Rufus Shinra stood trembling with rage in the centre of his apartment. He was small, even for a six-year-old, and his soft blond hair fell constantly into bright blue Mako vision, but he still managed to pull off some fine performance of majestic fury. The young Wutaian man who stood calmly before him, hands behind his back, watched with perfectly concealed concern.

"I will not do it, Tseng!"

"Your father insists, Sir."

The child clenched a gloved fist and shook his head, effectively blinding himself. Tseng, who had been resisting the urge to give his client a hug for ten minutes, now also fought the impulsion to brush Rufus' hair off his face. He did not touch him unless it was to save his life; it was unwritten rule, and it was professional. There had been a time when a four-year-old innocent had sought to hold his hand in a crowd, but Tseng had refused it then, as had all his other bodyguards, and had watched the boy turn cold and independent. Rufus did not look to them for comfort – he generally ignored any of them save the Wutaian, who was his official bodyguard – and now he had lost his mother, the only person he loved and was loved by.

Rufus had buckled at the news, and Tseng had caught him, and held him up as the white despair on his face darkened. The child had flung a dramatic arm towards his father and screamed accusations at the President of Shin-Ra, accusations no other person could voice and live. The heartrending cries still echoed in Tseng's ears, four days later.

"No! Murderer! You're a murderer! You killed her, you killed her, you did this! I hate you! I hate you, I'll kill you for this, I'll never forgive you! Never! I hate you!"

Tseng did not believe that he had imagined the fleeting fear that had crossed his employer's face at these threats, and although he despised the President more than any other human being, he was not pleased. He feared for the safety of Rufus, and he feared that he himself might one day be summoned to the top floor of Shin-Ra HQ and presented with a revised version of his job description. A version that had him pinned as 'assassin', not 'bodyguard'. He doubted very much his ability to kill the heir to the Empire, and it was not because he had any qualms about killing the defenceless.

"Be quiet! How dare you call me 'Sir'!"

He could not help but smile at the words, delivered in righteous indignation. Rufus was so shocked at his guardian's display of patronising affection that he smiled hesitantly, weakly, in return, and then sat down rapidly on the floor and buried his face in snow-white gloves. He was always immaculate, disturbingly so, for a little boy. Tseng could hardly bear to look at him, so desperately miserable, in such horrific emotional torment, and entirely isolated.

"I'm sorry, Rufus," he said softly, apologising for more than his abuse of their familiarity. He received no response for several minutes, and then;

"What will happen to you if I kill myself?"

It was sorrow, not surprise, that tore through the Turk's chest. He already knew how exceptional Rufus was – in terms of both intelligence and comprehension. The concept of a suicidal six-year-old struck him as inherently tragic, and he crouched carefully before his tiny charge.

"Don't say such things. Would your mother have wanted you to die?"

Rufus lowered his hands and knees, flicked the hair back off his face, and regarded Tseng with stern superiority. He sounded bitter, but the anger was gone.

"Would my mother have wanted me to pose for the cameras at her public charade of a funeral? Would she have wished me to be… would she have…"

"Rufus-"

The child waved his hand in annoyance, taking a deep breath and lowering his gaze to the floor. It was not the first time he had come this close to breaking down and crying, and Tseng wished that he would, because it was not natural - to have a boy who had never shed a tear in his life. He also knew that Rufus did not cry in his presence because he realised that it would make the Turk extremely uncomfortable.

"I am not going to cry, don't worry. She would not have wanted me to be my father's bitch, Tseng, and that is the truth of it."

Defiant blue eyes met sad brown ones, and did not flinch even at the brush of a callused hand over a creased forehead.

"She loved you. She would be heartbroken to hear you speak like this."

"I would do it when you went away on another mission. Then you could not be blamed, or punished, could you? And I do not think father would demote you-"

"In Leviathan's name, Rufus, you can't be serious! You are heir to the Shinra millions, to the Empire, to the Presidency. You have yet to take it from your father."

He was too intelligent to be manipulated, but his hatred for his father was intense, and clearly the only thing he might choose to live for. Rufus got up, somewhat shakily, Tseng noted, and walked towards the window. He leant against the glass for a moment, taking in the less than picturesque view of Midgar. Then he turned back to his bodyguard, his face expressionless and his voice level.

"Was it you?"

"Was it me?"

"Did you murder my mother?"

"Rufus!"

Tseng did not move as the child advanced on him. He rather thought he couldn't move even if he wished to.

"Was it you, Tseng, my father's favourite Wutaian traitor? Was it you who slit my mother's wrists and held her still whilst she bled to death? Did she cry? Did she say my name? Was she scared to die?"

Rufus was the first to look away. He closed his eyes and swallowed.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Tseng. I-"

"It wasn't me, Rufus. It wasn't any Turk, I promise you."

A derisive, despairing noise forced it's way from the child's throat. He rubbed at his eyes, trembling, as if to wipe away some image printed there. Tseng wanted to tell him that his mother had been dead before her wrists had been cut, that she had not had time to be afraid, and that her final thoughts had without doubt been about her wonderful son, but he did not think he would be believed. He got up slowly, with all his usual grace, and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. This time Rufus did flinch. He twisted his skinny frame around and looked up at his bodyguard.

"I'll have to wear black, won't I? I look so awful in black."

The beginnings of a belief, a loyalty, flickered through the heart of the Turk.