Chapter Four

After Rude parked the car outside the WRO headquarters in Edge, he went around the side to open the President's door. But Rufus was already out, straightening his white suit, checking the clasp on his briefcase. He'd been like that ever since he got cured – eager to do these things for himself. Like he was enjoying having his old strength back, being able to move the way he used to. Sometimes Rude worried it made them look unprofessional, the President getting his own door. But then, Rufus Shinra was Rufus Shinra. Did he ever look unprofessional?

Even the President's walking style had changed since the rain, Rude thought as he followed his boss into the WRO lobby, through the suited mobs of bureaucrats. Rufus had what you'd call a spring in his step.

The WRO headquarters paled in comparison to the old Shinra building, Rude thought. It lacked the scale, the bold design on the outside, the luxury interior. It wasn't a statement of power the way the Shinra building was. But that was the point, he guessed. The WRO showing it was a different beast. More democratic. For the people. A building fit for purpose, nothing more.

"You saw Elena off yesterday?" Rufus asked him as they waited for the elevator.

Rude shrugged, tugged at a stray thread on his shirt cuff.

"She wasn't happy to be leaving, sir. Told me to take her back to work. I tried to talk her around, but – well, you know Elena, sir. I'm not sure I succeeded."

"But she got on the ship?"

"Yes, sir." He'd waited around, out of sight, to make sure.

"Good. It's what she needs, some time out. But I wish she'd chosen Costa. It's lovely, this time of year."

The elevator arrived, pinged, the doors slid open, more bureaucrats exited. Rufus and Rude stepped inside. Rude pressed the button for the top floor.

"Sir, do you mind if I ask what this meeting is about?" he said.

"I can only guess," Rufus told him. "Reeve was rather coy about it on the phone. Some kind of security concern he wants our help with. Although I have my suspicions."

That was an odd request, Rude thought. The WRO was the one with the army these days. What could Rufus and his handful of Turks get done that they couldn't?

The doors opened on the top floor and they walked along a carpeted corridor with office doors on either side. It was quieter up here, more reverent. These were what you called corridors of power - the offices of the women and men who were shaping their new world.

The door to the boardroom was at the end of the corridor. Rude made sure he beat Rufus to it, and held it open for the President to make his entrance.

The boardroom was all window at the far end, with a view out over the ruins of Midgar. Rude wondered if that was deliberate – a constant reminder of why they were there, what they were tasked with. The room was dominated by a long wooden table, but today most of the chairs around it were empty.

Reeve Tuesti and a two others who Rude probably could have named if he'd put his mind to it were sat at the far end. There was an older woman in a stiff silk jacket who he knew represented Wutai, and a man who he thought might have been a Shinra colonel. Once upon a time.

The glances sent Rufus' way - except perhaps Tuesti's - when he entered were cold and edgy, like shards of ice. Most of the WRO hated Rufus – they hated that they still needed him, needed his money.

Rufus showed no signs that he noticed the hostile reception, wearing his charming golden boy smile as he went and took his seat. The President had developed a thick skin at an early age. He'd had to, Rude guessed. He stood against the wall behind the President's chair, folded his hands behind his back.

"Rufus," Tuesti said. "Thank you for joining us." He looked tired, Rude thought. Deep bags like bruises under his eyes, the skin almost hanging off his face. Had those grey hairs been there the last time Rude saw him? He didn't remember noticing them.

"Thank you for the invitation," Rufus said. "It feels good to be sitting in a boardroom again."

Rude watched the faces around at table sour. He had to stop himself smiling – Rufus knew exactly how to wind these people up.

"Let's just get on with it," the woman from Wutai said. Her name was just at the edge of Rude's brain – Chekhov, that was it. She sounded tired too.

"Very well," Tuesti said, pushing the hair back off his face. He slid a pamphlet across the table to Rufus. "Have a look at this."

The pamphlet had the word, "Phoenix" written across the front in red letters, and a picture. A group of people advanced towards the viewer, smiling, wielding simple tools - sickles, spades, garden hoes, hammers.

"They're saying modern civilisation can't exist without somehow causing damage to the planet," Tuesti said. "Apparently Meteor, the Weapons and geostigma were the planet's way of showing us that. Their solution is for humans to go back to living the way we did 300 years ago – farming, fishing, hunting and gathering. Living in villages rather than cities and towns."

"'Now the ashes of the old world provide fertile ground for a brave new one to grow,'" Rufus read aloud. He tossed the pamphlet back on the table. "They sound rather harmless. Is this the security concern you were talking about?"

"This ain't just a bunch of hippies wanting to grow out their hair and live in the countryside," the ex-colonel said. "They've got arms. They want to impose their views on everybody. By force if they need to." He was the WRO's public security spokesman, Rude remembered. Mallet – that was his name.

"The movement started in Fort Condor," Chekhov said. "The rebels your company created when you tried to build the reactor there. Their leader, after the Meteor, he created this new ideology. Since then it has spread. In secret. They pass around these pamphlets, talk about their ideas. Slowly their numbers have grown. They're even on the Western Continent now."

"How long have you known about this?" Rufus wanted to know.

"Six months," Tuesti said. "At first we thought they were harmless. We never imagined they'd become militant."

One of Tuesti's greatest strengths as a public figure, Rude thought, was his voice. He always sounded so mild, so understanding, even when delivering a statement like that. It was hard to believe anything was wrong when he was talking.

"Militant?"

Tuesti looked grim. He handed Rufus another set of photographs.

"One of our aircraft took these yesterday. They appear to have set up a perimeter around Fort Condor."

Rude caught glimpses of the photos as Rufus flicked through them. Guns, trucks, soldiers.

"How many of them are there?"

"It's difficult to make even an educated guess," Tuesti said. "It could be anything between five hundred and two thousand."

"Then why am I here?" A mocking smile had drifted onto Rufus' lips. "Surely the WRO can handle two thousand recruits."

Chekhov was looking like she wanted Rufus' head on a spike. Her bony hands were clenched like claws, the veins puffed up.

Tuesti just looked embarrassed. "These are sons and daughters, brothers and sisters," he said. "We can't move against them without looking like – well, like the bad guys. And I'm sure you don't need me to explain how damaging that would be. Already their support is growing by the day."

"And why would that be?" Rufus asked. He was enjoying this, Rude realised. Making the WRO admit to every last fuck-up.

Now even Tuesti looked fed up. "The recovery isn't going as well as – as well as we'd hoped. People are frustrated, young people especially. There aren't enough jobs. Many places still don't have electricity, inflation's putting the cost of food - but why am I telling you this?"He laughed nervously. "You know it all better than we do. Are you going to help us?"

"Why, you haven't told me how I can help," Rufus said, leaning back his chair.

"We need you to deal with this group," Tuesti said. "Shut them down, cut off their support. Before they become too powerful."

"We need someone who isn't afraid to play the bad guy," Mallet said bluntly. "Someone who already knows how to do it."

A smile opened up on Rufus' face – but very different to the one he'd employed when he opened the room. This one was gloating, cruel. "What makes you think I'd know how to do that?" he asked.

Mallet abruptly pushed his chair out and left the room.

Rufus turned to Tuesti. "You're right. This is our area of expertise. We'll take care of it."

Tuesti slumped in his chair. "Thank the Cetra. I thought we were going to be sitting here all day, sniping at each other." He handed Rufus a dossier. "That's everything we know," he said.

Rufus put it into his briefcase. "We'll talk again once I've had a look," he said. He shook hands with Reeve, a reluctant Chekhov. No money had changed hands, but Rude felt like he'd just witnessed an exchange of something. Power, maybe.

They left. In the elevator on the way down, Rude asked:

"How come we didn't know about this? Why haven't we done anything?"

"I wanted Reeve to ask me," Rufus said, grinning, his blue eyes bright with something like triumph. "It gives us more bargaining power, the next time I want something from him. Besides, who says we didn't know about them? Who says we haven't been doing anything?"

If you're still going, thanks for bearing with this. The plot is ballooning and it's becoming a completely different story to what I originally intended. I have no idea where it's going to go, but I'm really excited about writing it!