( open ) experience has made me rich and now they're after me

[unionized]

WHO: Rufus Shinra (unionized) and various (including YOU)!
WHEN: April
WHERE: All around Etraya!
WHAT: Open top-levels for various prompts including dreamshare, general interaction, and potentially mission-related things once those become available.
NOTES\WARNINGS: The usuals for FF7: potential discussion of shitty parenting, parental death, mass murder, unethical human experimentation, less mass-y but still severe murder, ecoterrorism (both ways) etc. etc.

Comments

open;

[unionized]

— running in the nineties is a new way to set me free;
SHADOWBLOOMS.

[So you stopped to take a gander at one of the Shadowblooms, did you? Rufus, personally, has been avoiding them, as he's been tending to do with most of the growing things — which means he's also one of the ones susceptible to having visitors wander into his dreams, and it seems that tonight is his lucky night...

Which is perhaps how you find yourself on a wide expanse of much-scuffed asphalt beneath a hot sun and a wide-open sky with a smattering of what look like industrial warehouses dotting the surrounding terrain. There's a vaguely military sort of atmosphere to the whole thing — security fences, vehicles parked wherever their operators saw fit to leave them, a few nondescript figures here and there who are likely standing security. The asphalt is bleached greyish from the sun beating down, marred darker here and there by the remnants of rubber left behind when tires skidded out on it; it's evidently some kind of training course, given the wide open area and occasional obstacles scattered about, but also more sophisticated at a glance than mere orange cones.

Atop a low fence at the edge of the track sits a boy in his late teens, his shaggy blond hair lit up like a halo beneath the ambient rays of sun. He's wearing white, which is a good choice for this hot of a day, but for the fact that he's also wearing a suit, and the effects of the heat are showing — he's pulled his tie loose and undone the top two buttons of his collar, and his dry cleaners would probably have a few words for him about sitting on a wooden railing in fabrics like that, but on the whole he seems altogether unconcerned about it. He's sipping from a bottle of water; the brand name isn't legible, but it looks a lot more stylized than the sort of thing you pick up at your average grocery store.

From the way he's looking around, heels hooked onto one of the lower rungs of the fence when he's not letting his legs dangle altogether, it seems as though he's waiting for something. Should he spot you, and assuming you're not wearing a suit, you might just earn yourself a cocked head and a thoughtful, scrutinizing look-over before finally he calls over: ]

Out of uniform?

[Which begs the question of, what uniform was he expecting — and just what all is he waiting for, to begin with? Maybe you'll just have to ask him to find out.]

[thinkerseven]

[ Lisa, on the other hand, has been looking at the Shadowblooms intentionally. Dreams are fickle, risky things - what's in them tends to be more emotionally true than factually true, and there's always a chance that her dream will be the one on display. But Lisa is confident in her ability to run damage control, if nothing else, and the opportunity for information is too good to pass up.

In dreams, Lisa is never Lisa. She's Tattletale, dressed in a tight black-and-lavender costume, with a mask around her eyes and a gun at her hip.

Industrial; militarized; security. Private compound, wealth.

That's obvious enough. Time to find the dreamer.

Young, relaxed, improper seating location. Family.

Tattletale waves, then gestures to herself. ]

Not quite. You could say we have different jobs. Are you gonna fix yours?

[unionized]

[The mask and costume are interesting, to say the least — enough out of place in the environment of the dream that it's apparent the boy notices them, but evidently with the oddity blunted enough by the dream that they come off as only a curiosity, and not a point worthy of immediate interrogation. He certainly doesn't flinch at the costume or at the gun; the mask is where his attention seems to linger most, but his laid-back, unruffled demeanor never wavers.]

And just what is there to fix?

[He takes another sip of his water, but he's watching her a little more closely now — as though there's a right answer and a wrong answer to his seemingly innocent question, and he's waiting to see how she'll land it.]

[thinkerseven]

[ Well, that's a loaded question if Lisa's ever heard one. And a loaded question, like a gun, can do some pretty serious damage if Lisa isn't careful.

She gives the teenager another once over, and lets the mental walls holding back her power come down.

Teenager; pride; rebellious. Peers don't tell him no, authority figures don't tell him yes. Authority figure, singular. Father? Fifty percent chance of father. Lineage, heritage, expectation. Rebellion?

Too much speculation leads to distraction, and that creates unfavorable results. Lisa cuts herself off there, then makes a show of looking around the compound. ]

Mm. Well, the obvious answer is your tie. But that's not what you're asking about.

[ A dramatic pause, just for show. ]

Weird, that there's almost no one here, isn't it? But with all this surveillance, I'm sure they're watching you. [ Lisa clicks her tongue. ] Must be lonely.

[ She remembers what that's like, a little. Even though it happened to someone else. ]

[equivo]

[ One of the problems with a power that relies on line of sight is that it's hard to break the habit of scanning the environment overnight. Factor in a tendency to keep his head on a swivel regardless, and the surprising thing is that this has only happened once before.

It's a less disorienting dream than the last one. Krouse gets his feet under himself faster, tucking back his shoulders and surveying the scene with incisive interest.

When the teenager perched on the fence calls out to him, Krouse figures he's found the dreamer. He smiles faintly as he slips his hands into the pockets of his red hoodie and walks over, unhurried, to say hello. ]

I'm just visiting.

[ He's still not entirely sure the last dreamer clocked him as an intrusion. The state of things in that head were less organized than this. For right now, it seems like a reasonable idea to strike a balance between honesty and playing along. ]

What about you?

[unionized]

[Whatever response the boy on the fence might've been expecting from his newly-arrived company, it's apparent in an instant that "just visiting" wasn't it; though the smile doesn't leave his face, his blue eyes narrow just fractionally beneath his shaggy blond bangs. (It's altogether possible he keeps his hair that way for precisely that reason, with how good a job it does at concealing those little tells.) His gaze flicks over Krouse from head to toe, gauging the red hoodie and the casual gait, before finally he brings the water bottle up and takes another unconcerned drink.]

You'll never get anywhere in life, lying as badly as that.

[He seems amused, and maybe a little triumphant. Like he's caught Krouse in something, maybe, though the what of it is less clear.]

Let me guess. You were supposed to memorize the layout and didn't, and now you're lost and hoping I'll save you before someone notices. Tsk, tsk. That's a rookie mistake.

[equivo]

[ Krouse's smile turns up a watt as he turns around to hoist himself up on the wall a few feet down from the other teenager, curving into an unconcerned semi-slouch as he props his elbows on his knees. ]

'Visiting' and 'lost' aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.

[ Rich kid, bored, wants to talk. Not a hard assessment to make. Odds are good that the projection of what Krouse wants onto him is more or less exactly what this guy hopes will happen. That, or he's going to enjoy dangling the prospect of help in front of him before yanking it away. Either option will tell him a lot about whoever this is. ]

You got me. [ He shrugs, looking out over the scene. When he tries to pay attention to some of the details, he finds his eyes sliding off of them like the poles of misaligned magnets. ] I was going to try to get some context clues out of you, but so much for that. Guess I might as well give it up and turn myself in.

[unionized]

They are around here. Mostly because nobody "visits".

[Such are the downsides of being a teenage blueblood on the precipice of adulthood responsibility, yet not quite toppled over yet: he likes the sound of his own voice but hasn't quite learned to err on the side of caginess, with an added dash of just seeming a little pleased to have someone to talk to at all.]

And since you wouldn't have made it here at all if you were that clueless, then I assume you're actually here to check up on me. The civvies were a nice touch, but you really should've known better.

[He pauses, seeming to consider a minute.]

Who do you report to? Don't worry, I won't rat you out. Probably.

[equivo]

[ This isn't a place that people just visit, but here sits this deliberately slightly rumpled teenager with apparently nothing better to do than sip expensive water and interrogate passersby. Combine that with him expecting to be checked up on by barely inconspicuous strangers, and that probably means he's related to someone fairly important around here, dragged out and set loose while the adults deal with something other than entertaining him.

It reminds him of the volunteer events his mom would insist he come with her to. Slipping off to some corner of musty community halls to idle away the time until he was called on to participate, and bumping into other kids in the same position.

He hooks his foot around one of the rungs of the fence as an anchor and tips forward, looking rueful. He doesn't really know why he's drawing this out when he's going to get caught anyway, to the extent 'caught' even matters here. Maybe it's the principle of the thing. Maybe it's just nostalgia. ]

My dad.

[ A vague nothing in reality, which has made the role a conveniently flexible tool for plenty of lies before. This time, he invents a stern looking man in a suit a few steps less expensive than the teenager's, a humourless go-getter not above roping his shiftless son into angling for a higher rung on the ladder. ]

For the record, I told him it was a bad idea. But I guess what's the point of having a kid if you can't send him off for playdates with the boss' son?

[nonvoting]

[ tseng is, in fact, wearing a suit. even in the oppressive heat of the day he's wearing turk blacks, his slacks pressed, his jacket buttoned neatly. there's only one way in which he's out of dress code, and that is in the tie, which he'd loosened slightly on the transport to the training grounds and had forgotten to re-tighten; he hadn't expected that anyone would notice, things being what they are, out here.

hot as ifrit's balls, one of the other turks had said. tseng is inclined to agree. he doesn't sweat much, but he can feel it gathering between his collarbones where the sun is beating down against his skin.

he should have known better than to think that rufus shinra wouldn't notice the infraction. tseng has never met the president's son, but he knows things about him: knows that he's smart, sharp as a scalpel, that he sometimes makes verdot want to pull his hair out. he knows that rufus has been training with the turks for a few years now, although his path and tseng's have never intersected; he knows that he sometimes suffers mood swings that he disguises in every way except one, a habit of rubbing the fingers of his left hand together when he's in a bad mood.

he knows that rufus shinra is like a sun around which other people orbit, caught in his gravity, dazzled by his glow. ]

Yes, sir. —No, sir. [ instinctively, tseng reaches up to tighten his tie again, hiding both collarbones and sweat. ] I'm supposed to bring you to the shooting range.

[unionized]

[Now this is a Turk he's never encountered before; trite as it might sound, he'd certainly remember it if their paths had ever crossed, and not just because of how the political complications with Wutai mean there simply aren't a lot of people allowed this close to the president's son at all, much less if there's any chance of even the slightest conflict of interest in play. No, he would remember a boy so close to his own age and so unlike him in every way — buttoned-up, sleek, immaculate, with dark eyes and dark hair and a carefully nondescript expression. Rufus looks like the seventeen years old he is; this one looks like he's been forty years old for twenty years already.

He doesn't even know him, and yet it feels good to get one over on him, no matter how slight. To have caught some infinitesimal imperfection in his otherwise correct appearance and managed to point it out. It's just a shame there was no one else around to hear it, who might report back to his father how observant and clever and superior he was. The old man would've approved of it — well, maybe. Or maybe he'd say that it was a waste of time to give nearly that much attention to the help to begin with.

It's always like that, with his father. Dangling things just out of his grasp, reminding him implicitly how he's not good enough to have them. Approving words are cut from the same cloth as the car he'd been given for his birthday — things to see but not to touch, things to want but not to claim.

This Turk is probably the same way. Company that isn't really companionship, just present enough to remind him that even those in his social vicinity are still more his father's than his.]

Oh, are you? On whose orders?

[It's humor, of a sort. Turks take orders. Turks also wear black and keep their ties secured at their throat no matter the heat, and here he is, breezy and lackadaisical and clad all in white.]

I might be disinclined to follow them, depending.

[nonvoting]

[ turks take orders, and rufus gives them. in this case, though, it's not to rufus that tseng reports, and so he straightens his posture ever-so-slightly and says, ] Verdot's orders, sir.

[ not the president's. the president rarely bothers to give orders to the turks directly; instead he gives orders to heidegger, who gives them to verdot, who gives them to the turks under his command. it's verdot to whom tseng answers, even though they're all ostensibly on the president's payroll, and it's verdot who has earned tseng's respect over the years, while the president has remained a mythic figure locked in his high tower, seventy-three floors above general affairs where tseng spends most of his time.

despite the heat, tseng's balance is even, his spine perfectly straight, meridians aligned. the posture of a martial artist, but one who, at seventeen, has not yet learned to carry himself in a way that doesn't immediately make his strength obvious. ]

He wants you to practice with your off-hand.

[ it's almost an aside. tseng isn't even really sure why he offers it, except that something itchy in the back of his mind makes him want to convince rufus to do it. follow tseng down to the underground shooting range and see who can put more holes in the practice dummies. ]

[unionized]

[Verdot doesn't have the authority to order him to do anything, but that's largely irrelevant because he already has something better — the respect due to the director of the Turks, and the only reason that Rufus has ever been given the opportunity to absorb even half of the interesting, useful, valuable training exercises he's been allowed to in recent memory. Between the two of them, Verdot and his father, it's the gysahl greens and the stick; his adherence to his father's wishes always has its roots in knowing what would happen to him if he didn't, but his willingness to heed Verdot's is founded in the things he'll lose out on, instead.

He wonders, absently, what this Turk thinks about that. Does he think he's coddled and spoiled, granted indulgent favors by a venerable man with a thousand better things to do than this? Most likely. Shinras take what they want; they don't wait around hoping for favors, or showing gratitude when they're lucky enough to get them.

He casts a look, absently, at the sun-bleached track; he'd thought he'd wanted to drive, itching for shrieking tires and the breathless exhilaration of too much speed and too-tight turns. But Verdot wants him to practice shooting, it seems, and he wants that approval even more.]

Well. Then I guess I'd better go show him that I don't need any practice.

[He tilts up his water bottle, taking another long drink, then leaves it balanced atop one of the fence posts as he hops off and shoves his hands into his blazer pockets.]

I haven't seen you before. Are you a rookie?

[nonvoting]

[ verdot doesn't have the authority to give rufus orders, which is why this request is couched as such: he wants you to, not he's telling you to. similarly, tseng doesn't have the authority to disobey rufus if he were to say no, no shooting, we're going driving instead—and for that reason it's sort of a relief that rufus seems to agree to the proposition. it's far too early for tseng to be fully responsibility for the physical wellbeing of rufus shinra, after all. (no, that comes much, much later.)

he doesn't move as rufus finishes off his water, nor as he hops down from the fence where he'd been sitting. as ever, tseng is prepared to follow half a step behind and to the right, unobtrusive but omnipresent. ]

Four years now, sir. [ does that make him a rookie? probably, in the grand scheme of things. the turks tend to be lifers, at least until their lives are cut short by the demands of their chosen career. verdot himself has been director of the turks since the dawn of time, or so it seems. ] I was assigned to a different mission.

[ observation of the ancient. it's still his job, but now that he's proven himself, he gets to do other things too. like come out to this dry, dusty training ground and run rufus through his paces in the shooting range. ]

My name is Tseng, [ he adds, because rufus should know the name of the turk sent to be his for the day, and because it would probably piss rufus off to have to ask for his name aloud. asking would betray curiosity, and shinras aren't curious about the help. ]

open;

[unionized]

— making my way downtown, walking fast, faces pass and i'm homebound;
AROUND THE CITY.

[It's one of the afternoons when it isn't pouring rain outside, and Rufus can be found walking around the under-development sections of the city on a route that takes him roughly between the Kwik Trip and the diner, accompanied as always by his guard hound, Darkstar. He's got an umbrella that's doing an admirable job of keeping the rain off, and Darkstar doesn't seem to mind getting wet; though she keeps a pretty consistent vigil at his side, occasionally she breaks off to chase the wildlife before returning to Rufus's side, ensuring that he has a largely uninterrupted path as he makes his idle circuits.

In particular, he tends to linger around mostly-finished buildings — ones that are generally all there structurally but haven't quite taken on a definite identity yet, spending long intervals regarding them with a distant expression before eventually moving on. Though it's largely the architecture he seems to be concerning himself with, there is one exception to that rule: the flowering cherry blossom trees, which he keeps his distance from but keeps stopping to look at anyway, less thoughtful and more just a bit fascinated.

He's easy to run into in a variety of ways — stop for a chat, remark on his companion, spill a to-go cup of coffee on him, whatever! He's out and about and available for accosting.]

[venatoris]

[ The diner is quickly becoming one his Dean's favorite places to be. He's used to greasy spoon type food (microwave burritos from a gas station, honeybuns, too greasy bacon and runny eggs), and they've got a pretty decent 24 hour breakfast. Plus, the coffee ain't bad, either. So, that's of course where he's been - it's in the afternoon but breakfast is an anytime food and he'll die on that hill.

He's holding a to go coffee when he leaves, but he doesn't spill it on anyone. There's a recognizable figure that's passing by the door and before he sees the creature with him, he's calling out. ]

Hey, Rufus! I- whoa.

[ That's when he sees and momentarily freezes before backing up against the building hard enough to jostle his coffee. ]

Can you see that? There's a hellhound right, right there-

[ Can it smell fear? Dean's terrified. ]

[unionized]

[Two heads turn at the sound of his name, one human and one canine; it's still something of a rarity to hear his given name used casually when he's had all his life to grow accustomed to Mister Vice-President or sir. And it's the fact that he's not really one to show outward enthusiasm at the drop of a hat that buys him a few seconds to hide his surprise, when what he expects will be an unexpected but welcomed turn of events abruptly turns into —

...Abject terror?

It's an assessment that occurs in a fraction of an instant; he knows Dean is a self-proclaimed hunter of monsters, and his assessment is actually almost spot on the money — a hellhound would be a slightly different breed, with a few more heads. But for someone so adamant about his own expertise in the matter, so desperate for listen first and argue later, he wouldn't have expected such a vehement recoil from something as petty as the sight of his dog.

Except — he says can you see that. Is that just surprise, or is he actually expecting not to be believed? Curious. But either way, leaving a potential ally quaking in his boots isn't exactly conducive to anything, so...]

D, back.

[He says, with a brisk gesture of one hand; Dean's terror had indeed drawn her attention, and her intent focus only breaks when Rufus commands her otherwise. If a hellhound can look dubious, Darkstar certainly does in that moment, but she pads a few steps backwards without complaint, adding a little more distance between herself and where Dean has pinned himself against the building.]

She's trained. Not like the random creatures that have been running about unchecked, lately.

[venatoris]

[ Showing fear isn't something he likes to do, because that's weakness. Emotions are too, but Dean's an emotional bastard and either spills his guts or bottles it up until he explodes there is no in between.

Fear, though. That's used against you, and he's made it glaringly obvious there is a deeply rooted tendril of pure terror buried inside of him. Has he been scared in his line of work before? Sure. Definitely. But he's pretty good at keeping it covered but that looks like a hellhound and he has a damned good reason for being afraid of those. ]

It - she's - yours?

[ He's rigid where he stands, relaxing only a tiny fraction when there's some distance added. Makes sense for a hellhound to be trained, Crowley's certainly were, but still. He can't take his eyes off of her. ]

[unionized]

She's mine.

[And there's a part of him that thinks, offhandedly, that it's really not his job to try to comfort the agitation of anyone else; that's not how the world works, and he himself knows that better than anyone.

But he also knows by now the things that Echo does and asks of them, and can imagine the things that will be done and asked in the future, and a competing thought arises — that someday, despite his best efforts, he might someday be rendered shaking and vulnerable like this by something that happens here. And Dean strikes him as the kind of person to remember a kindness rendered, if only because he also knows how rarely it happens to people like them.

He keeps his movement casual as he takes a step forward, shifting just slightly so that the way he's positioned obscures a little more of Darkstar from Dean's line of sight.]

I've got her. She doesn't disobey.

[venatoris]

[ With even more space put between both himself and the demon dog, he relaxes a little more and unclenches his ass, grip on his cup loosening. ]

Sorry. Kinda got a, uh. Thing.

[ Dean doesn't really like dogs as a result of several things - hellhounds ripping him apart and dragging him to hell, ghost sickness making him flee from a yorkie. Ellen and Jo being torn to shreds.

He licks his lips and lifts a shoulder, forcing his expression into something more wry, self-deprecating. ]

What can I say, we all got a thing buried somewhere, right?

[cesspit]

[ I should've listened to the cashier and gotten that umbrella. Jason looks up to the sky and blinks away a raindrop that lands in his eye. Oh, well. Nothing I can do about it now. With a resigned sigh, he hikes up the collar of his black leather jacket, grips the Kwik Trip bag tighter, and hustles through the streets.

A few minutes later, his heavy boots splash through a large puddle blocking his shortcut straight through a mostly finished building of some strange design. This better be faster. Managing not to get lost, Jason hops over some counters and abandons the door across the room for the open window, offering a quick exit. With practiced ease, he clears the window sill and almost comes crashing into a familiar face.

In a split-second move, he tosses the bag up in the air. Redirects his weight to dance around Rufus, managing a quick grin between the stint, and lets his momentum carry him forward to softly catch the bag coming back down. ]

Whew! I thought I'd lost you there.

[ He talks to the egg carton he takes from the grocery bag to check for cracks. Satisfied, he returns the carton and turns his head to Rufus. ]

Sorry about that. [ He grins sheepishly. Yeah, that was totally his fault. ]. You alright there?

[unionized]

[It's a neat set of gymnastics, all of which unfold in the span of a fraction of a second; it's mostly Jason's reflexes and response time that allow them both to avoid a crash, but that's not to say he's the only one who reacts at all. Rufus, too, moves on instinct to put some healthy distance between himself and the sudden appearance of a random passerby, but the real curiosity of the day comes from the guard dog at his side, whose superior senses had the benefit of a little more advance warning, and thus a little more time to respond.

Something glows green in the vicinity of the dog's collar; a second later, she's hunkered down in an aggressive posture, teeth bared and growling as she fixes her glowing red eyes on the intruder in her midst.]

Careful.

[So says Rufus, once he's had a second or two to recover, but he's yet to make any moves to direct his hound to stand down, either. One thing at a time, maybe.]

She's not a fan of surprises.

[cesspit]

Whoah there.

[ Jason backs up a step, raising his hands up in immediate surrender. My... what big teeth you have. Baffled by the sudden appearance of what looks like one of Damian's strays, it takes him a hot second to link owner and... pet? He looks at the guard dog from hell, taking note of the very big paws. ]

You wouldn't happen to know Goliath, would you?

[ That sure is directed at the very unhappy demon ready to pounce on him, and he sure is taking another step closer to that open window back there. If he makes an escape, he'll have to drop the eggs which he debates for all of two seconds. With his League of Assassins Dagger tucked in his boots, he'll have to jump through the window, take the dagger out, and hope he's still got his head attached by the end of it. At the very least, he'd put up a fight if she-- She?!

His eyes briefly flick back to Rufus in a silent - are you kidding me?! - look before promptly returning to the unhappy girl, growling menacingly at him. This is what you get for skipping out on the diner to avoid the bats. ]

Maybe I can tap down on our surprise run-ins. How about three per month?

[ No change. Jason takes another step back. ]

Okay. I'm good with two, also. What do you say?

[unionized]

[He lets the tension linger just a little bit longer, mostly because he's Rufus Shinra and he's Like That™, before moving one hand down to signal his pet; what's impressive, maybe, is that for all that she's very clearly aggressive and spoiling for a fight, it doesn't take anything more than a single gesture out of Rufus to have her visibly standing down. Whatever else she might be, she's well-trained.]

How about you watch your step next time, and we avoid these little misunderstandings altogether.

[Still — with the initial startle reaction past, Rufus is quick to tamp down on outward appearances, back to projecting a look of generally unruffled calm despite the fact that he doesn't generally let people get so close, and certainly not without warning.]

Monsieur le Comte de Monte Cristo. Wherever are you off to in such a hurry?

[cesspit]

[ Oh, he notices just how long it takes the bastard to signal her to stand down. Are you trying to teach him a lesson? Lesson learned. Don't dance in the rain. The easy transition from murdering demon dog to trained murdering demon dog isn't lost on him either. ]

You don't have more of her, do you? You look like a monogamous kind of guy.

[ He says hopefully. One he can deal with. Two? Two dozen? Not so much. Already, he's making contingency plans. If he has to run into her as Red Hood... well... at least, he won't shoot to kill. If bullets even work on that hide. It looks thick. Maybe a grenade launcher? Is that too much?

Monsieur? Oh, crap. ]

Me?

[ He rips his eyes away from Goliath #2 to look at Rufus. You sure do look calm about all of this. Okay, stop ogling the man's dog and pay attention. ]

Uhh... I left the oven on.

[ That sounds plausible, right? Right? ]