLDIER as they cut through the resistance. Defeat isn't even on the cards; Avalanche has fallen that far. The only question is how many they can take alive before they kill themselves. Or take them with them when they fall.

Reno radios in from deep within the base, reporting that the bomb that was rigged to blow, taking all of them with it, has been neutralised. Tseng doesn't even take a moment to enjoy the look of horror on the SOLDIER commander's face when the idiot finally realises that they had, in fact, walked right into a trap.

He separates from the SOLDIER contingent, leaving them and the junior Turks to round up the captives. He makes his own way to where Reno is, standing on an outcrop outside the smoking wreckage of the base. A newly lit cigarette dangles from Reno's fingers, and Tseng holds out his hand.

“Thought you didn't smoke any more, boss,” Reno says. The title doesn't grate quite as much as it used to.

“Only on occasion,” Tseng replies, accepting a cigarette and a light. Whatever Wall Market special it is that Reno is smoking this time, it tastes absolutely foul, and Tseng finds it almost reassuring. “No sign of Veld?”

“None,” Reno says.

Tseng hadn't expected any. Still, the news strikes a chord of disappointment within him. He looks down from the outcrop, and the plains spread out beneath them, and in the distance he can see the shimmers of the Corel desert. It's fitting, that what should have started in the Corel reactor should now end on the outskirts of Corel – but the sight of it reminds him that it isn't quite over yet. There is still one Avalanche loose end to tie up.

“Reno,” he says, and his second glances over at him, eyes narrowed.

“...Yeah,” Reno acknowledges. There's a suspicious note in his voice, and Tseng can't blame him.

“What did Rufus say to you, back in Junon?”

Reno exhales, and there is the ghost of a sigh in it. “I thought you might ask that. Though I had kinda thought you wouldn't, it being this long and all...”

He's stalling. Tseng gives him time, taking a long draw from the cigarette.

“Pretty much what he probably told you, I figure,” Reno says at last. “That the Prez is driving Shinra and the world with it to hell. And that someone's gotta stop it.”

“And you believe him?” Tseng asks, keeping his tone neutral.

“...You've seen Nibelheim. And Corel. You hafta admit, the kid's got a point. And I can't say I blame him for trying to do something about it. Can't say that I didn't think about it myself, when Scarlet went in there with her goons and torched that town. For what, existing?” His cigarette has burnt down, and he flings the end away from himself with more force than is necessary. “Fuck that shit, Tseng.”

“Trying is one thing,” Tseng replies. “His methods are another. The first I can forgive. The other is more difficult.”

Reno digs around for his pack, and lights up again. “...Never figured you for wanting to be Prez, boss.”

Tseng narrows his eyes at Reno. “Don't be stupid.” He never even wanted to be Director.

“Yeah, see,” Reno says, pointedly not looking at him. “Cos you can bitch about the kid's methods, but the fact is, 'sides you, I don't see anyone I'd want sitting in that office on the 70th floor. Except maybe Reeve, but I'm not sure he wants it any more than you do. Red Bitch, General Horseshit, Doctor Creepy Fuck and Lardman... wouldn't want any of them anywhere near the hot seat.”

Tseng stays silent. They stand there for a long moment, in seemingly companionable silence, but Tseng knows that it's a battle in its own right. He watches his cigarette burn down, and grinds it out under his heel. He doesn't ask for another.

“So,” Reno says last. “You still gonna kill the kid?”

“I haven't decided,” Tseng replies, the honest truth. “Doesn't it bother you that he betrayed us? That he tried to have us killed?”

Reno grins, the kind of grin that makes sane people start backing away slowly. “People try to kill me all the time, boss. I seriously don't give a shit any more. Rufus... his methods may be fucked up, but his heart's in the right place. Well, his head's kinda messed up too, but he's still young enough to learn. And he's still learning. Now General Horseshit, he's gonna get us killed, and that's gonna be out of sheer assholic dumbfuckery. Between that and an honest gun in the face … I know which one I prefer.”

In that moment, Tseng finds himself envious of the clarity that Reno has in his world. “Rufus may turn out to be even more of a monster than his father is. Don't deny that you haven't seen that possibility.”

Reno chews on the end of his cigarette. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Yeah, there's that. Then we're kinda fucked if that happens. But you know, Tseng...”

Tseng raises an eyebrow at him.

“...We'll never know until we try, right?” Reno says.

“Some things,” Tseng counters, “Are too dangerous to give a chance to.”

–

It's evening when Tseng arrives at Junon. He enters the secured area that's Rufus' prison – a comfortable, gilded cage fitting for the disgraced son of the world's most powerful man.

Rufus is standing by the floor to ceiling windows in the living area, the view that overlooks the harbour. He murmurs a greeting in level tones without looking away from the view, and when Tseng finds himself instinctively holding himself to attention at the ring of command in that voice that he realises that Rufus hasn't spent the last twelve months giving them information, he's spent it giving orders. And even if their objective of locating Veld hasn't been met, their campaign is one that he's conducted with devastating success.

“The last enclave was eliminated,” Tseng says. “No sign of Veld or Elfe.”

Rufus turns to face him, and his expression is sober. “I hadn't expected it, but it would have been nice.” He sighs. “No sign of Fuhito, either?”

“None.” Tseng meets his gaze.

He can feel the weight of expectancy in the air. Rufus knows why he's here, knows that he's at the end of his usefulness to them. At the end of the deal that they spelt out. And knows that the time of reckoning is at hand.

“So,” Rufus says, softly but intently. “We come at last to the end of my information, with no success.” His gaze never leaves Tseng's face.

Tseng says nothing.

“What will you do, from here?” Rufus inquires. Unspoken are the words - what will you do with me?

Tseng reaches for the cloth carrier slung across his back. Very deliberately, he undoes the strings that hold it closed. The cloth flutters away, laying bare a finely crafted katana, of a mode rarely seen in Midgar. The tsuba, the pommel, is gold plated, intricately carved, the design setting off the dark sheen of black silk wound around its hilt. The scabbard is black lacquer, with Leviathan, the symbol of the royal household of Wutai, carved down its length, inlaid with mother of pearl.

“Ah,” Rufus says, and does not sound in the least surprised. “I don't suppose there's any room to persuade you to change your mind, this time.”

“None,” Tseng says. He is not one for ceremony, but there are some gestures that must be made. This, he thinks, is fitting.

Rufus' gaze never wavers, never flinches. “Allow me a final request.” There is a gravity to his words and his demeanor, a calm and depth that reminds Tseng of one of the deep, still lakes of the Icicle region.

That comes as a surprise – he had expected more fast talking. Fear. Anger. Something other than the calm acceptance that Rufus is showing. Somewhere along the line, it appears that Rufus has come to terms with this. How much he has grown, Tseng thinks. “Speak it.”

“It is not my place to bequeath my mission to you,” Rufus says, and the quietness to his tone lends it strength. “So I can only ask – when the day comes that my father's insanity grows out of hand, that you will stop him. And if you can find it within yourself to do so – at least let his execution be swift and honourable.” His gaze rests briefly on the sword that Tseng holds between his hands.

Tseng has to close his eyes briefly, feeling each word ring like a bell in the depth of his very soul. In that moment, he is closer than he has ever been to believing in destiny. When he opens his eyes again, he sees only unflinching determination reflected in Rufus' gaze. And Tseng knows, beyond doubt, that Rufus' dedication to this cause is real. And even if Rufus' methods were questionable, that dedication is something that Tseng believes is worth upholding.

“I receive your request,” he says formally, “And your mission.”

Rufus' eyes widen, and then some of that calm veneer cracks, and for a moment he is just a boy again, a little scared, a little regretful, a little lost.

“Turn,” Tseng says, before he can change his mind. He ties off an impromptu cloth belt around his waist and slides the sword through it.

Rufus takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and tips his chin up in a determined effort to show no fear, before he complies. Tseng moves to stand behind him. Rufus flinches just a little as Tseng gathers up his hair – after a year, it is long enough to obscure the nape of his neck – and ties it off. “Kneel,” he says, and there is a moment of stubborn resistance in the line of Rufus' shoulders, before he complies with as much dignity as he can muster.

Tseng steps back, and draws the blade from the sheathe. It rings with a single note, the dying sunlight painting the blade as red as the sky. Rufus clenches his fists and looks straight ahead.

Fitting, Tseng thinks, that it is twilight, that time between day and night, a time of beginnings and endings. A time of change.

He takes up the formal stance, raising the blade high above his head, held two-handed, and lets it pause for a suspended moment in time – and then he brings it down.

The sharpened blade slices without resistance through the hair tie instead of through flesh and bone, severing rope and blond strands, and Rufus' eyes go wide in surprise. Tseng sweeps the sword down to the floor, the blade transcribing a glittering arc... then brings it up and re-sheathes it in the same move.

The chime as the blade slides into the sheathe hangs in the air for a small eternity, as the sun dips below the horizon and the sky turns to indigo. In the stillness, Tseng can feel the very hands of fate bearing down on his shoulders.

Some choices are not so difficult to make, in the end.

“You... missed,” Rufus says at last, his voice still coloured by shock and disbelief. Very slowly, he reaches up to feel the back of his head, then twists around to look at Tseng.

“Hardly,” Tseng says, then holds a hand out to him.

Rufus stares at him for a very long time before taking it. When Tseng helps him to his feet, he's still a little shaky – which is, in itself, more naked emotion than Tseng has ever seen from him in his life. And it isn't the threat of death – he has seen Rufus stare down assassins with perfect poise, has seen Rufus take an assassin's bullet with perfect poise, right before shooting the assailant right between the eyes.

And the insight hits him like a flash from a high powered strobe – that Rufus never begs, not only because of stiff-necked pride, but also because he lives in a world where there are simply no second chances, where there is no such thing as loyalty, or trust, where if you are not the player controlling the pieces on the board, you will simply be a piece, tossed around at the whims of others then discarded. That Rufus Shinra plays the world like a game of chess because he knows of no other way to play it. And that by showing him another way that the game can be played, Tseng has unknowingly managed to turn his entire world on its head.

And Tseng thinks about how gentle Veld has always been with the Shinra heir, and thinks about what Veld, and later Reno, must have seen in him. And thinks about how close he was to making a massive, massive mistake. The knowledge is like ice in his stomach.

“It is done,” he says, intoning the words with the formality of ritual, and he sees the beginnings of understanding dawning in Rufus' eyes.

“The demands of honour are met, then?” Rufus says.

“They are met,” Tseng replies, pulling the sheathed katana from his belt and returning it to its wrappings. He had meant that as a symbolic gesture, to drive home the genuineness of his desire to sever the past so that they could look to the future without inhibition. A reminder to Rufus that actions are not without consequences, and that people are not pawns for him to manipulate at will. He knows now that he's achieved all of that and a lot more, and the enormity of it feels like it's spiralling madly and terrifyingly out of his control.

He takes a seat, because he's half convinced that his knees will buckle at any moment. Rufus drops into the other chair, scrubs a hand over his face, taking a moment to compose himself. When he looks up again, he looks tired, but in less shock than he was a minute ago. “May I ask... why?”

There are any number of things that Rufus could be referring to, but Tseng rather thinks he knows what he's asking. And with the ring of destiny still echoing in his ears, he cannot find it in himself to say anything other than the truth. “I once asked someone wiser than me – what one does, when all paths seem to lead to evil.” He folds his hands on his lap. “The response was to consider what I regard as evil.” Rufus is not the only one who has learnt a great deal since Corel.

“I see,” Rufus says, although Tseng isn't sure he sees just yet.

“A word of advice,” Tseng says, and winces internally at how overdue it is, “Loyalty is earned – it cannot be bought by rendering yourself useful to others. Usefulness, whether as a financier, or as a supplier of information, inevitably comes to an end.”

“I see,” Rufus repeats, and this time, Tseng thinks that he does see. “So,” Rufus says, and he can't entirely mask the note of uncertainty as he charts waters that are totally unfamiliar to him. “The Turks...?”

“Not yet,” Tseng replies, because giving Rufus a second chance does not equate to giving him their loyalty freely.

Rufus glances away for a second, a look of intense concentration furrowing his brow. Then he turns back to face him. “May I borrow your knife, for a second?”

The request surprises him. Nonetheless, Tseng reaches for the dagger concealed in his right boot and hands it over hilt first. Giving Rufus a weapon is against the President's rules, but it's but a drop in the ocean compared magnitude of the treason they're contemplating. Somehow, Rufus has managed to draw him into his rebellion, and Tseng thinks that the President's attempt to at cowing his son has only taught him the patience required to achieve his objective.

Rufus takes the dagger, hefting it for a moment with a contemplative air. Then, without ceremony, he reaches up, takes a lock of hair – some of the longer strands near his temple that had escaped earlier - and slices it cleanly away. Tseng feels his breath catch in his throat. This Wutainese custom is so ancient that its roots have been lost in time, but its meaning has been handed down through the ages. It is the absolute symbol of change, of more than change – of a discarding of the old self, in the search for the new. He had tried to force it on Rufus, but this is not something that can be forced. And now Rufus takes it freely into his own hands.

“I've wronged you,” Rufus says, staring at the strands cradled in the palm of his hand. “All of you.” He looks up, and his gaze is clear again, focused and determined. “And that wrong will be rectified.”

He doesn't swear, neither by the heavens nor the planet nor any of the ancient gods. But Tseng knows it for the absolute vow that it is, and finds himself drowning in the burning fire in those blue eyes, the promise of what this boy can become. Is becoming. What he will become, Tseng vows to himself.

Because some things are too important not to give a chance to.

“Tseng,” Rufus says, and in that moment Tseng nearly bows in reverence to the authority in that voice. But he holds himself, because it is not yet time, because to give it now, to give it so easily, would mock them both.

“Yes,” he says instead, simple acknowledgment.

“You have given me this second lease of life,” Rufus says evenly, and his gaze never so much as wavers. “Will you stand beside me, to guide me through it, that the mistakes of the past will not be repeated again?”

He wonders, in that moment, how is it that Rufus does not see his faults, the pathway of bad decisions and wrong choices that he has trod to bring him to this place. How he can barely be his own conscience, let alone the conscience to the man who will rule the world one day.

But then he hears Veld's voice in his ear again, saying, you are ready, and he realises that Veld is gone, and there is no one left that Rufus could possibly ask this of. That the work that Veld bequeathed to him in the bowels of a half-constructed reactor was more than the care of the department; that this too, is the legacy of choices that he has made. It is as Rufus has said – that it was his own hands that gave the boy this second chance... he can do nothing less than accept responsibility for it.

He feels the weight of destiny again, crushing down on them, even as the future stretches out grey and cloaked in uncertainty. But this time, at last, the path is clear.

“Yes,” he says.

–

The years turn. The search for Veld continues fruitless, and eventually becomes something of a past time. The title of Director stops sounding strange in Tseng's ears. Avalanche is largely silent, and in the peace that this brings, the President continues to strengthen his grip on the world, the Shinra military swelling to ridiculous numbers.

Rufus, in the mean time, is not idle. Tseng watches him maneuver his way into Junon's power structure, until his helpful suggestions almost carry force of law, and Junon grows and thrives and prospers. But against the might of Midgar, he is still powerless.

It is almost two years later that the call comes from the President to locate the two escaped specimens from Nibelheim and bring them back, and Tseng comes right up against his conscience and can't breathe for the sheer weight of that decision.

And he begins to understand what would have driven Rufus to try to eliminate his own father.

He's in Midgar, and can't call Rufus – Rufus' lines are all tapped by the President. He makes the choice himself, makes the choice for what he thinks is right, the consequences be damned, and tells his own Turks - find them. Find them and save them.

When the mission is over, a complete failure on all counts, when Zack is dead and Cloud is lost, when the President is done screaming and Aeris has no more tears to shed, when the offering to Zack that Tseng lights with Aeris has burned down, Tseng flies to Junon, and seeks out Rufus.

“I heard,” Rufus says, the moment Tseng enters his rooms, and Tseng wonders what other sources of information Rufus has managed to obtain, because this is most definitely something that the President hasn't authorised for disclosure to him. And he decides he doesn't care, because all he can think of is Zack's smile and Aeris' hands clutched in his jacket and her face buried in his chest, and he knows now what Rufus has been telling him all this time. The President is insane, and he needs to be stopped.

“Not yet,” Rufus says, “Not yet, not now.”

And something just snaps, and Tseng grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and shakes him and yells until his voice is gone, and Rufus just stands there and takes it all, a strange look burning in his eyes that Tseng can't interpret.

“Sit,” he says, placing hands on Tseng's shoulders and guiding him towards the couch. “I'll get you a drink.”

“I shouldn't,” Tseng says, and his chest is full of glass splinters, cutting him apart. Rufus doesn't deserve this, and he shouldn't be here, not when he's in this mood. “I should go.”

“No,” Rufus says, and shoves him down, and Tseng's knees give, and he collapses into the seat.

“I--” Tseng says, but emotion is a beast in his throat, twisting and strangling and making it impossible to speak.

“I know,” Rufus says quietly, standing before him. “There is no need to apologise. He was your friend.”

And Tseng drops his face into his hands and just screams in his head, over and over again, until the splinters shatter into dust, and all that's left is a hollow, empty ache.

Rufus presses a glass into his hand, and Tseng vaguely registers amber liquid before he gulps it down. He tastes nothing but fire.

“My apologies,” he says, when he can speak again.

Rufus is seated across the coffee table from him, on the edge of his, a glass in his hands. His gaze is distant, and when he speaks, his voice has the introspective cadences of a narrator. “There were two occasions on which the old man forced me to those same crossroads,” he says, and Tseng wonders just when it was in the past years that Rufus developed this devastating degree of insight into the very hearts of those around him, and or whether it was something he always had, just misdirected before.

“Two,” Tseng says, a question.

Rufus shakes his head. “Not something I would like to dwell on, in the circumstances. But the premise is the same – a test, a choice between the Company, and your own heart.” He looks Tseng in the eye. “I know what it is he asks of you, and I know he will ask it again, before the end.”

Veld, Tseng thinks, and this time the despair that crashes onto him threatens to make him shatter.

It's only when Rufus' hands are on his shoulders that Tseng realises that the crash he's half heard was the sound of his glass hitting the ground, that the rising litany of snarled curses echoing in his ears are his own voice. “Look at me,” Rufus says, and such is strength of command in those words that Tseng finds his gaze drawn up of its own accord.

“I will not let you go through that again,” Rufus says, and every syllable rings with the sheer force of will behind it.

He feels like a wave, crashing against the rocky shore, breaking, churning into foam. But Rufus' touch is an anchor, holding him together even as his words break him apart, and Tseng knows, in that moment, that loyalty cannot be bought, but it can be commanded.

Rufus doesn't embarrass him by demanding a response. He turns, a flicker of white and black, and Tseng finds a new glass in his hands, even as Rufus bends to sweep the shattered remains of the first one away.

“I'll get that,” he says, but he's too drained in that moment to even move.

Rufus makes a dismissive sort of noise, striding off with brush and dustpan. When he returns, with a new glass and more ice, he pours himself a generous dose of whiskey, and settles back into his seat, looking at him with a critical eye.

“I'm fine,” Tseng says. One day, he thinks, one day he must find out what it is that Rufus went through, that he would understand so well what Tseng has had to face.

Rufus gives him another once over that says liar, then turns to look out at the ocean. “Fine weather,” he says, almost conversationally. “Times like these, the waves are so gentle that you can swim in the bay without a thought for safety. But when the right storm comes, when the prevailing wind blows in towards the harbour instead of out and away from it...”

Three years, Tseng thinks. Rufus has waited in exile for three years without a word of complaint. If there is anyone who understands the full measure of patience...

“And you'll know when the time is ripe?” he asks, injecting skepticism into his voice not because he feels it, but because he has to, because if he doesn't fight for the surface Rufus is going to drag him so far under that he'll drown before he even realised that he was lost. One day he will. One day he knows he will let go, and fall into that ocean, as deep down as it can drag him – but it is not time yet, and for all that Rufus has become over the past three years, that for all that Tseng has helped him to become, he is still not ready.

Rufus' eyes glitter and he smiles, easy and confident in a way that makes Tseng want to fling his trust, his loyalty, his whole life into the hands of this boy. His fingers dig into his glass instead. Not yet.

“We'll know,” Rufus says.

–

The news, when it comes, reaches Tseng on a night when he is in Junon, watching Rufus devour the latest intelligence reports he has brought him.

So it is that Rufus is right there when Reno tells him that Veld has been found, and found by Scarlet.

Rufus is at his side in and instant, so fast that the chair that he was seated in is still crashing to the floor when his hand is on Tseng's arm in a gesture of restraint. Tseng doesn't know how Rufus knows – whether he managed to hear Reno's side of the conversation over Tseng's PHS, or whether he read that right off his body language, cutting right through years of Tseng's training to be unreadable.

Tseng's finds himself looking to Rufus even as Reno asks for orders, vaguely aware that he's buckling down all emotion so that he can function at all through the clamour that's building in his skull. And Rufus is still shaking his head saying hold, not yet, hold, and Tseng hits the mute button on his PHS and whirls to face him.

He doesn't even have to say it. The weight of Rufus' promise hangs between them, and Tseng isn't sure how Rufus can save him from the inevitable choice that the President will bring him to, when he won't allow him to pull the trigger.

And he wonders, in the back of his mind, when Rufus' will became his command, but he doesn't have the time to think on such things right now.

“I remember,” Rufus says softly. “And that promise will be kept. But this is not the time to move against the old man.”

“Then how,” Tseng breathes, threat lacing his voice, “Do you propose to keep that promise?”

“By playing their game,” Rufus replies, “All the way until the point where it matters the most.”

He meets Veld and Elfe with the dictates of Shinra still ringing in his ears. Kill them, the President says, Kill them and redeem yourself. Kill them and you and all the Turks will be spared.

Veld watches him, silent and accepting, and in that moment, even knowing the plan that Rufus has in mind, Tseng doubts his own strength to follow through.

“Boss,” Reno says, and his voice sounds strangled. Tseng ignores him, and reaches into his jacket. His fingers close around the butt of his 9mm, and its familiar weight feels like a curse.

“You can't be serious,” Reno says.

“Boss, don't,” Rude says, and Tseng clenches his teeth. Only a lifetime of training ensures that his gun arm does not shake.

“Do it,” Scarlet says, and it's all that Tseng can do not to shoot her instead.

“Tseng,” Veld says, the only voice that matters to him in this time and place, and Tseng forces himself to meet his gaze head on. And he finds in that gaze only acceptance. “Go,” Veld says, the very thing that Tseng said him the last time they saw each other, and Tseng sucks in a breath and nods and pulls the trigger.

It is Rufus who meets him, in the empty land where he takes Veld and Elfe, supposedly to dump their bodies. He's escorted by a Shinra guard, and Tseng narrows his eyes at the guard and reaches for his gun, until Rufus shakes his head minutely at him.

“How are they?” Rufus asks.

“Stable,” Tseng says. “Under a sleep spell until the regen spell runs its course.” He may not have shot them fatally, but it had to be close enough to be realistic, and they're not entirely out of the woods yet. It'll probably be days before they recover fully, even with the help of potions and full cure materia.

Rufus places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing for a second before moving past him to peer into the back of the truck. He stands beside Veld for a long moment, and his lips move almost silently, and Tseng thinks that the words he says are thank you, but he can't be sure.

It's Rufus' first trip out of Junon in years, Tseng thinks, and he chooses to spend it here.

“My ex-Avalanche contact radioed,” Rufus says, climbing out of the truck. “He's almost here.”

“I should have known that you wouldn't give me everything you knew about Avalanche,” Tseng says drily.

Rufus just smirks at him, and Tseng thinks that freedom has done him a world of good. “I should head back first before we rouse suspicions,” Rufus says.

Tseng nods at him. For his part, he will not leave until he is sure that Veld is safe. “Home?” he says, and sees Rufus' eyes turn towards the distant silhouette of Midgar.

“Home,” Rufus agrees.

--

“Tseng.”

The voice on the other end of the line is as tense as Tseng has ever heard it. There's a pause after the greeting, which Tseng knows isn't a space for him to mutter some meaningless acknowledgment. Rufus knows it's him. The pause is to let Rufus gather his thoughts.

There's a faint sigh. Tseng rather imagines Rufus steeling himself. He's pretty sure he knows what the question will be.

“It's true, then?” Rufus says. “About Sector Seven.”

Tseng is almost tempted to shut his eyes for a moment. “...Yes.”

Rufus swears in response, softly and viciously.

“You once told me that your father is insane,” Tseng says, almost conversationally.

Rufus doesn't reply. His breathing is almost ragged. Tseng hears a few thumps in the background.

“Rufus,” he says, sharply.

It takes a while for the reply to come. Tseng wonders if Rufus is at a loss for words for the first time in his life, or whether he's too angry to speak. He would put bets on the latter.

The words, when they come, are an order. “It's time,” Rufus says, his voice low and authoritative. “...Bring Aeris in.”

His first, gut reaction is to refuse. He's been refusing for so long that it's automatic. His second reaction is the one that surprises him, the one that bids him to hold back that refusal.

“Tseng,” Rufus says into his silence, and they may be miles away and speaking over a voice-only line, but for a moment Tseng feels like they're face to face, and every inch of Rufus' concentration is levelled on him.

“Do you trust me?” Rufus says, and it doesn't matter that Tseng's been trusting him for years now, because suddenly his world is falling head over heels, and he's ordering the Turks after Zack again, he's holding a gun to Rufus' head again, he's young and inexperienced and Veld is letting him go and telling him--

You're ready. You've been ready for a long time.

The hand gripping the PHS is shaking. He can feel the sharp edges of the phone digging into his palm.

Some things are too important to choose between, he thinks, and thinks of a wasteland of bad decisions and wrong choices and regret. Veld's tones, stern and reproving, the stab of inadequacy in his gut, looking up into the face of his mentor. He thinks of everything he's seen in Rufus since then, he thinks of everything he thinks he knows about Rufus, and he realises that this is the test, this is the decision that could unmake everything that they have built up carefully for so long. Unfair, that he should have traversed so many minefields only to arrive at this one, the one that could make or break them all.

You can't ask this of me, he wants to say, but his throat is locked and the words just echo in his head, trapped.

Rufus is waiting. Tseng can feel the weight of his expectation like a crushing load on his shoulders. He feels betrayed in that instant, that Rufus is no better than his father, that knowing everything he does, that having given every promise he has given, he would still - still - force him to this point, to a decision he cannot make--

“Tseng,” Rufus says again. Slowly. Evenly. “Do you trust me?

Something cracks under his hand. Something stabs into his palm, and the pain lances right up his arm and into the chaos in his head. And in the sudden clarity in its wake, Tseng realises that Rufus isn't asking him to choose between Aeris and him at all.

“You have a plan,” he says. It isn't a question.

“She will be the pebble that starts the Avalanche,” Rufus says, the way he says all promises – with utter simplicity, and absolute conviction. “But she will not be the sacrifice.”

--And Tseng draws the katana from his belt and brings it down, and at the last moment he turns the blade so that it does not draw blood; and Tseng draws the pistol from his jacket and presses the trigger, and at the last moment he lets his wrist move, just the slightest fraction, so that the bullet hits a lung and not the heart--

And Tseng realises in that instant that he is ready.

It's time.

--

The cleaning crews have done a thorough job, but Tseng can still sense the blood. Perhaps Rufus can too, because he's standing at the furthest corner of the President's office, away from the desk. Or perhaps he's just enjoying the view from the 70th floor.

“Rufus,” Tseng says, crossing the floor to where he is. He almost fancies that his footsteps map the same path that Sephiroth must have taken. If it was indeed Sephiroth who was responsible for murdering the old President. If Tseng has any regrets, it is only that it was not his own hand on the hilt of the sword as it delivered the killing blow.

Rufus turns, and smiles. “Tseng.”

His white jacket is pristine - it's the not the same one he arrived in, on the helicopter from Junon. That one is probably unsalvageable, what with all the blood stains and the gaping holes from Cloud Strife's sword. But those blood stains represent Aeris' freedom. Tseng still isn't quite sure what to make of it all. “You let them go,” he says.

Rufus inclines his head, still smiling. He says nothing.

Tseng shakes his head. “Acting coy has never suited you.”

Rufus leans against the glass, crosses his legs at the ankles, and looks at him assessingly. “I made you a promise.”

Not just one, and while Rufus' concept of honour is occasionally strange, Tseng knows better than anyone alive that any vow that Rufus Shinra makes in seriousness, he will move heaven and earth to keep. He glances at the distant leagues beyond Midgar, out towards the darkness where he knows Aeris has escaped to, and something in his chest finally starts to unwind. It's over, it's finally over, and he will never have to make that choice again. The mere knowledge of that freedom seems to add a fragrance to the air, reminding him of spring in a distant country, a long time ago. Rufus is watching him quietly, and Tseng knows in that instant that Rufus has his loyalty, completely and absolutely, and that Rufus himself knows it, and he can't even bring himself to begrudge Rufus that victory.

“So,” he says. “A question.”

“Fire away,” Rufus says.

“You told me once that you had been put in a position of having to make the choice – between the Company, and between your own heart.”

“Ah,” Rufus says, neither confirming nor denying.

“Allow me to speculate,” Tseng says, his gaze level on Rufus' face. “...Your mother.”

It's a theory that he's come up with, over the years. The records were difficult to find, but not impossible. Lady Shinra, executed for treason when Rufus was six. It's not a very difficult connection to make. Rufus' expression shutters immediately, and Tseng knows that he's spot on.

“I owe you this much, at least,” Rufus murmurs, after a pause. “She was accused of dalliances with the CEO of a rival company. We'll never know if the evidence was fabricated or not, and back then, it didn't matter to me. I was still of an age that I believe that any sins could be forgiven, and I made the mistake of trying to get between her--” he doesn't say my mother, and Tseng can sympathise “--and the old man.” He doesn't elaborate. Tseng knows he doesn't have to. There are ways of making a man feel like a murderer even without forcing him to pull the trigger.

“And that was the first,” Tseng says quietly. “What was the second?”

Rufus gives Tseng a level look that goes on for what feels like a minor lifetime. Caught by the intensity in it, Tseng finds that he can't breathe, and he wonders whether he has crossed a line, whether Rufus will actually tell him this time.

Then Rufus' gaze slides away from Tseng towards the window, and Tseng follows it. Midgar gleams below them, bright and brilliant, and the look on Rufus' face softens with a tenderness that Tseng has never seen before.

“I should have guessed,” Tseng says, moving to where Rufus is standing to get a closer look at the city. He wonders that it's never struck him before, because now that he puts everything that he knows about Rufus together, it's almost blindingly obvious.

Rufus' gaze lingers on the darkness where Sector Seven used to be, and Tseng knows the exact moment that the old President pushed too hard, and Rufus made his choice, once and for all.

Veld, Tseng thinks, would have been proud. Probably is, wherever he is.

“There was a third,” Rufus says, so quietly that Tseng almost has to strain to hear it. He waits; when no explanation is forthcoming, he glances over at Rufus.

“A third,” he prompts, just as quietly.

And Rufus' gaze moves from the city, up to meet his eyes, and the look on his face is the same one that he wore the day that Tseng stormed into his apartment in Junon and completely fell apart on him.

And Tseng realises that he was completely wrong about the exact moment that the old man pushed his son too hard.

“President,” he says, because this gift is more than he knows what to do with. More than he's worthy of.

“Watching him trying to break you was the hardest thing I've ever had to see,” Rufus says with quiet vehemence, and for a moment, Tseng sees raw pain and fury in his eyes. Then Rufus glances at the desk that his father died at, and sighs, and the anger drains away. “Anyway--”

“Rufus,” he says, because otherwise Rufus will just brush this over, and the moment will be lost beyond recall. Rufus glances to him, and the moment stretches between them, fragile as spiderweb.

And Tseng thinks of choices, and wrong decisions, and searches his entire catalogue of what is, and what should be, and what is right, and realises that he has no precedents for this at all. And he thinks back over all that they have been through, and thinks that he's really bad at following precedents anyway, and he thinks:

Screw it

And he throws all caution and all thought to the wind, and simply goes with what feels right.

“I promise you,” he says, and maybe he can't pronounce it with the same sense of prophetic doom that Rufus can, but he can pour every ounce of his will and spirit into it, “I will not let you go through that again.”

And then he's down on bended knee, and Rufus, who has spent all these years observing him, who knows him better than anyone else and knows the full import of what this moment means to him, doesn't protest, doesn't try to brush it off, simply lays a hand lightly on his head, and says, in an echo of Tseng's own words a lifetime ago, “I receive you.”

And Tseng knows that he has let go, that he let go a long time ago, but the ocean that he's plunged into does not drag him down. It buoys him up, and he does not drown.