My fall will be for you, my love will be in you, if you be the one to cut me I'll bleed forever
Rufus ShinRa. President of the company; President of the world.
His ice-blue eyes were cold as his soul, and shone from that impenetrable, statuesque facade.
No emotion flitted across those marble features whether it was joy, fear, grief... never the merest hint of the machinations of that clockwork mind.
There were those who claimed that he never bled. No knife was sharp enough to cause a crimson stain to spread across the snow-white landscape of his suit.
In the shadowy corners of the halls of power came still more furtive whispers - he had inherited his father's perversions; he was a robot puppeteered by the elder ShinRa; he was a product of the science department... even in the upper echelons of the company there were few, if any, who had an idea of the truth about the young man behind the web of rumour and exaggeration, the leader cloaked in a tissue of other's lies.
Only one person in existence had any inkling of the truth behind the illusion of a god-like, ruthless, flawless ruler.
He had been called many things and compared to many things in his time, but only two such sobriquets remained. One born of fearful respect, the other born of the hate that fear engendered: ShinRa's panther, and ShinRa's dog.
He found it intriguing the way such appelations stripped him of his independence, designating him company property in the public consciousness.
Upon membership of the Turks, identity was lost and all individuality stripped away. They were the anonymous blue shadows enforcing company policies and wishes, an official secret police. That is how it had been, and he, ever the traditionalist, preserved the old ways.
Those old ways were no longer confined to the traditions of his erstwhile 'family', but in the increased liberality he also preserved those of his extinct birthplace and culture. A survivor of the Wutaiain holocaust, he worshipped the old god and observed the ancient protocols and etiquette, though he never enforced such traditions on his subordinates.
Joining the Turks was resigning whatever life you had known before - your reasons were always your own, unknown to those around you. If you wholeheartedly accepted that life, your colleagues became your family. If you held back any regrets, the chance to build a new life would be forever beyond your reach, and you would be eliminated from the running - albeit humanely - by one of the others who never had a chance to become your sibling.
Loyalty was everything in the Turks, and aithfulness to the company overrode all. Friendships did not, could not survivve, and the last kindness offered to a traitor could only be that of a quick death.
He had joined the Turks of his own volition, for self-protection and through fascination with this all-powerful oppressor.
Since that day he had weathered storms of blood, snuffed out countless sparks of life and steadfastly climbed the ladder to the leadership of this tight-knit, deadly family.