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

Entry tags:

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

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ another thing that it may take rufus some time to learn is that tseng is not one to be content with being merely what others expect of him. the more seasoned turks ignore protocol in favor of flexing their own comparative seniority—but tseng, even at seventeen, values competence, and to him competence includes the knowledge of when to flout protocol and when to adhere to it.

there will be moments, he knows, that he will have to make choices about when to ignore protocols, ignore orders, in order to fulfill the missions he's given—battles lost to win the war. an opportunity to act superior to president shinra's son is hardly the right time for that. besides, tseng knows his place. ]

The assignment to you, sir? [ tseng's hands are tucked at the small of his back, the posture almost casual. if it weren't for the pin-straight angles of his limbs, he could be mistaken for comfortable. ] Not at all.

[ he isn't simpering. he's just stating the facts: he doesn't regret this assignment. this assignment is valuable for the chance it offers to see how rufus shinra works, how he trains. how he treats those subordinate to him. tseng doesn't yet know that one day his fate will be tied irrevocably to rufus', but it's still important to understand not only the head of the beast, but those who surround him as well. ]

[No wonder the Turks took him so young — four years on assignment, he'd said, when he can't be much older than Rufus is himself, which means if he's telling the truth then they'd recruited him in his early teens — no wonder he'd been such a candidate, with composure like this. Part of understanding power includes knowing how to get a rise out of people; that's just another form of manipulation, after all, no matter how petty. He can get a rise out of pretty much anyone if he tries — his detail, Verdot, even his father — if he doesn't care too much about the consequences.

But not this Tseng. Not this odd boy with his buttoned-up suit and his dark eyes and his impenetrable bearing, who acts like he could be poked and prodded a thousand times and never miss a single step amid the onslaught.

He lengthens his stride, allowing him to cover more ground without actually walking faster, suddenly eager to get down into the underground shooting range and out of the beating sun. It rankles a little, being in the presence of someone like Tseng, and the satisfying cadence of gunfire sounds like a much-needed balm to alleviate the prickling. A perfect car he can't drive, a perfect boy he can't engage.

It feels like the weight of his father's mockery all over again, and all of a sudden he wants desperately to empty a magazine into that feeling.]

Then they must've briefed you on me. Oh — or are you just Verdot's errand boy, today?

[ it's evident what rufus is doing, his step lengthening as if to leave tseng behind. he lets rufus gain ground, widening the gap between them from half a step to three steps and then closing it to two. still close enough that he could get to rufus before anyone else could, but leaving enough space between them to let rufus feel the distance. ]

I was briefed, yes. [ the basic details: rufus shinra, born 1977. father, mother (deceased), half-siblings. health unremarkable—mild allergy to tree pollen, mild intolerance to lactose. private education, tutored in the headquarters offices by private teachers brought in by the company; good grades, although tseng has a suspicion that the tutors wouldn't be allowed to give him anything else. height 178cm, likely to make it to 183cm by adulthood; weight 64kg, partly muscle, mostly lanky.

and then there are the things that verdot told him, off the record. things that aren't memorialized in the manila folder of data points. that rufus will test him. that he likes to be in control because he's earned it and not because it's given to him. that that he's ambitious, and more observant than he lets on. and that he can be funny, genuinely funny, sharp-tongued and always right on the timing.

tseng can see it. all of it. he can see it in the way rufus holds his shoulders, the line of them, in the sharpness of his gaze, in the way everything he says seems like walking along the honed edge of a blade. ]

I'm a Turk, [ tseng says, with a wry awareness that being a turk more or less makes him verdot's errand boy, to a certain extent. ] But not only an errand boy.

[The dream blurs a little then, hazy and unpredictable; the time they spend traveling passes, ostensibly, but so quickly and so suddenly that it's likely more that their surroundings simply adjusted to accommodate in a way that could never happen in reality. They arrive, and it's cooler both because the range is out of the glare of the sun and because it's indoors enough that there's air conditioning; the rapid change in temperature even has Rufus shivering a little, just on his first step or two inside.]

Then find a gun and let's see how you shoot.

[A shame that he's supposed to practice with his off-hand. It'd be much more impressive to use his dominant one — maybe even pull out one of the trick shots that he's been working on of late, pretend he's aiming for the target itself and then toss a gil from his pocket and deadeye that instead. No one's seen that one yet — it's good, still, but not perfect. But he really only has to get it right for the people whose opinions matter, and the opinions of a Turk shouldn't matter.

He pauses, surveying the range a moment as he considers, then turns to Tseng.]

You first. Set a bar for me to beat. It's more fun that way.

Yes, sir.

[ there it is, rufus' propensity for testing people around him. he tells tseng to find a gun and tseng knows, before rufus ever says it, that he's going to be made to shoot first so that rufus knows what he's up against. that's fine. tseng wouldn't be down here if he wouldn't set the bar high.

he chooses a gun from the cage behind them. meticulously, he chooses his ammunition and logs it all against his turk identification, so there can be no accusation of improper use of company resources. he wonders whether he'll have to log rufus' too, whether rufus will find that kind of thing beneath him or whether he'll respect verdot's rules about using the firing range.

one pair of protective earwear for him, one pair for rufus. tseng waits until rufus has put them on—he will not be responsible for damaging rufus shinra's eardrums—and then loads his weapon and announces, ] Range going hot!

[ here is one thig rufus should know about tseng: if you give him six bullets, he will kill six targets. even at age seventeen, tseng doesn't shoot with anything less than lethality in mind. he aims at the target downrange and unloads, in quick succession, a cluster of six bullet holes so tightly grouped that they look more like one large hole in the figure's head by the time he's done.

bar set, he releases his pistol's magazine and steps back from the barrier separating them from the range. ]

Your turn.

[He thinks, at first, that this is the point when Tseng of the Turks proves himself to be the very worst kind of boring — all rules and regulations, everything by the book, with no room for fun or deviation or creativity. It's not that he has a problem with the meticulousness, in and of itself; quite the contrary, there's a certain appeal to things that are predictable in a world that he has so very little of his own control over. It's just the rigidity of it, the bleaching of any sort of personal touch, that almost, almost makes him give up on the whole thing. He's already starting to disengage a little, even, as he slips his headphones on and then fusses to make sure his hair isn't sticking out at odd angles from the way they press on his head; this isn't company, this isn't interesting. He's just being surveilled — or worse, babysat.

And then Tseng starts to shoot, and all of a sudden giving up on this moment is the absolute last thing on his mind.

It's not that Tseng is good; all the Turks are good. Verdot is good. Rufus himself is good — possibly even better, in certain ways. It's not that he's precise and it's not that he's unhesitating and it's not that the target has been so perfectly punctured that you couldn't even tell how many shots Tseng had fired if you hadn't been there to count the bullets, because there simply aren't holes enough to match.

It's that — for the first time since he'd made his approach, Tseng of the Turks looks like he's doing what he's supposed to be doing, what he was made for, what he was put on this very planet to do. He takes exactly the number of rounds he needs to kill everything he's decided to kill, and not a single one more. He picks up a gun and all of a sudden he's not a boy in an uncomfortably warm suit on a too-hot day; suddenly he's in his element where just minutes before he'd been the odd thing out of it, perfectly calibrated to accomplish the exact thing he's set out to do.

His fingers twitch. He's not sure when he started breathing through his mouth, through lips parted just the slightest of fractions. He's half sure it's because however he was breathing before, it abruptly stopped being sufficient.

The problem with being the heir to the man who owns the world is the bit about being the beneficiary of everything and the executor of none. There is no place on the whole of Gaia perfectly made for him, the way that Tseng was perfectly made for this. Everything has been shaped in his father's image, and it's still an open question of what will have to adjust to fit, he the square peg or the world the round hole. (He suspects it'll be him; easier to shave off the obstructive corners than to widen the space he's being pressed into.) Even here, on this range, he's different — a white suit instead of black, a VIP but not a Turk. Tseng belongs on this range. Rufus Shinra only does if he makes the range adapt to accommodate him.

There's something absolutely compelling about it. The — rightness of it. Tseng of the Turks, made to be a weapon and utterly embodying that purpose.

He's so taken by it, he actually forgets for a minute to be jealous of it.]

Was that your off-hand?

[He asks innocently, which is about as close to conceding his interest as he's likely to get — trading smug superiority for a moment of playing the wide-eyed ingenue.

But even as he says it, buying himself a few extra seconds, his mind is racing from one intuitive leap to the next, abruptly consumed with a new and subtler challenge that runs concurrent with the overt one posed: what can he do, what can he possibly do, to come close to the thing he's just seen, the rightness of it? Is there any way at all that he can somehow convince Tseng of the Turks to look at him and comprehend what he is meant to do or be?

It's a hard sell. He's not altogether certain of what that purpose even is, himself. But if he doesn't figure out something, then he's going to lose the game, and he's absolutely loath to even consider allowing that.]

[ some years from now, perhaps, rufus will come to realize that that's the point. tseng of the turks is boring. tseng of the turks is the least interesting thing to look at in any room; he knows every rule and regulation back to front because that's how you learn how far you can bend them before they break. and tseng knows that, for the most part, people aren't looking that closely. most people will let their gaze skip right over him, and if they were to notice him, most people will write him off as rigid, inflexible, uncreative. unwilling to take risks.

when tseng turns back away from the range, he sees rufus' face and knows that rufus sees him. or, if not all of him, then at least the part that tseng meant to show. there are things that tseng can do: shoot well, handle a knife, break boards with a roundhouse kick. and then there's what tseng is, what he was made for: to be a weapon, to be a tool in shinra's hands.

to be a tool in rufus' hands, although the shape of this purpose is now only barely beginning to be revealed. ]

It was. [ the corners of tseng's lips quirk so slightly that rufus could blink and miss it. ] I wanted to make sure the bar I set was reachable.

[ it is a challenge, but more than that, it's an... an olive branch, of sorts. tseng knows the rules back to front, so he knows that there are rules about how to speak to rufus, how familiar he's permitted to be. but tseng also knows how to bend those rules until just before they break, and so he knows that he's not allowed to be friends with rufus. but he can be rufus' training partner, and there's plausible deniability enough in that. ]

[Well. There's something he wouldn't have expected — a sense of humor, just a flash of one, couched in meanness of a variety that appeals. There's a difference between a challenging gesture and an invalidating one; Verdot engages with him largely through the former, too, which is why he's especially primed to pick up on it in a setting like this.

And it's funny, almost. To shoot with such perfection, imply that it'd have been even better had he not been shooting through a handicap, and then call the standard he's set reachable — it means that the only way to win is to exceed perfection, when even perfection would only reach so far as a tie.

Exceed perfection — or change what a win means, that is.]

Well, you know what they say. If your opponent is underestimating you, let him.

[He motions with a careless wave of one hand, directing Tseng to stand clear as he, somewhat more theatrically, breezes to the cage and exactingly mimics all the same preliminaries. He's never much liked the weight of a pistol in his hand; it's too light, too routine. That doesn't mean he's quite figured out what he does want out of a gun, yet, but one thing is certain: what he wants will pack a lot more punch than just this.

No matter, not for right now. He steps into the lane next to the one Tseng had used, adjusts his headphones (trusts that Tseng will take care of his own without needing to be told), loads the pistol and transfers it to his left hand. Verdot wanted him to practice; well, right now he wants to do something else.]

Range going hot!

[He shoots, and the first shot goes wide of the target's forehead; the second looks like an overcorrection, too far in the opposite direction. Or at least, it would to an observer who was expecting Rufus to target the forehead at all, right up until they realized that he's just taken off each of the target's ears. Five more shots follow: two into each shoulder, left then right then back again, spaced too neatly to be mere coincidence; the last one into the torso, as if aiming to puncture a lung.

It's an odd choice, seven shots instead of six; looking satisfied regardless, Rufus lowers his gun, ejects the magazine, and steps back out of the range, leveling glittering blue eyes at Tseng as he produces the eighth and final bullet he'd logged, unfired, and shows it to him.]

I left him alive in case you wanted to interrogate him.

[He holds the last bullet out, one olive branch acknowledged via another extended.]

Before you kill him for me.

[ as rufus steps back to the cage to sign out his own gun and ammo, tseng moves out of his own lane and adjusts his ear protection. he stands perfectly balanced on the column of his spine, hands tucked behind his back, looking for all the world like a somewhat bored bodyguard watching his charge. or he would, if it weren't for the way his gaze is—sharp, alive. lit up with something nearly like hunger as he watches rufus take the gun in what tseng knows to be his off-hand and level it calmly downrange.

it only takes two shots for him to recognize what rufus is doing. there's no way that rufus shinra, about whom verdot has spoken so highly, would miss a stationary target at this distance. the first shot goes wide, and tseng's eyebrows go up; the second goes wide and tseng watches rufus neatly incapacitate his target, wounding him in a way that will only be fatal if the man resists interrogation.

and then he—

turns around and looks at tseng with eyes that resemble nothing so much as a wide sea after a storm, hands him a bullet, and says, before you kill him for me. tseng takes the bullet, hot in his fingers, and thinks, oh. ]

I see I'm going to have to shoot with my right, from now on.

[ verdot had said rufus could be good. fool tseng once, that he believed it was still could be, and not verdot's penchant for toned-down praise—rufus is good. he might not be a turk, but he shoots like one. tseng puts the bullet in his pocket, which is against regulations, but he doesn't think anyone will find out. ]

[He'd thought, when he'd conceived of his little display while standing at the cage, that it would prove to be just a foray into posturing of his own — an echo of the way Tseng had smiled when he'd said the bar he'd set was reachable. He'd thought to speak volumes with what he didn't say, and keep brevity for the things he did. Maybe he could've beaten Tseng's shooting, and maybe he couldn't have, but the point was supposed to be that it didn't matter, because he'd changed the game. Because in the real world and not on the range, Shinras have the Turks do their killing for them.

What he wasn't expecting was what he gets: the sight of Tseng pocketing the bullet instead of loading and firing. He'd chosen his count of ammunition to give them plausible deniability — seven shots and seven shots, even though it was six and eight that were checked. But Tseng pockets the bullet instead, like there's something special about it. Like it's a souvenir.

(Or maybe like he's going to load and shoot him in the back of the head when he turns to walk away, but even then, wouldn't that be something.)

But for just an instant, he thinks — maybe, maybe he did see something worth seeing, this Tseng of the Turks. Not the trick shooting and not the excuse; that's all corporate bullshit anyway, redefining the terms by favorable interpretation. But he kept the bullet, and it almost feels like (he can almost pretend it's) affirmation — yes, I will, I'll use this bullet to kill for you.

It's a nice fantasy, isn't it. Their little secret, blink and you miss it, like one of Tseng's enigmatic smiles.]

Lucky you. I'm stuck on my left until Verdot lets me off.

[He flexes the fingers of his left hand, experimental, and thinks of how he'd like to reach for the knot of this fascinating boy's tie and pull it loose again, just a little.]

What are you going to tell him?

[ even tseng isn't entirely sure why he does it, even as the bullet lands hot in the pocket of his slacks. he's certainly not planning rufus' demise, but it's also not like he has a reason to keep a souvenir of this particular session on the range—or, if he does, he can't quite wrap his mind around the size of it just yet. tseng shakes out his hand and then tucks them both behind his back, a steadying, meditative posture.

what are you going to tell him, rufus asks, and tseng finds himself momentarily at a loss for words. what will he tell verdot, when he's inevitably asked to debrief on this afternoon? that rufus was a surprise to his core, that tseng thinks he'll change the world one day? that rufus could probably make it as a turk, but he would be wasted on it, in all his brilliance? ]

The truth, [ tseng says, one corner of his mouth curling up just slightly. it's as close to a real smile as he can get and still be within the limits of propriety, but rufus has keen eyes—tseng doesn't doubt he'll see it. ] That he should let you off.

[Tseng can only smile in the very slightest of ways, because he is a Turk and there are rules and limits. Rufus, on the other hand, has the luxury of laughter; when he chuckles, it's low and under his breath but satisfied enough for the both of them.

"The truth" is a joke, not because he thinks Tseng has any intentions of falsifying his report — quite the contrary, every word of it will be true — but because telling the truth isn't synonymous with nothing but the truth, and it doesn't always imply the whole truth. Verdot, he thinks, will not hear about the quiet keepsake of a bullet. And that feels, inexplicably, like he's won something — though he may not yet quite understand the shape of the victory just yet.]

But you aren't going to. Not until he says so.

[Let him off, that is. He doesn't say it because he'd even expected to be; he says it because it's an acknowledgement of that smile he'd seen, that he knows precisely why it was as slight and as brief as it was — that the expression may have been subtle but the truth of it might have been more than was let on, too.]

So what good does that do me in the meantime?

[ no, indeed. verdot will receive a full and accurate report of rufus' shooting, and when asked, tseng will provide his opinion. but there's the report is true and there's the truth being reported, and tseng is aiming for the former, not the latter. verdot will not hear about the bullet. he will not hear about the storm of rufus' eyes or the secret smiles tseng let him see.

many years from now, tseng's will be the opinion that calls the shots in this sort of thing, but in this dream it's still verdot, and far be it from tseng to override verdot's orders. if verdot says off-hand, then off-hand it is. ]

Impetus to continue raising the bar, sir.

[ that is also a joke, because they both know what rufus has done here. it's not so much that he'd risen to tseng's challenge as it is that he redefined the terms of the competition entirely.

tseng doesn't know it yet, but that is what he'll come to like so much about rufus, over the years: he is many things, but never predictable. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject