Rufus watched as Tseng changed another of his dressings, tossing a black-soaked bandage into a nearby bucket. He preferred Tseng to any of the doctors currently in his employ, because he disliked appearing helpless or weak to outsiders. Tseng had seen him at his worst already, and remained loyal despite that. As foreign as the concept was, Rufus trusted him, and his fellow Turks.
He didn't trust the doctors. He wasn't even sure they were really trying to cure him, content to soak up the money he provided them in 'attempts'. That was why the Turks were the ones who had access to his funds, giving them only what was necessary. Rufus was quite sure that if it wasn't for that, some of the doctors would simply take the money and run, relying on the fact that Rufus was in no shape to pursue them over the matter.
Rufus was not, but his Turks were, and nobody in their right minds crossed the Turks. It was a thought he found comforting.
It was only when Tseng was fastening a clean, white bandage around his wrist that he noticed the black spot.
"Tseng, your hand." His voice rose a little on the last word, and he swallowed.
The Turk leader glanced down, reached for a cloth, and wiped it calmly across his hand. "It must have splashed on me while I was changing the dressings. Nothing to worry about." But the spot didn't wipe off, and as Rufus watched, it started to spread.
He blinked, once, twice, trying to clear his eyes and change what he was seeing. Geostigma wasn't contagious, didn't spread this fast. This was wrong. But those dark, black stains, the odd spongy texture the skin took on, as though it was rotting from within – they were all frighteningly familiar.
"Tseng!"
"Hey, what's all the racket?" an irreverent voice asked from the doorway. Rufus looked up to see black stains tattooing themselves across Reno's cheekbones, obliterating the red marks. Behind him, Rude loomed, irregular black spreading over the smooth surface of his head.
"N-no," Rufus squeezed out of an increasingly tight throat.
Pain racked his body as the stigma flared in another seizure, and when it ended, he was staring at the ceiling in a darkened room, panting through clenched teeth.
Just a dream.
Still, when Tseng came to his door to check on him – as he always did at this time of night - Rufus refused to look, as if the horrors of the dream might somehow have crept into waking reality. Things were already bad enough.
He hated having to be dependent on other people.