Chapter 3: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
Veld, Head of the Department of Administrative Research, AKA the Turks, sighed after Tseng departed, closing the office door behind him.
He tapped the innocuous mailing envelope, debating with himself. He didn't really want to look and violate the poor kid's privacy—not any more than it had already been violated—and besides, he had to deal with the Firsts on occasion and having that image fresh in his mind... Well, he'd just have to rely on his own excellent poker face, since he did need to verify the contents. Gritting his teeth and telling himself to quit stalling, he opened it, pulled out the magazine and flipped it open to the centerfold.
Unfortunately, there was no mistake. He'd hoped that no more copies of the miserable issue still existed, but there was no accounting for private collections. Tseng had filled him in on this one's history: located in a run-down used bookstore in the slums and purchased for the kingly sum of two whole entire gil.
A fast food lunch could cost twenty or thirty times that amount. Sometimes more.
Veld supposed someone had just dumped an old collection. Maybe the previous owner had died and the family had gotten rid of the deceased's possessions. Maybe there had been a breakup, and the jilted lover had sold the collection for cheap as revenge. Maybe someone had just decided to clean out a closet. There were countless possibilities.
Fortunately, this time no one in the previous chain of ownership had bothered to review the magazine. Who'd expect an old, out of print porn rag to actually be worth real money? A small fortune, in fact, if one knew the right people and places to sell such things. Veld shuddered to think of what it might bring at an auction.
The company could squelch a public auction, at least. A private or underworld auction was another matter entirely, as they were often held secretly depending on the merchandise. The magazine's poor condition wouldn't make a dent in the price, either. Not even with both corners of the front cover dog-eared and the edges worn. Prospective buyers would pay eye-watering amounts of money solely for an original copy of that damned centerfold.
He sighed again. He hadn't seen one of these in years and had sincerely hoped no more would rise from the ashes of the defunct, smalltime publisher.
Most of his Turks had no idea why Hewley had done something that—on the face of it—seemed so stupid for a man in his position. Veld was far better versed in his family's background, thanks to the ongoing surveillance that had been on him, his parents, and Rhapsodos all their lives. It had really been all about the money. Hewley had handed the bulk of his earnings over to his family.
Veld had never understand why a highly educated woman like Gillian Hewley would just up and leave her prominent and well-paid position in Shinra. And more importantly, why she'd done it in such a way that her entire family had ended up under what amounted to house—or village—arrest in Banora. The company had been spiteful enough to use its influence to ruin her career prospects outside Shinra, so she and her husband had scraped along by taking low wage jobs for local farmers and businesses.
Most would consider the entire situation utterly bizarre, but the details were classified as "need to know" and Veld knew better than to investigate too closely. She'd been employed in the Science department, and that meant it was best not to ask questions. He assumed someone important had decided that she possessed too much proprietary information to be allowed to move freely. At least the entire family hadn't been conveniently eliminated, though Veld still didn't understood why. The Shinra company had never been shy about erasing problems before.
In any case, the picture had been taken only a few months before Hewley and Rhapsodos had moved to Midgar and joined the company. The centerfold would have been nothing more than an amusing and somewhat embarrassing footnote in Hewley's past if he hadn't become so prominent so quickly.
But once he'd reached First Class? The PR department had a field day with him, Sephiroth, and Rhapsodos, making the trio out to be larger than life, shining and invincible war heroes, the faces of SOLDIER for positive public consumption and innumerable recruitment posters and videos. Hells, they continued to sell Hewley as "the spiritual leader of SOLDIER," of all things. Did they think he was some kind of saint?
Well, maybe compared to Sephiroth and Rhapsodos, both of whom could exceed even Turks when it came to intimidation and stone cold killing...
The SOLDIER Saint of Shinra. Had a decent ring to it. Sure. A twenty-two year old, barely out of adolescence, mako-enhanced super soldier kid. Veld's lips quirked at that thought, but a moment later he scowled. A decent kid who'd seen too much of the worst humanity had to offer while in Wutai. Best not to give the PR department any ridiculous ideas.
In any case, an indiscretion like a centerfold layout in even a small, poorly circulated porno magazine was unacceptable considering that carefully crafted public image, and so the Turks had been charged with finding and destroying every single physical copy of the issue and every digital copy that might be lurking online.
But Shiva's tits, the kid had only been fifteen. That might be a legal adult, but was way too young to pose for a porn shot. Barely Legal sure had lived up to its name.
Veld reminded himself firmly that many Shinra employees, even his own Turks, were also little more than children. Take Cissnei for a prime example: only a teen yet already deadly and practiced in interrogation. A kid only had to be fourteen years old to join Shinra and its military. One or two of the very youngest SOLDIERs were also only fourteen. So many were just kids; even the three most famous First Class SOLDIERs were nowhere near the quarter century mark yet.
There were too many babies working for Shinra, doing its dirty work. Too many mature beyond their years, with insane responsibilities that should be borne by professionals with ten or even twenty years more experience.
How had that happened? Shinra had once been a decent place to work, but that had been a long time ago.
He tucked the magazine safely out of sight in the mailer and glared hard at it. All the Turks involved in this embarrassing little mess believed the magazine would be destroyed. The standing orders they'd all been issued stated as much: that they were to deliver it to their superior, who would have it incinerated. There would be no records; it would be as if it had never existed.
They didn't know that the orders to Veld had been modified over a year ago. It hadn't mattered to him at the time because he hadn't really believed his Turks would ever find another copy of the magazine.
Now, rather than destroy it, he was required to deliver it to his own superior. The Turks worked under the Public Security Division of the company. That meant Heidegger. Veld hated the idea, but orders were orders. At least he could deliver the package manually. That way no one else might be tempted to look inside.
Filled with doubts from his inconvenient conscience, he left his office and headed toward the elevators.
It was no secret that Heidegger wanted to usurp control of SOLDIER from Lazard. Would the magazine provide some kind of leverage? The more Veld thought about it as he waited for the elevator to get to the fiftieth floor, the more he disliked the idea of passing it on. Hewley was a good kid. He didn't deserve the trouble Heidegger might bring down on him and his friends—Veld had no doubt Sephiroth and Rhapsodos would get caught up in the scandal, too—for something he'd done out of a combination of youthful folly and financial stress.
The elevator dinged and its doors slid open. Veld stepped out and walked a good distance past a boring and rather large cube farm full of paper pushers.
He was a company man, damn it. Loyal to the Turks and to the Shinra Electric Power Company. He could do this. He could.
A conscience was truly a nagging and useless encumbrance, especially for a Turk.
No, Veld decided mid-stride, he really couldn't do it. Wretched things, consciences.
Fine. He'd destroy the damned magazine before he'd let Heidegger have it. He could claim that destroying the magazines had been standard procedure for so long that he'd forgotten his orders had been amended. No one would argue with him, not even Heidegger, though the asshole would probably rant about it for an hour if he ever found out.
Given the nature of many of Shinra's employees and activities, there was a document disposal center on every floor in the entire building. People always needed to destroy classified or restricted material. Veld did an abrupt about-face to head for it—and charged straight into a mail cart laden with several bins of interdepartmental mail. The cart toppled over, scattering mailers all over the floor. Veld landed on his ass, losing hold of his own mailer in the process. The unlucky employee who'd been pushing the cart staggered back, her eyes wide in her nondescript face.
"Oh, I'm—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she stammered, pushing aside a lock of light brown hair that had fallen over her nose.
Veld was accustomed to alarmed reactions from company personnel. Everyone in Shinra knew the black suit of a Turk, even if they didn't recognize the person wearing it.
"No, it's my fault for not looking where I was going," he said quietly, hoping she wouldn't panic, even while he stared at the multitudes of interdepartmental mailing envelopes surrounding him. Where was his? He started going through them.
"Oh, that's my job," the woman said, getting down on her hands and knees to refill the bins with their former contents.
"I have one here, too," Veld said. Thinking fast, he lied, "I just picked it up and don't want to wait for it to go through the mail system all over again."
"Oh, okay, you're welcome to look for it."
With a start, Veld realized that he had no idea who the envelope had been addressed to. Tseng had brought it to him, so maybe his name would be somewhere on it. Veld started scanning the address lines on the anonymous gray mailers, but Tseng's name didn't jump out at him. Then he spotted a thicker one and snatched it up. Yes, it looked right, and it certainly had a magazine in it. He could feel it.
"That yours?" the woman asked. When Veld nodded, she said, "Great, have a good day, sir," and continued loading envelopes into her bins.
Veld clutched his mailer and tried not to look guilty. "You, too, ma'am," he said and strode down another long hallway toward the disposal center. Why was there so much traffic in the halls today? It was positively crowded. He really didn't want anyone to see what he was carrying around, and he was sure that Hewley wouldn't, either.
What a mess. Even if employees on this floor did have adequate clearances, it would be best if no one besides the Turks knew. He trusted his own people, but if any passersby saw the magazine, the word would absolutely get around on the very efficient company grapevine that he was carrying porn at work. Some might even recognize the cover.
Something about the whole thing nagged at him. He needed to double-check, just to make sure he really had the correct envelope. However, he refused to open it out in a public space, not even just to peer inside it. Not with so many people passing to and fro. He looked around and saw an empty conference room.
He casually strolled inside and closed the door. The lights came on automatically. He moved to the central table, then opened the envelope and slid the contents out.
A glossy periodical titled Autonomous Vehicle and Robotics Engineering lay before him. Veld stared at it, appalled. He looked at the mailer. The last recipient on the list was an individual named Maureen Agawa in Weapons Development.
"Oh, crap," he growled as he abandoned the magazine and envelope to race out the door in search of an unidentified, unremarkable-looking woman with a mail cart.