You don't even hold material form now….are you incapable? No, it does not delight me as much as you would like to consider you flawed, invalid. It merely interests me because I know it can't be true. These courtships are so tiresome, so spineless a purgatory that sometimes I think I could end it for myself. Don't you need me, though? Almost as much as that small secret part of me clings to you? Indeed, this is the reality of my own universe, the paragon Reno V. Sinclair, and all that keeps it churning out new mornings is you. Here I am, nothing but a fragment of a broken corpse, distributed between fervent professionals. Take whatever you want, they always did. I know that for small doses of time I can believe I am the good guy, but when you come to claim what's yours I'll just have to let you.
* * * * *
It had been seven days since I saw Reuben when the matter of his whereabouts was raised. I answered honestly and noncommittally, sending Reeve into one of those downward spirals I love so dearly. It's too easy sometimes. He was not made for administration, but then neither was Rufus. Rufus, for all that transpired between us, was built to rule, to gain tyrannical power beneath the noses of his democratic citizens. All Reeve can do is suggest. He has all the money in this world, and then some, and a legion of soldiers under his command, but the superior commanders and field marshals of the five dominant armies? Jonathan Shinra's daughters. Nobody could have invented a better set-up. Militia en masse will obey themselves first and money second, Reeve would be lucky to scrape himself a tenth. The Turks though, are quite a different matter, as are the government's scientific units, loyal to the last and lavishing the new President with as much attention as he can handle. Probably because they'll need him if the armies ever decide to add pillaging to the daily drill. But they aren't completely truthful with him; I doubt that a guy who wore a six-foot furry moogle suit for two years straight would be privy to all the details of Hojo's little hobbies.
One time, when I was eight, Hojo tried to 'examine' me after a catscan, the latter part being annual procedure and the former something quite different. I wasn't about to just let him, and that scalpel was the first thing my hand found. So after that little fiasco I lived with relatives, friends, johns…and rats…until Gast opened the school. I was in there like a shot, and there was a job waiting for me when I got out. The Professor, Gast of course, Hojo doesn't deserve that title; was dead when I got back from my first field assignment, but by then his greasy trained seal couldn't boot me off the payroll, his own activities having come under scrutiny. Such has been my career, I'm sorry to say, and hell knows where it's going.
* * * * *
It had been seven days since I saw Reuben when the matter of his whereabouts was raised. I answered honestly and noncommittally, sending Reeve into one of those downward spirals I love so dearly. It's too easy sometimes. He was not made for administration, but then neither was Rufus. Rufus, for all that transpired between us, was built to rule, to gain tyrannical power beneath the noses of his democratic citizens. All Reeve can do is suggest. He has all the money in this world, and then some, and a legion of soldiers under his command, but the superior commanders and field marshals of the five dominant armies? Jonathan Shinra's daughters. Nobody could have invented a better set-up. Militia en masse will obey themselves first and money second, Reeve would be lucky to scrape himself a tenth. The Turks though, are quite a different matter, as are the government's scientific units, loyal to the last and lavishing the new President with as much attention as he can handle. Probably because they'll need him if the armies ever decide to add pillaging to the daily drill. But they aren't completely truthful with him; I doubt that a guy who wore a six-foot furry moogle suit for two years straight would be privy to all the details of Hojo's little hobbies.
One time, when I was eight, Hojo tried to 'examine' me after a catscan, the latter part being annual procedure and the former something quite different. I wasn't about to just let him, and that scalpel was the first thing my hand found. So after that little fiasco I lived with relatives, friends, johns…and rats…until Gast opened the school. I was in there like a shot, and there was a job waiting for me when I got out. The Professor, Gast of course, Hojo doesn't deserve that title; was dead when I got back from my first field assignment, but by then his greasy trained seal couldn't boot me off the payroll, his own activities having come under scrutiny. Such has been my career, I'm sorry to say, and hell knows where it's going.