Rain
By LoveAnimeForever
It was raining.
Long past Meteor and Sephiroth's thrice-cursed plague on the Planet, Edge was developing nicely and Shinra was slowly but surely getting back on its feet. The Turks had successfully reminded the people that they were a force to be feared and Rufus was cured of his Geostigma. All was right in the world – and it was raining.
Tseng liked it. He liked the cold, liked the grey, liked the vague loneliness that had blossomed in his chest when he'd watch it from the seventieth floor of the Shinra Building. They would have it all again, eventually; rebuild and have somewhere to call home once more. Not that Healen didn't do perfectly well – but it was hard having a base so far removed from their operations. If their aim was to reclaim their place in Midgar, to remake Midgar – which it was – then they would have to set up in Midgar. They had, actually. The citizens of Edge just hadn't noticed yet.
He'd thought he would never see Rufus again.
They had been stupid to leave the man alone when he was so vulnerable, no matter how inconspicuous a town Kalm had seemed and no matter how coolly the man had insisted he was fine. They'd lost him then, might have lost him forever, and Tseng would never have forgiven himself. He, at least, should have known. Reno was careless. Rude was straightforward. Elena was – no longer naïve, but still inexperienced. It had happened, anyway, and an agonizing time of futile searching and anxious waiting had followed.
There had been times when they'd come close, so close they would've got to him if they'd been just a few moments quicker. A few moments smarter, a few moments more ruthless. But, finally, the letter had come, in the hands of that addict of a doctor, demanding supplies by the handwriting and signature of one Rufus Shinra, and that had been that. They didn't like to think about what happened in between, only they'd sworn to serve only one master ever after. The one who deserved them.
It had rained, then. Rained and rained, and it had simply refused to stop, and when the doctor had indicated a pit they'd realized, with dawning horror, what kind of danger they'd exposed their President to. Shoot him down, Tseng's instincts had told him, shoot the stupid doctor down for – your own mistake. He hadn't, though.
It took you long enough.
They'd begged like beaten puppies to be forgiven – silently, ashamedly, awkwardly supplicating. Rufus hadn't really been angry, even; just tired. Exhausted. He'd been crueller than usual to them, and harsher too, but they knew it was a coping mechanism. He'd needed his power back. Needed it so he could even begin fighting the Geostigma that plagued his body. The Turks had wanted Rufus' power back, too. His confidence that gave them direction, his bearing that gave them faith. They needed it to even function.
They got it: the day Rufus had recovered fully – the day Cloud had defeated Sephiroth yet again – it had rained a healing rain, cool and refreshing. A first in the Midgar area. President Shinra, cured of his Geostigma and still on an adrenalin rush from throwing himself off scaffolding who knew how high, had called his Turks to his room in their lodge and gave them all a cool, somewhat sharp, somewhat acidic, debrief of the day's events and how the Turks would never fail him again, or else.
And all with the edge of his mouth quirked murderously, playfully upward. He knew they wouldn't. They had tried their damned best as it was, and Rufus wouldn't have bothered with a stunt like that day's if he hadn't trusted them to be there. Like they always had been, always would be, or would die trying to be.
Without his makeshift cloak to shadow his face, the Turks had seen the laugh dancing in their master's eyes, shining blue as a wide winter's sky.
So – Tseng had been making his usual weekly round of Edge, reconnoitring the state of affairs for Rufus. When the time was right, the world would know Shinra again; for now, they would wait it out, and it didn't hurt to keep themselves updated. He'd taken a tour through the notable shops – stopped by at Seventh Heaven, and Tifa seemed to be doing well with Cloud – prowled through the alleys that had once been infested with Geostigma. Now he leant against the memorial of Meteor, the statue silently marked the town as Shinra's property.
He would watch the world go by for the rest of the day, so still and with a presence so well hidden that most people wouldn't notice him. He'd send Reno and Rude to take out those that did. It didn't feel much different than when he'd been in the President's Office on the top floor of the Shinra Building, dully absorbing his surroundings. Taking note of the greasy businessmen who tried to take advantage of Rufus' youth and – mistakenly supposed – inexperience. Marking out the usurpers, the threats. Sometimes he would stand just behind Rufus' chair, a tangible manifestation of his power to his visitors; other times, when they were alone, he would stand by the full-length windows, looking out on the Plate as the other did his paperwork or made his calls. But his mind was always on Rufus, in one way or another. Even now, even when he wasn't here. That was just how it had always been, ever since he'd joined the ranks of – they might as well be called – his personal guard.
And it was raining.
He'd forgot – rather, had never seen the need – to bring an umbrella. His clothes were soaked through, the navy of his Turk's blazer nearly black and the white of his dress shirt an almost see-through grey. The fabric clung to his skin, and his hair fell thick against his back, else against his face, guiding water droplets in rivulets down his cheek.
It was a little harsh, the incessant pattering of the raindrops against his body. Like so many blunt needles through his suit, in the biting cold whipped up by the wind and the storm clouds across the sky. It had been raining, too, the night they'd thought they'd lost Rufus in the rubble of the Shinra Building. Only, it'd been about ten times worse, the storm fierce with Meteor's proximity and its shards sharp with his own guilt.
The rain ceased.
But – no. He could still hear it, the jarring static of water against concrete and asphalt and metal. Overhead, the dull sound of the same water impacting thin plastic, and an incongruent silence that rang about his ears.
"Well, and who do you expect to watch my back if you catch a cold?"
Tseng looked up absently; he would know the voice anywhere, and he knew its owner was no enemy. The sky was blocked out by the inside of a white umbrella, and the sardonic smile of one Rufus Shinra.
"Let's go, Turk. I think you owe me a report."