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Midgar has been anything but quiet; whispers of a fallen hero walking around the streets of it, of an organization that was crushed without a second thought returning, of troopers attacking civilians, SOLDIERs being deployed to keep outside sources silenced, experiments being down under their very noses, mako seeping into houses with unknown causes, suspicions about the truth behind Sector 7’s destruction, all of it has accumulated to paranoia and doubt in Shinra. Some are truths, others are lies, most have been morphed into a maze of both.
While most citizens won’t try to leave Midgar, it isn’t unlikely for the fears and murmurs to spread like a burning fire, the fire being too easy to burn up one bridge than the other, but that does completely leave the other side untouched.
The President had requested all of these requests be compiled neatly in a folder to be delivered, by hand, right to his office, so he could decide what route of action Shinra would take next. All these ideas would be perfectly fanned to Shinra’s own benefit, perhaps there are still some remnants of AVALANCHE, but Shinra will flood them out like the strays they are. Experiments were not being done, well, if they were, they were not done with Shinra’s enthusiasm in mind, someone must’ve gone rogue, Shinra could place curfews and warnings of where you may be at risk. There may be leaks of mako that still need to be repaired thanks to AVALANCHE’s past actions.
Once the papers are placed on the desk, what the aftermath brings is nothing of Tseng’s concern.
He looks through each and every individual report as the elevator provides tilting and shaking while it rises past the next ten floors, the faint ambient rumbling tells him it’s still moving and hasn’t stopped yet.
Most of these papers are repeats of each other, or are almost the same but with a few details changed. Still good to keep track of, he supposes.
As the elevator begins to slow, he tucks the papers back inside the folder and slides it under his arm.
There’s a faint ‘beep’ when it stops, the doors opening out into a dark hall only illuminated by the electric-powered chandeliers above.
Before Tseng steps out, he hears echoing footsteps disappearing up the stairs. He’ll assume that’s him.
Nobody’s typically here at this hour except for the President.
And none of the Executives are here, he knows that much. Hojo is most likely occupied with experiments, possibly Reeve may be up at this hour, or he was sent off to look over blueprints due to the mako leak concerns. If one was here, he doubts they’re the one who went up to the office.
A long red carpet stretches on and towards the direction the footsteps were from. A grand staircase is placed at the end, laced with red embroidered carpet. He does not see a glimpse or a shadow of whoever is going up them. He opens his mouth, to call out, then decides against it. Stepping out of the elevator and walking forward. His shoes leave a quieter impression, even with his own footsteps echoing down and up the hall.
There is logical reasoning here, still, Tseng stops for a moment, letting the echoes fade and simply listening. He hears no more footsteps, nor does he hear any more outside of his own, he looks to the pillars and walls, no one is hidden among them. A stiff feeling lingers in the air, Tseng breathes it in, there’s no clear reason for it, he knows it’s not because of something with the air conditioning, it was crystal clear inside the elevator.
He looks back at the elevator, watching the doors close. Nobody else has entered behind him.
Usually those aren’t delayed, either, it might be a simple malfunction.
Again, he breathes in, his eyes moving up to the ceiling above, to the Executive Office. He stands alone surrounded by air that every time he breathes, it makes him feel like he is breathing wrong.
Alternatively, it could be his injury playing tricks on his mind, the blood loss hadn’t yet become easier to handle, the bandages were still tied tightly enough to press against his bones through his skin, it was sterilized every morning, it still felt and seemed just as bad the day it was caused. He clears his throat, holding the folder more firmly and closer while he ascends up the staircase, when he sees the familiar lights of the office seeping down them, he expects to arrive at the top and see Rufus sitting.
He’s proven wrong.
Once he sets his eyes upon the office, it is empty.
Tseng scans over the room, looking from side to side, the chair, desk, all of it is clean and neat, empty in the way the night sky is.
Not even the sign of Darkstar greets him. He knows there are not many ways he could’ve heard those footsteps, not by the floor below, not by an Executive entering behind him, someone has to be within this office.
He isn’t meant to be here long, but if there is a possible threat—considering Sephiroth’s strange abilities…
It could be the President, however he would’ve made himself known by now.
Tseng strides over to the desk, wiping the top of it with his fingers and sniffing them, stepping to the side of it before opening one of the drawers and placing the folder delicately inside. There’s a creak, he pretends to not notice while he closes the drawer, his other hand moving to where his gun is hidden. His gaze moves to the window, and he walks towards it, looking over Midgar, and in the reflection of it the lights provide.
He sees movement, someone stepping out from one of the pillars.
He takes one more step, sudden, fast, rapid footsteps approaching from behind him before he instinctively, almost robotically, tenses his body as he swiftly turns around and aims his pistol right at the unknown possible assailant’s neck.
The stiff air is broken through by a ‘click’, followed by the end of a shotgun pressing up against his ribcage, causing a stinging pain to begin coursing through his body. Tseng’s eyes stay on his own gun before it moves down, recognizing that the glisten of the metal is all too familiar, then his eyes move up, staring and identifying the stranger.
“President.” Tseng greets, grip still firm on his own weapon, his own shoulders still tensed.
“You usually deliver a kick,” Rufus responds, nitpicking, “one that would’ve knocked the gun out of my hands. You began to do it when my gun already had made contact, and you stopped.”
Tseng tilts his head. “You noticed that delay?” He moves his pistol slightly, aiming it up against Rufus’ chin.
“Oh, please. Anyone would notice if their right-hand man did not do standard protocol.”
“I suppose you have a point.”
Rufus pushes the gun deeper in between Tseng’s ribs, using his other hand to shove him back up against the glass window. The shotgun is not burying itself into the injury, it’s too low, despite the fact that the pain it sends through his upper body makes it feel as though it were. “Really, it’s like you want me to die, what if it wasn’t me who surprised you?”
“I have a good trigger finger.”
“So do I.”
The candles in the room illuminate the white clothes that Rufus constantly prides himself in, making him look as if he’s only moonlight seeping into the room, the shine of the carefully crafted shotgun, one made to kill, that catches Tseng’s eye more.
“I suspected it was you.” Tseng’s hand twists to make the pistol more comfortable to retain its current target, especially with the metal digging into his ribs and his back pressed up against cold glass.
Rufus only supplies him with a sharp gaze. “And you didn’t call out?”
“Either way.” Tseng looks back to the pillar Rufus had hid himself behind, then back to him. “It would have ended up here.”
“You aren’t wrong.”
“Where’s Darkstar?”
“A few pillars back, given the command to stay until I whistled.”
“You never whistled. You knew it was me, and I knew it would most likely have been you.”
“The chance it wasn’t?” Rufus twists and turns the shotgun upwards, almost purposely aiming at an already slow to heal wound between the two bones it rests itself on.
“I have survived worse.” Tseng, in retaliation, buries his pistol in the crevice of the President’s chin and neck.
Rufus’s eyes look down to the pistol, his mouth shifting as if he were about to whistle, before he says, “have you survived a mauling?”
“There is no scenario you would have Darkstar attack me.” He replies, raising an eyebrow. “Unless, I was a traitor.”
The shotgun jabs into Tseng’s side, twisting and settling into a more uncomfortable place than it already was. “Correct. And, you are loyal, aren’t you?” Tseng doesn’t falter at this, he watches as Rufus swallows, only giving a unamused look to him.
Tseng shrugs lightly with his shoulders. “Do you really think I’m going to rebel against you?”
Rufus clicks his tongue. “What do you think?”
Getting a glimpse of the safety catch of the shotgun, it’s not engaged.
“It’d be a bit hypocritical.” Tseng answers. He takes a deep breath, one that is not shaky, he does not show a single wince of pain, the wound pulsates with stinging and burning. The bandages feel like a snake constricting his torso until he cannot breathe, not the things that save him from bleeding out every single day. “Especially with your reputation.”
Rufus’ finger remains on the trigger, ready as always, to give a command. “It would be.”
Tseng lowers his gun first, letting it drop to the floor and holding his hands up. “Then you caught me.”
His ribs feel like they will be torn apart, bone by bone, perhaps even pried open by a bullet itself. He has always wondered what kind of autopsies were performed on bodyguards after death, how would someone like to discover a bodyguard’s own assignment was the one to do the deed? It’d be a scandal, if it ever left that room, if there was ever an autopsy, if the culprit was stupid. Rufus is anything but, blood has covered each footstep you’ve heard, it is covered by a clean white that one only sees a savior wear.
“You have never given up easily.”
“I never plan to.” Tseng says.
Rufus’ finger begins to pull the trigger, accompanied by one loud—
A sharp ringing noise causes Tseng to blink, looking to the side.
The bullet’s embedded itself in the glass, Rufus lets his hand slide off of Tseng, who observes as he picks it right out of the glass. Tseng stands, holding a hand to his side. When he moves to bend down to pick up his gun, the ringing still loud in his ears, Rufus kicks the pistol up into the air, catching it. He steps in front of Tseng and presents it by holding it to his forehead, before disengaging it and placing it right back into his hands.
Rufus snaps his fingers, causing Darkstar to creep out from behind the pillar and over to him, sniffing the shotgun before its blank red eyes land on Tseng, watching every movement he makes, similar to the way a camera would.
Tseng slips his pistol back into his pocket. “You’re on edge,” he comments as Rufus stays by the window, staring down at the city with a slight look of, not disdain, exactly, his expression seems neutral yet something seems to be nagging at him. His body is tense, his finger is glued to the trigger, his eyes dart at creaks, expecting someone to be there, when nobody is. Darkstar’s ears are flattened, teeth bared, ready to bite with no warning, if Rufus tells it to.
“A dead man walked into my office.” Rufus looks at Tseng, eyebrows furrowing. “A man, one spoken about like he was nothing but a myth passed down from aspiring SOLDIER to SOLDIER, reappears with ease, with no explanation, then he disappears once more. Like he’s some trick of the light. He implies I am nothing but an idiot.”
“Are you concerned?”
“I’m not. I doubt I ever will be, there’s no point to be, he won’t risk coming near me. Him killing my father was a blessing, what was not is…” Rufus trails off, shaking his head.
Tseng leans on the desk, propping himself up more.
Rufus aims his shotgun at the window again. “No security measure even caught the man, do you know how much of an earful I had to give Heidegger? He acted like he had no clue how, but I know, somehow, he is trying to find a flaw, to kill me like my father was, even in a way that it was not by his hand directly. He couldn’t even kill a measly messenger.”
“He needs to be dealt with, is what you’re implying.” Tseng crosses his arms.
“He’s too vital at the moment. He won’t leave Shinra anytime soon, either, it’s an absolutely absurd choice of his, when you look at it. He hates the new leadership, however he won’t ever risk becoming even lower than an executive, he’d hate to be anything but a speck of dust, but that’s all he ever is now.” Rufus laughs, like a hinge being knocked loose. “Isn’t that ironic? He praised my own father like he was a god, and now he himself is nothing but an ant-” he makes a crushing motion with his other hand- “so willing to follow.”
Tseng agrees with a nod. “He is quite the executive.”
Rufus walks over to the desk, placing the shotgun on it as he takes a seat. He pulls the drawer open with two of his fingers, picking up the folder and placing it on the desk, pushing the drawer closed with his arm before he opens the folder, slipping some of the papers out. Darkstar moves next to him, placing its head on the arm of the chair, letting Rufus begin to pet it with his other hand, scratching one of its ears.
He appears almost bored by the first reports he sets his eyes on, they aren’t anything that special, Tseng was not unfazed by any of them either. The President continues on despite the absurdity, rolling his eyes when he reaches the papers concerning Heidegger and recent developments with certain choices regarding the security as of late reacting harshly to civilians.
“Leaks?” He scoffs, moving the paper to the side. “Take that down to the Urban Development Division, that’s more of his business to deal with.”
Tseng picks up the paper, stepping back and straightening his posture. Rufus slides a few more out, before more carelessly flipping through the remaining ones in the stack, stopping at one and narrowing his eyes, removing his hand from Darkstar’s head and holding the paper up to the ceiling. Tseng skims few of the keywords within it, one of the ‘sightings’ of Sephiroth.
Rufus takes a deep breath, sitting up more in his chair and rubbing his temple as he examines more, he wrinkles his nose at the ones centered around Sector 7, those had already not really been much of Shinra’s concern, and they still wouldn’t be prioritized anytime soon. Really, unless there were any more sectors that needed their plates to be dropped, Rufus did not and would not give a damn.
Darkstar lowers itself to the ground, stretching out before laying and looking up at Tseng. He looks back at it, keeping his hands to himself, preferably. It obeyed each command of Rufus’ without any hesitation, any doubt, it was a hound with a thirst for blood if it was told to, it was crafted to strike, to hunt, to watch, no matter how much trust was placed in the guest its eyes would be set upon. Drool leaks out from its jaw, it does not growl, but its teeth are still visible, it is still on guard.
The only thing that pulls its attention away from Tseng is the low whistle Rufus does, which makes it perk its ears up, sitting up as well to peer over the top of the desk. Now, it’s acting like a scout, a lookout.
Tseng’s eyes return to the papers Rufus reads, the words—’Wutai infiltrating Midgar’ being the first he sees. He does not say a word, gaze trailing back to Rufus’ expression, while it remains relatively neutral, he leans his head on his hand, quietly grinding his teeth from underlying irritation. This does not deter him as he flips to the next one, the next, and the next.
Not a single one draws a smile on his face, except for the rumors of AVALANCHE reforming from the ashes of Sector 7 and deconstructing Shinra in various ways, maybe even from the inside. He leans back in the chair as he looks at the paper, looking at Tseng. “If any one of them dares to show their face, they will be dealt with.” He places it face down on the desk, leaning forward and setting his head on his hands, staring down at the rest of the papers.
“Tell me, how much of this is worth reading?”
“For Shinra’s benefit, all of it.”
“Right.” He picks up another report, waving it slightly to read. This time, he pulls out one that claims small businesses have been claiming AVALANCHE has been frequenting by, and if you stay late enough, you’ll see them.
Tseng puts a hand on the desk. “That’s a bizarre marketing scheme.”
“‘Troopers were dispatched out to these businesses, marking them all as clear’, then why do I need to know about this?” Rufus holds the paper out to Tseng. “You know whose desk to leave it on.”
Tseng slides the paper under his arm beside the one for Urban Development.
The pain is still trying to pry him from the inside, he doesn’t allow it to, but the bandages feel a tad loose, warmth runs down it and circulates in a specific area, the feeling of something wet against the fabric of his uniform makes him nip the inside of his mouth. He swallows, Rufus goes through more and more of the reports, appearing more displeased at something. Perhaps the amount of information given, or at the contents being so little. Tseng cannot predict his thinking, all he knows is by his face, he craves more than this. Something that could spark, burn in a way that it leaves smoke that undeniably lures people closer.
But knowing him, he will find a way to set it ablaze.
Rufus begins to peel the paper back, getting a glance of the report afterward before smoothing it out so presumably Tseng could not read the words he did, Rufus then clasps his hands together and turns to him. “Did you not hear me?”
Darkstar stands, staying silent even as drool continues to drip from its mouth.
Tseng clears his throat. “You didn’t say anything.”
“You’re dismissed.” He flicks his hand towards the door. “Leave.”
“Of course.” Tseng breathes the words out, he picks the papers up and moves them to his hands, holding them behind his back. His shoulders remain tense, the wound feels as though it hangs open in relief, and he steps out from behind the desk, walking across the scarlet red carpet.
He feels eyes on the back of his neck, Darkstar is a hound, it watches until a possible threat leaves, it is the thing that lurks behind Rufus’ back and bares its teeth. It is not uncommon for it to stare down anyone who enters or leaves.
Even then, he knows Rufus is the hound-like presence staring at the back of his neck.
Right before he steps down the first stair, it sounds like Rufus rises from his chair, he loudly clears his throat.
Tseng stops mid-step, turning his head to look back at him.
Something distracts him, the way Darkstar’s eyes bore into Tseng’s, his gaze wavers from Rufus to it for a moment, he promptly focuses on the President.
Rufus holds up a single paper with narrowed eyes.
“Tell Hojo to quiet down on his experiments.”
Tseng does not need to see the report to know which section Rufus has reached. “Of course, President.”
“Good.” With that, Rufus returns to his seat and his eyes, seemingly, return to the folder, Darkstar disappears behind the desk as Rufus seems to scratch its chin.
Tseng turns his back, descending down the stairs, letting himself be engulfed in the Executive Suite’s electric chandeliers’ light, surrounded by the lights that shine up the building from below, Midgar’s light.
He looks through the windows, the city seems like nothing but blurs of yellow and green that dance with each other. The blank sky above shows no stars, only the murky sky and the reflections down the hall, the perfectly crafted granite and gold linings are what await him, he looks at the elevator at the end of it, his own shadow displayed underneath the candlelight.
He wipes one of his gloves along his suit, looking down at it. There is no blood seeping through, he knows there will be if he delays this any longer.
His shoes and their footsteps echo while he approaches the elevator.
Once he steps inside, he stares at the sky of nothing. His eyes move to the ground, looking over the reports, he knows every word they say, what they say, but he will not look back at that empty sky. He should not be thinking of Midgar’s skies.
After all, he will not allow himself to think of the buried stars tonight.