Prologue, Part II

Ten years is a long time. In this time, people change outwardly. Most stay the same on the inside. Others forget who they are and what they were going to become. Rufus Shinra had only one goal in mind when he was head of Shinra Inc.: To realize his inhibition and lose it. Before his father became a cruel, despicable creature, Rufus was playful and cute. It was like watching a puppy. He would play on the floor and do something and people would smile. There was little hint of what he was capable of becoming. Old Man Shinra had always had it in mind that Rufus would succeed him to the throne of his father's father's grandfather's company, but back then, there was no devil in his thoughts. Puppies are easily manipulated. Once the old man started suspecting his wife of being unfaithful and turning to alcohol and lies to control his anger, Rufus was already walking on the concrete river, following in his father's long, abysmal shadow. He was like that now, with his head down, without a personality, following a shadow. In ten years, Rufus was no longer Rufus, but a blank slate ripe for teaching and abuse.

He had not intended for things to go as they did. His first few days out of the hospital were typical of anyone who has just met death. People came with flowers and well wishes, full of insincerity and false concern, and then they would leave. Rufus would sit, watching them go on their way, with sake in hand. There would be music playing, something from an opera to match his mood. He would walk over to the piano, play until his burned hands would no longer allow him, and then hobble to his bed upstairs. By then, he would not have the energy to remove his clothing or even climb under the covers, and he would pass out until the next morning; not from being drunk--he never got drunk--but from a complete lack of drive and energy. When the people stopped coming after the third or fourth day, Rufus found himself taking a liking to his solitary days at home with his music and dreams. And then, they turned to nightmares. First, they came as fires; glass flying at him, explosions bringing down his office, and then falling into the slums, and waking up. Then, they recalled his days with the Turks. He would be sitting in a helicopter, looking out of a window, but able to see in the reflection Tseng, Elena, and Reno. Rude would be in the co-pilot's seat, out of view and with his mouth shut. This would be a dream if only adolescent longing didn't take over his thoughts. As his the nightmares got worse, they would revert to his days in the military. He was never assigned any missions. He was never viewed as capable. Rufus was the president's son, which automatically made him a spoiled brat, unable to perform physically demanding tasks. The others would surround him in the bunkroom, seeing him talking to daddy on his phone, lying with the most precious detail. And then they would hit him.

The floor was gray and smelled. He was naked. They were, too, but only because they had just showered. There was always a foot on the back of his neck, keeping him from fighting back or trying to get up. His lip would bleed to keep his eyes from watering while they inserted any phallic-shaped object they could find into him. Rufus, at 21, was still a virgin and had no sexual thoughts. The hazing repressed all natural desire further into him.

This was the worst of his nightmares for quite some time. At the end, he would always see his father standing in front of him, instructing the soldiers to ruin his son. This, thankfully, only occurred in his nightmares. As the years went on, the subject matter of his nightmares always centered on his father. He would wake up, still clothed, sweating, and grieving over his life. To escape his thoughts, he turned to music. An hour let him forget his father. Two let him forget his mother. Three let him forget himself. The pattern continued. In ten years, he never left the house. He never traveled beyond the piano in the main reception area and never beyond his oversized bed in the master suite on the third floor. While he was still himself, he managed to secure his assets and gather his money. This allowed Rufus to leave money on the doorstep and find groceries and clothing the next time he opened it. Outside of the calls he would place to the aid service, he had no other contact. After five years, the phone calls stopped. They were unnecessary since every week would eat up the same food and drink the same drinks. Routine became Rufus Shinra.