Summary:
Reeve Tuesti, embroiled in affairs rapidly spiraling beyond his control, worries about who to serve and who to trust. His assistant is beginning to worry the same.
Featuring:
Reeve Tuesti, Cait Sith, Reeve's Assistant, The Turks, AVALANCHE, the ShinRa Board, Marlene Wallace, and Corporate Espionage, Angst, Inspire! Reeve, and a healthy blending of OG and Remake Canons
Notes:
This project is a labor of love, and I'm excited to share with all of you. I really wanted to explore multiple points of view and the gray morality of many of these characters. This fic is more than half finished, so I'm still chipping away, but I'll be updating weekly from here on out. Enjoy reading!
Rita is derived from Reeve Tuesti's Assistant.
CHAPTER 1: Strange events are put in motion after President Shinra is assassinated. Reeve's assistant wonders about what else may come to pass.
December 15, [ ν ]– εγλ 0007
Shortly before midnight on the fifth day of catastrophe, Reeve Tuesti finally fell asleep on the fine leather couch in his office.
He would stay asleep for just under two hours, before waking to the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins at the shrill ping of a message from Tseng. It read: The President is dead. Followed by, Come upstairs. And so, Reeve would begin his sixth day of catastrophe and little sleep ushering the reign of Rufus Shinra.
For now, however, Reeve remained sleeping, heeding the advice of his devoted assistant, whose well-meaning entreaties he never could resist for long.
Bleeding. Her feet were bleeding.
Rita winced, peeling her gray heels from blistered, raw skin. A warm bucket of water waited. She dipped her feet in, hissing at the water's bite until she felt relief. Sighing, Rita collapsed backward in the lounging chair and glanced at her oven clock.
12:02 AM.
...Six days. Six days since the bombing of the Sector 1 Reactor—and what a wake-up call that had been too, the detonation near enough to rattle her window panes. As soon as she'd registered the blast Rita made to move, grabbing her shoes and heading to Headquarters, where she knew she'd be needed.
She'd not taken off her shoes since.
The Sector 1 reactor exploded, and followed by the reactor in Sector 5 just days later. And then, there was Sector 7...
In the midst of the chaos, just after they began clean-up of the Sector 5 bombing, Director Tuesti had pulled his personal assistant aside in his office. His face looked so pale and gaunt Rita worried he was sick.
"This is only for you to know," he whispered. Her heart pounded in anxious beat. "I need to you to draft a damage assessment. Calculate all potential losses if Sector 7 is destroyed."
Rita blanched. "But, Sector 7 hasn't been—" Reeve held up his hand.
"The President," his tone sounded low, strained, "wants to drop the plate to stop AVALANCHE."
Horrified, her jaw fell agape. People lived on the plate. They lived below it. Dropping it would kill them all. "I argued against it," Reeve continued despite Rita's expression, "but the President made up his mind." Etched in Reeve's face, Rita saw nothing but pain and guilt.
She didn't blame Reeve. Rita knew just how hard he had lobbied against the plan—and how much it was likely still eating at him even now, from the inside out.
So she didn't argue with him, or protest his request. Instead, she got to work writing the damage assessment, forecasting her projections in the future tense with an eerie sense of detachment. And when Rita received his call confirming the plate's fall a mere hours after that conversation, only then did she begin to write in present: Projections indicate that the total damage would amounts to 10 billion gil. Rebuilding the entirety of Sector 7 would will cost nearly 15-20 billion gil...
Anger surged in Rita as she wrote. She'd not spare a keystroke totaling the cost of lost lives—not because she didn't care, but because she knew full well that the President didn't. In fact, doing so would only incite wrath and consternation upon Reeve—Rita refused to do that to him. She already worried enough.
...The fear she felt when she heard Reeve openly castigate their employer...
Beyond the pale. That was Reeve's true assessment of ShinRa's plan to drop the plate. And Rita agreed. But a President willing to murder 50,000 would have no qualms about offing an errant Executive. Rita hoped Reeve didn't become reckless.
She pondered his words to her again after his Executive board meeting, which had gone disastrously by all accounts—the President refused to rebuild Sector 7. "I have to do something," he'd said.
In turn, Rita promised she supported him. And she did. But that didn't keep emotion from blanketing her with cold dread. Seditious thinking alone could ruin them—if anyone else in the Company overheard Reeve's sentiments...
She honestly didn't know what she would do, if something happened to Reeve. If ShinRa did something to Reeve.
Rita looked back at the clock. 12:13 AM.
Tiredness steeped into her bones. The little sleep she'd caught over the five days of chaos had been catnaps on couches—a light doze in the staff break room, a secluded booth in the rec center, even a short stint on Director Tuesti's office sofa (if only to model to the man it was, in fact, an option he could exercise at will).
And now, Rita realized she didn't even have the strength to stand, to change out of her gray suit or go to bed. Lounging her head back, feet still soaking in warm water, she drifted off to sleep.
Shrill ringing startled her, her phone blaring her awake. In her shock she splashed the water her pruny feet still soaked in across the carpet. Cursing, Rita looked with bleary eyes at the oven clock.
3:23 AM.
...Who on Gaia was calling? Panicked, fearing it was Reeve, Rita grabbed her phone.
Across the screen bold letters illuminated: Papa.
Just as concerning as a call from the Director. Rita answered with a frantic, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing with me, I can assure you," her grandfather's voice sounded warm if worn.
"What's going on? Did something happen?"
"The President's been assassinated."
Stunned, silent, Rita's mind raced. She'd left the ShinRa building mere hours ago, and from all indications President Shinra was alive and well. Horror-struck, she blurted, "Are the other Executives okay!?"
"Your boss is just fine. As are the others, but I don't you care about them as much," even now, her grandfather found a way to tease. Still, Rita exhaled her worried breath.
"And you're okay, too?"
"I'm just the Mayor," Papa demurred, "I'm quite all right. AVALANCHE's only target tonight was the President."
This statement hung thick in the air. Rita felt numb. AVALANCHE. The group responsible for her hellish week, starting with the Sector 1 Reactor bombing.
But then...it was the President who had escalated and dropped the plate. Could Rita really blame AVALANCHE for striking back? Head of the snake, after all...
She pinched the bridge of her nose, head aching from her lack of sleep.
"Are you still there, Mouse?"
"I'm here, Papa," Rita smiled at her grandfather's endearment. "Thank you for letting me know. I'm getting ready to go in now. Are you still at your office?"
"Yes." There was a muffled sound, as he were stifling a yawn. "And I expect to be here for a while still. But I wanted to tell you the news before I passed out on the couch."
"Thank you. Should I come see you when I get in?
"No, no, that won't be necessary—and I'll be in no state. But we're still on for lunch, right Mouse?
"Of course, Papa. I'll see you then."
She wanted to get in as soon as possible, so Rita rushed to shower and dress, bandaging her feet as best she could. She pulled on her athletic trainers in lieu of high heels—she'd take the dress code slip over shoes that would make her ache. She grabbed her backpack and helmet and headed out into the crisp air toward the garage, where her scooter waited.
The sun would not rise over Midgar for a few hours yet, but the exhaust from the mako reactors illuminated Rita's path with emerald light as efficiently as the streetlamps. The sound of the vents' churning vapor exhaust resounded over the rushing wind in her ears. Despite the hour, the city teemed with life, cars scuttling along the highway, pedestrians winding their ways back to the undercity after overnight shifts on the plates above. Or in some cases, slum dwellers winding their way up to the surface, ready to start their day making the lives of those above the plate more pleasant than those below it. These people didn't yet know their President had died. She knew that quite a few would celebrate such knowledge. But ShinRa's vice grip on the hearts, minds, and matters of Midgar meant that many too would mourn the loss of their Dear Leader.
Rita didn't like to dwell on such thoughts.
Each pedestrian and driver she passed eyed her warily. She couldn't blame them. For nearly a week, everyone had been on edge. Surviving terror.
Yet, Rita knew, some of that terror was state inflicted. That terrified her most.
She arrived in Sector 0 in record time, storing her scooter and helmet in the employee lot before starting toward headquarters. As she rounded the corner she spied something that stopped her dead in her tracks—
It was a cat.
Only...only it wasn't a cat. It couldn't possibly be. For one, it stood on two legs. And it wore a red cape, with white gloves. And atop its head sat a crown.
...She couldn't possibly be seeing this, surely. She blinked hard. Am I dreaming?—No, her grandfather clearly had awaken her with his phone call...
Rita felt an eerie prickling along the back of her neck. Her mind flitted backwards in time, to when she was a child sitting eagerly in her grandfather's library, with a book of Fae stories about a cat that walked upright and could steal your soul.
...it hadn't noticed Rita. But it seemed to be creeping closely along the wall, until finally slinking into the cover of darkness ahead.
So struck by the sight, part of Rita yearned to follow. The other part wanted to run, turn and get inside Headquarters as fast as possible.
She chose the latter option.
Once inside, she exhaled shakily. No one was in the lobby at this hour and Rita felt grateful. That meant there was no one to see her fear—not that anyone would believe her if she told them about the sight she'd witnessed. She shook her head, willing herself to forget the image of the cat prowling on its hind legs. Fae stories weren't real. She was tired—that's all this was.
She hurried to her locker to freshen up. Spying herself in the mirror, she groaned. Her eyes looked red with exhaustion, dark circles underlining them. She splashed cold water on her face and pulled out her eye drops and make-up kit, hoping she could make herself look more presentable, or at least awake. She resolved to stop by the café. Rita knew if she felt this terribly, the Director probably felt worse.
If there were anything for Rita to feel grateful for at this hour of the morning, this eerie, unsettling, murderous morning, it was the presence of Ernie and Cris behind the café counter. Having spent enough overnighters with Reeve to come to know the night baristas personally, they started prepping two cups when they spied Rita's approach.
"Rough week," Ernie said in his gravely voice.
"Hasn't even been a full week, yet," Rita sighed as she swiped her employee card at the kiosk.
"Keep your chin up," Ernie handed her the traveler with her two steaming cups. He pointed to one of the cups.
"And mind the Director," Cris chimed in, with a pitying smile. "That'll be his second cup this morning." Rita nodded her profuse thanks. Second cup? That meant he'd been awake for a bit...but he hadn't called her to Headquarters, she realized with a frown.
Rita hurried to the 63rd floor, hoping against reason that she would find the Director somehow miraculously back asleep on his couch when she arrived. What she encountered as she approached the door was far different than she hoped.
"I look forward to a productive working relationship, Director," she heard as from out of Reeve's office, in his pristine white suit, sauntered Rufus Shinra and his dog.
Rita rocked backwards, managing to stem the spill of coffee in the traveler and not collide with the new President.
Reeve emerged from the office behind Rufus, eyes widening in shock at seeing Rita. Rufus eyed her with passing interest, and she bowed. Running through a quick mental checklist of her protocol for interacting with the Executives, Rita decided to gamble by saying, "Pardon me, Mister President."
Rufus smirked handsomely, and Rita felt satisfied she'd made the right calculation. Without remarking on her presence, he sauntered away with his blood-eyed hound in tow.
Reeve stared at Rita. "How on Gaia did you know?"
"The Mayor called." Rita turned to hand him his coffee as she said, "A perk of being his granddaughter."
"I should have realized." He took a grateful sip. "Please tell me you were at least able to get some rest?"
"I did, sir, thank you." Rita smiled at him. "And you?"
He tried to smile back, but it looked more like a grimace. "I actually did take your advice and slept on the couch. At least until I got the call..." He trailed off. In the silence that followed they moved into the privacy of Reeve's office.
Every part of him looked exhausted, run down. Rita couldn't keep from asking, "When was that sir?"
"Not too long after it happened, just before two."
Rita's nostrils flared. So he'd been awake for nearly two hours now... "You didn't call me."
He looked at her, nakedly exasperated by this unending argument. "You needed to rest."
"Not any more than you, Director. If you're here, I'm here."
"I've told you before"—Reeve pinched the bridge of his nose—"you well-rested is more valuable than both of us half-rested."
"Sir, in terms of 'valuable'—at least to the Company— you being well-rested is the only thing that counts." Rita clucked her tongue. "And you already barely do that."
"Seems like whenever I do, things fall apart." Reeve stifled a yawn, and she spared him a pitying glance.
"This week has been...busier than usual."
He snorted. "Quite the understatement, Ms. Spencer." He rubbed his eyes, gaze wandering aimlessly over the documents scattered on his desk. Rita's curiosity felt too strong.
"Director, if I may—why did the President visit you this morning?"
Reeve exhaled a shaky breath. "...It's not anything you need to worry about."
"Well, that's not true," Rita countered. "You don't look well, sir. That's something I worry about very much."
This time his smile shone through. "Thank you, Ms. Spencer. I appreciate your concern." He let his gaze linger for a moment to say, "The new President wanted my help on a particular project." Then he averted his eyes. "I'm afraid I can't divulge any more information on the subject."
"I understand, sir. But still, how can I help you?
As if sensing this was a topic on which she would not relent Reeve sighed and looked across his desk. Atop a stack of papers sat a thick black folder. Reeve grabbed it and passed it to Rita. "This is for Tseng. Would you be able to deliver it for me? I have some…other things I need to attend to in the meantime."
With only the barest hesitation Rita grasped the folder with her free hand. Delivering items to the Department of Administrative Research wasn't her favorite task…but it was one she could manage well enough without broadcasting her fear. Certainly not when Reeve looked so run down.
"Absolutely. Anything else I can help you with today?"
"I'd love to get your updated projections for clearing up the reactor explosions. And we need some hazard clean-up in Sector 7—could you pull together the team?"
"Of course, Director."
Reeve slumped down in his chair, taking a long sip of coffee. His eyes looked bleary, the lines in his forehead looked pronounced. His weariness felt palpable.
Before Rita could stop herself she placed her hand on his shoulder, hoping to provide any kind of comfort. He didn't push away; indeed, the faintest smile graced his face. Without another word, she took her coffee and the black folder and left to see the Head of the Turks.
She couldn't say she'd ever feel used to the descent to the basement. Headquarters already felt oppressive with its dark lighting and mostly ebony interior, save for the eerie artificial blue lighting that helped the few sparse plants in Midgar survive in such an inhospitable environment.
But the basement of Headquarters had its own foreboding air, one that stifled Rita. It didn't help that Scarlet stalked its corridors, with her array of death machines that supplied the Company's armed forces, and her inexhaustible fount of petty rage she enjoyed directing at meek underlings. Or perhaps because the Turks themselves, despite their pristine suits and ties, were self-contained death machines. Everyone in the company knew not to cross the Department of Administrative Research. The quicker Rita finished this task, the better.
Yet, though she knew better than to ask, she couldn't help wonder what exactly Reeve did for the Company's Black Ops group. Or why the new President himself was making trips to Reeve's office. She didn't remember Rufus' father ever doing that.
Rita couldn't entertain this train of thought for long, because as she stepped off the lift into the basement corridor, she glimpsed something that stopped her dead: slinking around the corner, a black tail and a red cape.
She blinked hard, then rushed forward—but as she peered around the corner there was nothing save an empty hallway. And certainly no upright-walking cats.
Rita took a long swig of her coffee. Tiredness getting the better of her, she mused. Yes, had to be that.
She turned toward the door of "General Affairs: Auditing", but she hesitated a fraction before knocking. She heard a muffled, "Come in," from the other side.
As she crossed the threshold, Tseng rose from his seat to greet her, adjusting his fine black tie and leather gloves. "Ms. Spencer," he outstretched his hand and nodded curtly as Rita handed him the thick file. "Thank you." He bowed cordially, as was his custom when she delivered files, and that should have been the end of their interaction.
Should have been.
But Rita stalled. She felt unsettled—by the sight of the cat, twice now, in addition to the murder of the President. She could tell herself it was tiredness, but would that really satisfy?
Tseng's eyes met hers. He looked curious, even wary, at her hesitance. The thought of it—a waifish administrative assistant making a Turk wary—almost made her laugh. Then the scene played itself out in her head—no doubt the man would think her insane if she mentioned she saw a cat with a crown lurking about. But would it really be wise of her to pretend that nothing was amiss, at all?
Could she live with herself if she missed an obvious warning sign?
"Ms. Spencer?"
"The attack on the President last night"—there was no stopping now—"are any of the other Executives at risk?"
Tseng's eyes narrowed the barest fraction as he studied her. "At this time, we don't have any reason to believe anyone else is in danger—though, of course, we've increased security." His eyes roamed up and down. "You need not fear for Director Tuesti."
Rita's cheeks grew hot. It dawned on her that perhaps Tseng would take offense to the implication his team would not be sufficient in guarding against future attacks, that they'd already failed in some way. "I didn't mean—it's just that, with everything that's happened the past few days, I wasn't sure if I should be more...alert. Of potential dangers or—or assassins." The last part sounded strange, almost unreal to Rita. She suddenly felt very foolish for thinking what looked like a stuffed cat could be murderous. Oh, of course Tseng would find her preoccupation immature…
But Tseng surprised Rita. "Your loyalty is an admirable quality, Ms. Spencer. And it's true we can't be too careful." A hint of a catlike smile crossed his face. "Actually, I have a proposal for you."
"A proposal?"
"You spend a considerable amount of time with Director Tuesti. It certainly wouldn't hurt for you to have some form of training."
"Training?"
"In combat."
Rita's heart skipped. This…this was not what she'd envisioned.
"Oh?"
"Allow me to set a session with one of my subordinates. You could begin as early as this evening."
Rita gaped. She couldn't help but feel this was...well, ridiculous. "You think I would be able to actually prevent an attack on the Director?"
"With proper training"—Tseng's voice sounded knife-sharp—"you could do enough to buy time for reinforcements to arrive." He quirked his brow. "And who knows. I've seen smaller than you take down much larger foes with ease. Perhaps you'll take to it. Are you interested, or not?"
And though Rita hesitated, it was only for a moment. "Yes. I am." If it was a matter of keeping Reeve safe, Rita would do anything.
Tseng's lips curved upward, ghost of a smile gracing his face. "Excellent. I'll arrange a session for this evening. We'll be in contact." He bowed to her again. "Always a pleasure, Ms. Spencer."
Rita walked away feeling dizzied by the turn of the events. She felt so distracted, she didn't fully register that Tseng had crossed to his phone to make an eager call.
Rita didn't have time to mull on her conversation with Tseng. The Director had assigned her tasks. She moved quickly, visiting the 30th floor to update the UrbDev teams monitoring the ongoing clean-up of all the areas that had been damaged in the past week.
She poured herself into the work, so focused that it was only when Cherie, the floor assistant, gave her a nudge and pointed to the clock that Rita realized she was late for lunch. She scurried to the 62nd floor to find her grandfather's office still closed and the archive empty—unexpected, but Rita could wait a few minutes. She busied herself by glancing over the many volumes of records stacked in the archive. Even though the company had moved to digital support long ago, she'd always loved the physical copies of old documents—their smell, their heft in her hands. As she perused, winding her way into a corner of the archive tucked behind several ferns, agitated voices caught her ear. She twisted her neck, peering through green leaves to see what she could.
Her grandfather's right hand and man she'd known most of her life, Deputy Hart, spoke in hushed tones to a man Rita recognized, a middle manager from Urban Development—Gray, was it?—who had collaborated with the Mayor on city archival projects. But what the Deputy and this collaborator discussed seemed far from a simple project. From the looks of it, the conversation seemed heated, even angry.
...it wasn't her business. But Rita found her curiosity getting the better of herself; she so rarely saw the Deputy this upset, and the man was like a second grandfather to her. She angled herself among the ferns to better eavesdrop—
"I'm telling you, they weren't with the main cell," Mr. Gray spat. "They were with the Wallace cell, which defected ages ago—"
"Does any of that really matter now?" Deputy Hart sounded weary. "Most of the cells have been wiped out now. The new President saw to that."
"Yes," the man answered darkly. "I'm aware. There are still a few he doesn't know about. And there is also a survivor of the Wallace cell still in Sector 7. He was injured, but—"
"I've already told you, I can't help you. Not now, there's too much risk—we're pursuing an alternative strategy with leadership."
"And you actually think this will work? That things will move along just as it used to?"
Deputy Hart waved off the younger man. "We've made our decision. You have your assignments. You'd better run along, they'll be finished any minute—"
Rita waited a few moments for the two men to hurry off, Mr. Gray still protesting to the Deputy. Her heart pounded—what on Gaia was that all about? Wallace cell? And someone injured? What did all of this have to do with Rufus?
Rita's head spun. She'd have to ponder this further at some other time. As the Deputy and Mr. Gray exited the archives, Rita crawled from her corner toward her grandfather's office door. She'd waited long enough—
For the second time that day, Rita nearly ran headlong into Rufus Shinra, emerging from the Archive's inner library. This time, their meeting produced a more pronounced reaction in the President. He scanned Rita up and down.
"Ah. This must be the granddaughter you were telling me about."
From behind Rufus, her Papa emerged, face pale. When he didn't answer immediately, Rufus continued, "We haven't met yet." He extended his hand to her, to her shock. Rita tried to project a confidence she didn't feel as she took it and shook.
"Rita Spencer."
"Urban Development," he said, lightly smirking. "Tuesti's assistant."
"That's correct, Mister President." He still clasped her hand and Rita didn't dare withdraw.
"Here before dawn and still hard at work—Director Tuesti is a lucky man indeed." Rufus released Rita, then turned to Mayor Domino to say, "I can only assume she gets her loyalty from you, Mayor. It's a valuable trait."
Rita wasn't sure she imagined the strain in her grandfather's voice as he answered, "You're too generous, Mister President. But I hope you'll give us our leave now—I can't stand the thought of keeping my granddaughter from her work, not when she's so kind to spare me her lunch hour.
"Of course, Mayor. I understand completely." Rufus began sauntering away, casting Rita one last handsomely inscrutable glance. She fought to suppress a shiver—of thrill or fear, she couldn't say. "Family is everything."
Lunch felt more uncomfortable than Rita could ever remember. She knew at times that the Mayor's position—or lack thereof—within Midgar weighed heavily on his mind. But today her grandfather seemed uncharacteristically sullen. Obviously, Rufus' visit had disturbed him.
When Rita tried to ask, though, he rebuffed her. "Don't you worry yourself about it. Just a social call—ceremonial, really." But for Papa—usually so quick to curse the Company when they wounded his pride—Rita found this out of character.
"How's the Director holding up, eh?" he changed the subject. "It's been quite the week for his department."
"That's one way of putting it." Rita took a bite of sandwich, not really feeling hungry but knowing she needed the fuel—she hadn't eaten all day, save for the coffee.
"I can't imagine he's too happy, what with the destruction of the plate after everything else." Her Papa's voice sounded strained. "I wouldn't blame him for being furious with the people responsible."
There was something in his turn of phrase that made Rita feel on edge. She hadn't told anyone else about the President choosing to drop the plate, and Rita felt sure Reeve hadn't either.
...So why did Papa say it like that? People. Not AVALANCHE.
"He's understandably upset." Rita kept her tone neutral. "But he also has to focus on many other things."
"Ah, yes." Did Rita imagine her grandfather's smile didn't meet his eyes? "Quite the busy man—I imagine he's already working hard on reconstruction."
Rita didn't know how to respond. Just yesterday, President Shinra refused to authorized such a plan. But now...well, now there was a new President.
"Of course the Director's working on it." She took another bite, studying him. "Why are you so curious?"
"Is it so strange I want to keep appraised of the goings on of the manager of my city?" Papa scoffed. Rita had no good answer.
Lunch ended unceremoniously, and Rita felt unsettled as she hugged Papa goodbye. Perhaps it was her own exhaustion, but Rita left feeling irate in no small part thanks to her grandfather's caginess.
Once again, she forced herself to push back her burning curiosity and focus on work. When she finished her initial tasks for Reeve she elected to brush up the Sector 7 Reconstruction plan he had drafted—in case Rufus really did take a different turn from his predecessor. By early afternoon, Rita felt heavy with tiredness and the weight of the company's secrets on her mind—buoyed only by an email from Tseng informing her to meet in the Department of Administrative Research at 5:30 PM.
As the day closed she hurried to finish up her projects and swing by Reeve's office to deposit the days files, but she found him absent. Rita hoped against hope he'd left early, but she knew he'd likely been drawn into a late meeting. She'd check on him before she left for the evening.
Twenty 'til, Rita hurried to the locker room to change into more "training" appropriate clothing. She wasn't entirely sure what Tseng had in mind—and she felt foolish now for not asking—but her gym clothes would have to do.
Hopping into the lift down to the basement, Rita felt giddiness and trepidation swirling within her. Was she really doing this? Going to train with the Turks? She could have asked anyone from the department of Public Safety to give her some pointers—was she out of her mind to ask Tseng?
Before arriving at Rita's destination, the elevator stalled, the doors opening. Any excitement Rita felt extinguished as Scarlet's looming form sauntered onto the lift, her gaudy emerald jewelry clinking. Rita froze.
Even on her best days—the 7-hours-of-sleep and full-face of make-up with proper suit days—the company's lone female Executive regarded Rita as 'target practice'. A red-headed bullseye at which was aimed cruel bullets about Rita's countenance or competence or class. But now—post-work on hardly 3 hours sleep, exhaustion etched in her face, clad in her dingy athletic trainers—Rita braced for Scarlet's worst.
"Well, if it isn't Tuesti's lapdog." The Director of Weapons Development, quite tall and stately in her stilettos and velvet red dress, looked down and laughed at Rita's weary form. "My, looks like he's been running you ragged. Too many games of 'fetch'?"
"It has been quite a busy week, ma'am," Rita replied, fighting to keep her voice steady.
"Oh I'm sure. Yet, why are you here"—overly-mascaraed eyes looked at the glowing panel, indicating they'd reached the lowest levels—"heading to the basement? Did the Director send you on a special errand to see me?" Scarlet's obnoxious laugh made Rita's hair stand on end.
Rita bit her lip to keep from snorting in disgust. "No, Madam Director. I'm heading to General Affairs."
Scarlet's eyes narrowed, and she pressed an accusing, red-manicured nail into Rita's shoulder, digging into flesh. "What business do you have with the Turks?"
The lift mercifully arrived at Rita's destination. "No business of mine," Rita lied, "just some more 'fetching' before I end my day." The doors opened. "Good evening, ma'am," Rita called out, not looking back to spy Scarlet's expression as she slipped off the lift and down the hall. She didn't care if it raised Scarlet's suspicion that she delivered anything to the Turks on Reeve's behalf. There was a new President after all—Rita doubted Scarlet wanted to take it up with him.
Tseng's email had directed her to the office of General Affairs: Training and Development. She arrived to find an actual gym. Jet black weights and exercise machines lined the room, beyond them a wall of vibrant red punching bags and lifelike human dummies. The gym was far better appointed than the Rec on the 63rd floor; nothing less than the best for the Turks, she figured. A large black mat sat in the middle of the room. On it stood the Turk.
Rita didn't recognize the woman. Blonde coiffed hair. Warm, inviting brown eyes. Too inviting, Rita thought, to be a Turk. She was shorter than Rita. As Rita stepped onto the mat, the brown eyes roved over her. "You're Rita Spencer?" The woman's tone sounded steely, like gunmetal.
"That's me."
"Elena."
Curt, stern faced, Elena began to bark instructions to Rita to cross to the mat in position. Silently Rita complied, worried about her decision to go along with Tseng's plan.
"I understand you're here to learn about stopping an assassination."
Rita gulped. "That's"—absurd—ridiculous—ill-advised—"correct."
"Let's start." Elena dove right in, watching Rita's face for understanding. "We are going to begin with two basic principles: awareness and adaptability. We are going to hone your awareness of your surroundings and sharpen your senses to threats."...That didn't sound too awful. Seeing Rita's nod, Elena continued, "Then, we are going to practice adaptability in the face of unknown enemies. There is no excuse for you to be defeated by someone just because they are bigger than you."
Elena crossed the room to a cabinet, pulling out tape and gauze, and began to wrap Rita's wrists. Seeing Elena's small frame yet sculpted physique, the hidden strength belied by her size, Rita realized with growing confidence that this might not be so bad after all. She might learn some real valuable lessons from this.
"I'm also gonna teach you to beat the shit out of people." Elena tossed her coiffed hair and grinned.
"Perhaps you'll take to it," Tseng had said.
For the first time that day, Rita forgot her sore feet and her tiredness. Her body buzzed with excitement. "Let's get started."
She drenched with sweat, yet the burn in her body...Rita didn't mind it.
After a quick stretch and warm up, they had started with slow, controlled movements, honing in on awareness of the body and fluid motion. Elena explained to Rita that fluidity—constant motion within a larger flow—produced the power small-framed women like them needed to gain advantages in fights.
"Using our speed and agility, we can wait for our opponent to strike and use their momentum against them."
Elena beckoned to Rita. "Charge me." Rita did, arm outstretched. Elena sidestepped and grabbed it with a sharp tug. The force of Rita's lunge worked against her, somersaulting her to land flat on her back.
From the mat Rita cursed. From above Elena laughed, crossing her arms and accentuating her muscles. "Get used to it. You'll be on your ass at least ten times more before I'm done with you."
Elena kept her word. Rita wasn't sure how long they'd been at it, but she'd settled into her own flow. Elena kept her drills intense but varied. There was no single style, no commitment to a particular practice. This was about practicality. Actionable movements Rita could adopt immediately. Elena showed her how to commonly anticipate short-range attacks, and how to target common weak points.
"Harder!" Elena barked, smacking her boxing pads together. "I know you have more power than that."
But even though Rita had most looked forward to this—wailing on a punching bag—she could feel herself holding back. Worry gripped her. What would the Director think at the sight of her tomorrow, knuckles bruised?
Elena noticed. "What's wrong?"
"Sorry. Just...having a hard time really getting into it. It's strange, hitting something."
"Have you ever punched anything in real life?"
"No."
"Okay. Well, how about you try visualizing someone you really hate, and then imagine that this pad is their face."
Scarlet's face sprang to Rita's mind, and she snorted. She almost remarked that seemed unnecessary but then, well, she remembered exactly where she was and what she was doing. And why she was doing it.
So she focused on her target and—
POP!
"Now that was some nice power! Again."
The smacking sound resounded in the room and Rita found catharsis as she imagined socking Scarlet in the jaw—POP!—then the other Executives, like Heidegger—POP!—Hojo—POP!—Palmer—POP!—President Shinra, Rot in hell you dropped the plate—POP!
Time melted away, until Elena broke Rita's routine to say, "Wow, we need to call it a night. We've been at it for over two hours now." Adrenaline burned through Rita's body. She looked down at her knuckles, stained through the padding.
Bleeding. They were bleeding.
"I've got you." With surprising gentleness, Elena took Rita's hand into hers, unwrapped them, and produced a Cure materia. Muttering the magic incantation under her breath, brilliant turquoise light filtered through the room and across Rita's bruised hands, stitching the broken skin. As the light dissipated, Rita's hands healed completely.
"Thanks."
Elena's eyes looked bright and friendly. "No problem."
They stretched out on the mat before tidying up. No longer in furious motion, Rita's exhaustion began to weigh on her. From the tips of her fingers to her toes, she felt sore. Even a Cure spell couldn't cure that.
"You did well today," Elena's voice tore Rita from her thoughts. "Gotta say, I wasn't sure what to expect when Tseng told me you were looking for some training." Elena smirked. "You're not half bad."
"Well, thanks. You're not as bad as I expected, either." Rita felt pleased by the laugh this elicited.
"I'm curious to know who you were thinking of there, at the end. You really were in a groove."
Rita bit down on her grin. "Maybe next session."
"I'll hold you to that," Elena said as they exited together. "Though, we'll need to meet sometime next week. I'm actually leaving tomorrow on an assignment—covering for one of my partners who got pretty beat up last night in the attack."
Elena said this with such a casual air, Rita found herself caught off-guard. In her experience the Turks were tight-lipped about their operations. Rita mulled this as together they walked out of the gym.
For the third time that day, Rita nearly collided with someone in the threshold. Only this time, it wasn't Rufus she barely missed.
It was Reeve.
"Director!" Rita exclaimed, unbidden. Her shock at seeing him instantly melted into embarrassment—here she was, sweaty and flushed with mussed hair in her gym attire. She squirmed slightly against Elena.
Reeve did a double-take when he spied her, color rising in his cheeks. "Ms. Spencer! I didn't expect to see you here."
From the corner of her eye, Rita registered Elena smirking at the scene. Rita felt unspeakably irritated at her amusement. "I'm just finishing up a training session. Elena's been so kind to teach me," Rita gestured by way of introduction.
Elena took her cue. "Nice to see you again, Director," she nodded. Then she looked at Rita, impish fire in her eyes. "Well, Rita"—Elena slipped into a tone that struck Rita as far too casual for their new acquaintanceship, regardless how fun a first meeting—"I'll leave you here to walk back with the Director."
And then Elena winked at them both.
Rita felt so hot she was sure she'd burn to a crisp. If Rita hadn't liked the other woman so much during their first meeting, she'd feel mad. As it stood, she swallowed her pride and forced herself to turn toward Reeve, sweaty flushed face and all.
To his credit, he gallantly ignored Elena's tease and motioned with a kind smile toward the elevator.
No sooner had the doors closed did he ask, "So... training. With Turks?" Reeve couldn't contain his surprise. Not that she could blame him. Before today, she wouldn't have believed it herself.
"Well," Rita felt the heat rise further in her cheeks. "Today when I met with Tseng, I asked him if there were any more threats, to—to the Executives." Better to get it out quickly, she figured. "I asked him if there was anything I could do."
"Do?"
Why was this so hard for her to voice aloud? "To...protect you." She was sure her face looked redder than the ShinRa banner now.
Color rose in Reeve's face. "You asked about training to protect me?"
Maybe it was the combination of her over-tiredness, her awkwardness, or her lingering embarrassment, but Rita began laughing. "I know. I'm sorry, it's so silly." Fists balled, arms crossed over her chest, she turned away to hide, feeling no small part foolish. But then she felt the slightest brush against her elbow.
"No," his voice sounded soft and low, "it's not silly." Reeve's face looked earnest, his cheeks still dusky pink. "It's very kind of you, Rita. Thank you." Her heart raced as he said her name, as it usually did. His eyes met hers. "I'm so grateful for you."
The moment lingered, interrupted by the chime of the elevator. They exited to part ways, Reeve bidding her a goodnight heading to his office while Rita stole away to the lockers to shower. Her heart still raced, mind turning the scene over in her head and reliving the brush of his fingers against her bare elbow. Why did it make her feel so giddy?
She finished cleaning up, and since she was on the same floor, decided to swing by his office one final time. But when she arrived, she met with a sight she didn't expect.
Outstretched on his leather couch, a rare sight—Reeve asleep. He'd shucked his jacket and tie off and rolled his sleeves—though it was obvious from the folder collapsed on his chest he'd still been trying to work. Rita crept closer, resting against the couch above him to spy his relaxed features, his handsome brow and the light smattering of freckles splayed along the bridge of his nose. He looked at peace, and as she watched Rita realized so rarely did she ever see Reeve like this.
Taking his discarded jacket, Rita crossed to the coat rack to hang it. But then something scurried in the corner of her eye, and she turned with quick reflexes, raising her fists like Elena had showed her. Yet she saw nothing. Only shadows.
Her heart pounded. Spying the clock on the wall, she saw it was nearly 9:00 PM. She needed to get home—and sleep.
Rita crossed over the office threshold, sparing one last moment to glance at Reeve. Satisfied he was alone and peaceful, Rita closed the door behind her. As she walked out of Headquarters, she longed to push aside all the worries and curiosities of the day.
If Rita were to rest tonight, she'd somehow need to forget the comings and goings of Rufus Shinra, the reticence of the men in her life to be forthright with her, and the scurried blur of a cat walking upright, crown on head.