"I don't know what I'm supposed to do! Why don't you come out here and load your friends' bodies onto fucking carts in the fucking rain, huh? What? I don't care! I'll be insubordinate if I bloody want to. You didn't just order men you trained with since childhood to fucking commit suicide! Go die, you damn bastard, go die!"

Zack slammed his communicator down onto the rain-sodden floor of the standard-issue truck and covered his scratched face with his bloody hands. He immediately regretted this as the stench of dead flesh filled his nostrils, and he had to drop his hands quickly and choke back a gag. Next to him, seated in the driver's eat of the motorized cart, was Colonel Sephiroth, the younger man staring dully through his dirty, grimy hair and deliberately not responding to anything—neither Zack's charade earlier nor the bodies crammed in the truck bed behind them.

The truck bumped along and Zack sat back in his seat, sighing and massaging his temples, careful to keep his hands from his eyes and nose. What he would have done at that moment for a shot of morphine and a bottle of something very, very strong…. Beside the SOLDIER First Class, Sephiroth yawned without fully blinking and continued his weary, one-directional stare ahead.

"Tired? I can drive."

"I'm not exactly suicidal." Sephiroth blinked rapidly, unconvincingly. "I'm hungry."

"Well," Zack said bitterly, "we've got a lot of dead meat in the back. We aren't about to starve."

There was a strange silence and Zack could have sworn that he saw one of the teen's silver eyebrows arch behind the grimy, grey mass of hair. The truck swerved in order to avoid driving over several rotting carcasses on the road.

"If that was a joke," Sephiroth said slowly, "it wasn't very funny."

It only took a moment, but, as their macabre truck bounced along back to camp, the two laughed hysterically until Zack cried and Sephiroth had a coughing fit.

--

Turkish Delights

--

10

The Scarlet Letter

--

Night had set long ago on Midgar and most working people had gone home. Tseng, however, had not gone home; no, he wouldn't be going home for a while. He sat, instead, in the dim atrium, a cup of tea in one hand while the other hand stroked absentmindedly at sleeping Rufus Shinra's hair.

He felt, in all means of the expression, that he had been made a fool. It wasn't the boy's fault; no, Tseng had begun to feel more towards his young charge than just friendship since he'd found out about the murder of his family. This, however… He should have known better. He should have stopped the boy from kissing him, stopped himself from constantly wanting to mend all the scars the boy had, stopped emotions from running too freely in this awful time. And how could Tseng be sure the boy wasn't just using him or something?

Rufus stirred and mumbled something incoherent about diamonds and weapons, turning and burying his face into the folds of the Turk's jacket. Small, bony hands reached and curled into the fabric, a contented sigh from the sleeping form bringing an unconscious smile to the Wutaian's lips. It seem only when Rufus slept that the odd older nature slipped away, leaving behind a child for once, almost endearing in his liking of warmth and gentleness. Tseng sighed and resumed stroking the Vice President's hair.

It was kind of funny how things were turning out. He'd hated the thought of having to care for Rufus in the beginning and had complained angrily to Rude and to Reeve, but the more he got to know the boy, the more he found he really did want to care. Tseng wanted to see the boy smile and he wanted to know that Rufus had someone who would wipe away tears that were never shed. In some ways, he even wanted his charge to succeed in whatever secretive plan the boy was sewing because, in many ways, Tseng was still a young man, was still very easily enamored by the idea of revolution and excitement.

There was change and there was hope with this boy lying in his lap. And for an eighteen-year-old quickly becoming wearied by war and personal strife, that was so very appealing.

--

He was dreaming and, yet, he wasn't.

The green floated around him, caressing his face, licking his wounds. It was like this now almost every night, and he would float and listen to the voices around him. They murmured, cried out, laughed, and chattered. Sometimes he could see corporal visions flitting through the rippling green, and he thought he saw a young Sephiroth once, sprawled out on a rotten-looking cot, reading what had looked surprisingly like a comic book of some sort.

Rufus wondered if this was what the Cetra had seen or at least heard. It wasn't wholly unpleasant, but he didn't dare wish that he could hear this in waking life. Sometimes, when he worked with materia, he could feel himself pulling from this green, could feel it wrap like spider webs around his fingers. The gossamer nature of the Lifestream intrigued him, drew him back to visit hopefully in place of his dreams.

A green ripple had taken a stationary spot nearby. Rufus smiled absently and reached out to pull at the ripples, contorting the smoothness with some amusement flitting over his face. The ripple shuddered and curled around his wrist, tighter, almost like a bracelet, and Rufus grinned wider, plucking at it and eliciting odd sounds a bit like music.

It was such strange fun to hold the threads of fate in one's hands.

--

Rude had been sixteen when he had joined Shinra and seventeen when he had been induced into the Turks. His parents, loving, peaceful people in a tiny little house on the plate in Sector Five, had been so proud of him; they had thrown him a party and bought their only son a new pair of special sunglasses that would protect his sensitive eyes from the irritating fluorescent lighting so prevalent in the city.

"We want nothing more than your happiness," they'd said.

The bald man knew that he was lucky compared to many of his colleagues and friends. Reeve was estranged from his heritage, Tseng had lost his entire past, and, now, this Reno had been up until a few hours ago been living a life as a pay-by-blow whore. This boy, though, he was…

"What's this do?"

Reno grinned at his companion, pointed up at the large lens on the poorly concealed camera on the ceiling of the train. The boy was an endless stream of questions and seemed severely incapable of sitting still for more than two seconds. Indeed, it brought a smile to the part of Rude that wasn't securely locked away to prevent damage as Reno almost immediately abandoned the camera lens and began to look excitedly out the window of the train car again.

"Look!" he laughed, pointing jubilantly at a lady with a great orange cat in her arms on the street outside. "Don't that look funny?"

Rude reached over unconsciously and brought the boy's hand down. "People are staring, Reno."

Bright eyes darted about, and the bouncing energy he radiated didn't subside one bit. He suddenly crouched low and tilted his head up to look at Rude's face, the excitement in his eyes tinted with inquisitive intelligence.

"Am I really goin' to be a Turk?"

"I guess so. The note is signed by both Veld and the Vice President Shinra."

"My Dad was a Turk," he said smartly, plucking at the worn brown coat he was wearing, "but he was a damn drunk."

He thumbed the tattoos beneath his eyes and gave a small smile. It somewhat surprised Rude how different Reno was from Rufus; Rufus, from what Tseng said and from what contact Rude had had with the boy, was strange, dark, and heavily burdened—like a perverse sort of Atlas with the entire planet on his back. Yet this boy—with his blood-red hair and tattoos, his coarse language and former profession—was truly, in some ways, a child who planned to spend his first paycheck on a chocolate bar.

"My dad, though, he was a great guy," Reno continued philosophically. "Like, he ain't like the other drunks. He put away gil for me, an' he ain't come home to beat me none. When he wasn't passed out and drunk, he was pretty cool. How 'bout you?"

"My father?" Rude asked, surprised despite himself. "He's a good man. He's got a job in the urban maintenance department at Shinra. He lives with my mother above Sector Five."

Reno tucked his arms behind his head, staring up at the grimy ceiling, his legs swinging slowly back and forth. "I was watchin' the Vice President's speech."

"You and rest of the world."

"Do you think…" Reno trailed off and then shook his head. "No, nevermind."

--

Never had he thought it would happen, but Reeve Tuetsi was beginning to highly resent his job.

Money and intelligence—once upon a time, that had been all that Reeve had cared about. He'd shoved his way through school, not caring who he crushed on the way to the top, not caring that his parents slowly were forced to stop loving him for lack of understanding. In school, he'd held teachers in his hands, held upperclassmen beneath his thumb; he had had no real friends, only his intelligence and those who were blind enough to obey him. When he'd joined Shinra, he'd rushed up through the ranks, loosing his virginity to do so. He'd never thought there would come a day when he would begin to regret his actions.

But, as he stood in the atrium on the sixty-first floor at three-thirty in the morning, staring at the completely unconscious forms of Tseng and Rufus Shinra sprawled upon a couch together by the window, Reeve resented his job. His traitorous feet kept him moving towards the pair; his hands clenched at his sides until he was close enough to –

Eyes heavy with mako opened and stared out from Tseng's lap, the blue irises oddly shaped as the pupils dilated too quickly to be normal. Rufus sat up, his eyes glowing in the relative darkness, careful not to disturb the sleeping Turk. The boy showed all the symptoms of over-exposure to mako. Reeve had seen it during his training for the intelligence collection jobs; he'd seen the pictures, heard the stories—incredible magical strength, odd thought patterns, strange happenings.

"Reeve…" Rufus spoke quietly, blinking and straightening. "What are you doing here?"

"I…" Reeve sighed, knowing that, in this state, he didn't want to risk lying to the boy, "need to speak to you and Tseng. It's important."

"Don't wake him." There was a strange look on Rufus's face. "You can tell me."

When Reeve had been seven-years-old there had been a war over mythril. He remembered going to school with his books atop a grenade in a burlap backpack because his father had told him that he could be attacked at any time. His eldest brother, a young man with a clean-shaven face, had died in the first few weeks of combat, and his father had taken to paranoia over his heir's well-being. In school, they had practiced drills to hide from enemy soldiers, had leaned first aid and how to cauterize wounds before lunch was taken. War was nothing new to him.

"Rufus, your father is sending you out to the Wutai front with the next shipment of Turks. Tseng will be going with you along with Rude and the new recruit Reno. You really should wake Tseng up; he's got orders."

"I'm awake, Reeve…" Tseng's voice was low, tired, but his eyes, now open, were alert.

Reeve didn't like war. He didn't like death or the cold nature of his job, but he had thought he could handle it. In a world of green mako like the absinthe fairy and legal whorehouses, morals were something that got a person laughed at, got a person killed. Even the righteous were twisted in some way.

"The president believes that with Tseng's extensive knowledge of Wutai society and ways that he'll be a great asset out there. Rufus, you might want to ask him yourself –"

The boy waved a hand empirically and he gave a bitter smile. "Speak, Reeve. I'm not glass nor am I fire. But don't you dare lie to me."

Once, a very long time ago, Reeve had had a dream, but his dream had died, crushed by napalm and the reality of the world.

"Your father says he wants you out there so that you can gain some experience in diplomatic relations. He didn't say much, but he's also calling Colonel Hidaka back from the front. By default, you'll be filling his seat on the command council until further notice. You'll both be leaving tomorrow at noon."

Oddly enough, Rufus reacted just as Reeve had been expecting the boy to: he laughed. The laugh was on the hysterical side, and the boy reached up run his hand through his blond hair, laughter quickly dying away to chuckles. A concerned look from Tseng to his charge was not missed by Reeve's sharp eyes, the slight shift in both of their positions signaling something else, something not quite right.

"Of course." Rufus shook his head and grinned a cold, horrific grin. "Of course."

And then Rufus tossed his head back and positively howled with laughter. He laughed so hard that he fell off the couch with a thump, and he sat back up, a hand on his forehead and his teeth gritted together so that the laughter began strained giggles, much like the kind people made when they were trying to avoid crying. Glowing eyes stared upwards, filled with a bitter mirth, but the laughter was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by the bitter smile and upward-turned blue-green eyes.

"Can I ask you a question, Reeve? Will you answer me correctly?"

I'm moving up, Reeve had foolishly last told his parents, two years ago now. I know things no one else will ever know. And I'm going to change things! I'm going to make a difference.

"…Yes."

Rufus looked at him with those damn eyes, look at him and seemed so despairing and dead. "Is my mother dead, Reeve? You know. I know you do."

Tseng started to shake his head, his eyes opening in warning. "Reeve –"

There won't be anymore wars. People like Angie wouldn't have to die. Don't try to tell me that I should stop, that I should do things 'right'. There is no right and there is no wrong—there is only the truth!

"Yes."

"Was her body burned?"

"…Yes."

"Did you watch the deed carried out and were you promoted for it, Reeve Tuetsi, Lower Head of Urban Development?"

I won't come home. I won't let you stop me.

"Yes."

Tseng gave him a withering look, but Rufus nodded, closing his eyes as if a great weight had been lifted off his chest at a terrible cost. "Thank you, Reeve. Please tell my father that I'm honoured to have this job placed upon my capable shoulders. You may go."

I'll hate you forever if you try to stop me.

--

Note: I will be going on vacation from this Sunday, June 25, to July 23 to help my grandparents move. I may or may not be able to update during this time, but I certainly will when I get back. Thank you for reading, and please drop me areview to tell me what you think of this story.